I thought back on the conversation with my mother that morning. When she first met my father, she had no idea that he would turn out to be her Mr. Perfect. She took a giant risk by moving halfway across the world with a stranger who was seven years older than her. But that risk eventually paid off. And now she was trying to make sure that it somehow paid off for me too—sooner rather than later.

I drew in a deep breath. Even if I weren’t Indian and my mother were not in the picture, I would still want to find Mr. Perfect for myself. Maybe it didn’t matter so much how I found him or even when, as long as I did.

I smoothed out my hair and picked up the Post-it note once more.

* * *

“Um, hello . . . Can I speak to Sajid?” I adjusted my sweatshirt and sat up.

“This is Sajid,” said a deep, raspy voice on the other end.

“Hi, this is Leila. I got your number from Seema aunty.”

“Oh, yeah. Hi,” he said, coughing.

“Hi.” I slapped my hand to my forehead. Why couldn’t I say anything other than “Hi”? “So, how’s it going?” I cleared my throat awkwardly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a phone conversation with someone other than my mom. I should’ve just texted him. At least I could’ve formed messages that contained more than a string of one-syllable words.

“Good, I’m good.” he responded. I could hear some rustling in the background.

“Is this a bad time?”

“No, not at all. I’m just on my way to pick up some food.”

“Oh, cool. So . . . um, you’re an engineer, right?” I slapped my forehead again. I must’ve sounded like such a moron.

“Yeah.” He coughed again. I could hear more rustling.

“Cool.” I wanted to kick myself. Why had I let that obnoxiously bright Post-it note badger me into calling? This was exactly why no one talked on the phone anymore; it was physically painful.

“So, what do you do?” he asked after a few moments.

“I’m a teacher.”

“By choice?”

“Just on the days I’m not handcuffed.”

Sajid let out a deep, throaty laugh. “Handcuffed,” he said, his laughter breaking into coughs. “You’re funny.”

“The teenagers at school would probably disagree. They never laugh at my jokes. But thanks.” I smiled.

“Whoa! You work with teenagers. That’s dank!”

“Dank?”

“That must be mad stressful.”

“Uh, yeah. There are definitely days, but I suppose it’s that way with most jobs.”

“Definitely.” There was a long pause. “So how do you relieve the stress?”

“Sleep, mostly. And being set up by matchmakers. Nothing releases tension better than placing your love life in the hands of a rishta aunty.”

Sajid laughed again, this time loudly. “Yeah, dude. This whole matchmaking thing can be pret-ty stressful. You never really know who you’re talking to.” He giggled.

I smiled. So far, I was pleasantly surprised. Sajid seemed like a chill guy; a little quirky, perhaps, but as the conversation continued, I could feel my body start to relax a bit. “So what about you?” I asked. “Aside from being set up, how do you relieve stress on those long days?”