It’s not like he was broke, I suppose. He’d just always been happy to let me pay for things when we were together, and it made sense, because I always had a lot more money than he did. My father never spoke to me, sure, but he had set up a trust in my name that was generous enough for me to pay for Spencer’s portion of the rent at the apartment Kaavi and I shared before he moved in.

Laura asked me more questions than should be humanly necessary about homecomings, barely listening to my answers before firing off again—

Was there a ceremony? No, the couple and their parents light an oil lamp, that’s about it.

What was an oil lamp? I googled an image of a Sri Lankan oil lamp to show her.

Will there be bridesmaids? Nope. She looked disappointed.

So, like, what happens? The typical Sri Lankan festivities—a lot of eating, drinking, and dancing.

Then why does everyone get so dressed up? Good question, Laura. Because Sri Lankans never let the opportunity to wear all their gold jewelry go to waste.

I thought about Kaavi’s car getting T-boned by another vehicle. Something big—maybe a speeding lorry. Something that would just ram in on the side Laura was sitting, crushing her to a pulp. Splattering her blood all over the beige leather seats. Spraying bits of shattered bone over the rest of us.

If Kaavi’s car hadn’t pulled up at the designer’s studio when it did, I would have jumped out of it.

The studio itself was more of a house than the artsy creative space I had envisioned, but the walls were plastered with pictures of women that the designer had no doubt dressed before. We sat awkwardly in the dimly lit waiting area while dozens of brides grinned down at us. The longer I stared at them, the more I started to feel sick.

Being bombarded with questions on the car ride over here left me feeling nauseous and exhausted. Like I just wanted to go back home and take a nap. Or maybe it was the jet lag. Luckily, we didn’t have to wait too long.

“Kaavindi daaaarling.” The designer swept into the room. He wore a loose shirt with a Nehru collar and a sarong, but not the regular kind—this was one of those expensive handloom sarongs that were dry clean only and far too delicate for everyday wear.

“Andre, this is my friend Amaya,” she introduced me, as Andre made loud smacking sounds against her cheeks. “She’s down from LA for the wedding.”

“Another American girl, huh?” Andre said, smacking his lips near my ears as well. His cheek never really touched mine, though he did grip my hands. His palms were cold and damp.

“And of course, Laura.” He reached for her hands, too, while she beamed at him. “My beautiful, beautiful princess. My assistant has your jacket ready. Why don’t you head on up? And Kaavi, step right this way. Your friend can come, too, if she likes.”