“Which is?” Tania asked doubtfully.

“It’s an opportunity to go someplace new. Someplace far.”

“You’re not still thinking about Zain, are you?”

“No!” I said, trying to sound convincing. But that was a lie. I had been thinking about Zain and that night I fell for him on our second first date. I still experienced a pang of sadness each time I thought about the excitement I’d felt. The hope . . . the possibility of that evening turning into something more. It had all seemed so real—so tangible—but as the weeks passed with still no word from him, I knew that whatever I once believed we shared had already dissolved. I no longer clung to the expectation of receiving an explanation for what had happened. Instead, I managed to find some semblance of closure in the lack of closure I received.

“Forget Zain,” I said with more conviction. “I just think it’s time for me to move on. And what better place to find a Bollywood romance than the land of Bollywood itself?”

“So . . . you’re going to keep looking for a husband?”

“In India?”

“My three months aren’t up yet. Why should I stop now?” I said, my tone waxed with emotion. Liv and Tania looked at each other with uncertainty.

“I guess we just thought you preferred someone American-born,” Tania finally said.

“Well, I also preferred a chiropractor from Houston, but you can’t always have what you want. Right?”

“Leila—” Tania said, carefully studying my face.

“What?” My voice cracked.

“It’s okay if you need to take a break from all this. You don’t have to go. I’m sure your mother will under—”

“No, she won’t,” I said flatly. “Besides, my ticket is already booked. I leave in two days.”

“You’re sure about this?” she asked hesitantly. I nodded.

“When was the last time you visited?” Liv asked.

“A long time ago. When I was just a baby,” I replied.

I was too young to remember that visit, but I had heard countless stories from my parents growing up. Stories about the one-eyed chacha who would wave his cane in the air and yell at all the kids from atop his balcony; the juicy kala khattas that melted with each bite, leaving sticky trails down the sides of their arms; the delicious golgappas served on paper plates by leathery-skinned vendors at every street corner; the rows of colorful, hand-stitched mojaris hanging from the open-air bazaars. I always dreamed of visiting again one day as an adult—when I would be old enough to experience those memories on my own. But as curious as I was to see where my parents grew up, and the place where they married, these were not the circumstances I had hoped it would be under.

“So whose wedding are you attending?” Liv wanted to know.

“My cousin Meena.” I winced at the thought. There was no way to find the silver lining in that.

“Indian weddings are so intense,” Tania remarked.