I turned around to face her—this shorter, stouter, older version of Kaavi. She was wearing a yellow chiffon blouse that billowed around her, and she carried a small Louis Vuitton clutch, even though she was in her own house.

I steeled myself and turned around. I could feel beads of sweat course their way down the back of my neck.

“Hi, Aunty. How are you?”

She looked like she had seen me smear mud on her pristine white sofas.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, more quietly.

“I—I’m here for the wedding.” I was trembling. “Maybe I should have called first but I got Kaa—”

“You stay away from her, you understand me?” Her voice rose, made louder now that the aunties had stopped talking and were looking over toward us in hushed silence. This must feel like Christmas had come early for them. Enough gossip to fill up their reserves until the next scandal.

“I—I’m sorry. I thought—”

“I don’t care what you thought, you hear me? This is the bloody height of madness, I’m telling you. I can’t believe—”

“What’s all this now?” Kaavi’s voice rang out, interrupting her mother’s.

Mrs. Fonseka and I both looked up, where Kaavi stood at the top of the staircase in a delicate embroidered pink silk robe. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a messy bun, and her face was bare of makeup. She was breathtaking.

Neither Mrs. Fonseka nor I spoke. Me, because I was so nervous that I thought I would faint, and her, because I think she finally noticed the aunties gaping in our direction. I looked around for a clock, or a calendar, or anything with numbers on it. There was a random ornament on a shelf in the shape of a number eight. The most symmetrical of numbers. A far cry from a sign, but I clung on to the hope of it all the same.

Kaavi floated down the staircase, looking more like she was wearing a ball gown than a housecoat. Her eyes met mine when she was about halfway. She blinked twice, as something passed over her face.

And then she was next to me, smiling and pulling me into a hug.

“You came,” she said. She smelled of Chanel No. 5.

“What is this, Kaavi?” her mother asked.

“Relax, will you, Amma? Everything is fine. I invited Amaya. I just didn’t think she would make it.” She let me go and faced her mother.

“No need to be so surprised, Amma. I know you’re excited to see her too. Gosh, you’re such a drama queen.” Was it me or did she say this bit a little too loudly?

“You—?” Mrs. Fonseka’s lips pressed together so tightly I thought they would disappear into her mouth.

“Yes,” Kaavi replied simply, raising her eyebrows and throwing a smile over at Mrs. Fonseka’s pack of wolves, who were teetering on the edge of their seats, bloodthirsty to know what was going on.