I scanned my mind, trying to remember as clearly as I could. “We hugged, and he said good night? I think?” I had spent so much time replaying the dinner portion of the date that the last part of the night seemed hazy now.

“But did he say he’s looking forward to seeing you again? Or that he’ll call you? Or . . . something?”

I shook my head. “I can’t remember.”

“He lives in Houston, right? How long was he in town for?”

“I think only a week. Do you think he might have flown back and that’s why he didn’t call?” I perked up at the possibility. What if I was overreacting? It had only been two days. Maybe everything was fine.

“Possibly. But . . .” Tania trailed off.

“What?”

Tania looked over at Liv and Hannah, and then back at me. “It’s not like they don’t have phones in Houston.” She sat down next to me. “He still could’ve texted you or something to let you know he had a nice time.”

My heart dropped again.

“If the date went as well as you say, Leila, why don’t you just text him?” Hannah looked around at our faces. “There’s no rule against that, is there?”

The room went silent again.

“I disagree,” Tania stated firmly. “I think if there’s interest, it’s the guy’s job to initiate.”

“Says who?” Hannah pushed.

“No one . . . it’s just kind of understood,” Tania said. I nodded, letting her know that I agreed. I had gone out with enough desis over the past couple of months to know that men were always the ones to initiate a second date. I think it had something to do with the thrill of the chase. Whenever women did the pursuing, it ended in heartbreak. Take Naina Kapoor in Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham or Veronica Malaney in Cocktail—the last thing I wanted was to share their fate.

“I just don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Hannah said.

“I do.” Tania shrugged.

“I’m kind of with Hannah,” Liv said. “What if he’s just really timid?”

“Or what if he’s unsure of how you felt about the date, so he’s just playing it safe?” Hannah asked.

“Do you really think?” I suddenly felt perplexed. I thought I’d made it clear to Zain that I really liked him. I laughed at all of his jokes—even the one about the imam in a bar. I could no longer remember the punch line, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t that funny. I listened attentively to stories about his patients at the clinic; I pretended not to be horrified when he admitted he was a Trekkie. I “accidentally” touched his arm multiple times throughout the night. I was nothing short of obvious in the way I flirted with him . . . unless, maybe I wasn’t? Maybe I should have made more eye contact? Or sat closer to him? I suddenly began second-guessing my every move. Every detail from that night was now painted with streaks of doubt.