11

AMAYA

Three Days before the Wedding

I didn’t go over to the Fonsekas the next morning. I spent it pacing around my room, and when that felt too small, I paced around my house. I set a timer on my phone and checked Kaavi’s social media accounts every fifteen minutes.

There were reposts from the party last night. Boomerangs of glasses clinking, girls twirling, funny moments on the dance floor. There were pictures of the decor, panning videos of the dinner buffet, many, many shots of Kaavi and Spencer staring adoringly at each other. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.

That something had gone wrong.

A sign that my plan had worked.

But of course, Kaavi wouldn’t post about something so negative immediately. She would find a way to spin it. To frame her failed engagement in a way that made her look good. Empowering to women, perhaps. Or maybe to set her up as a martyr—that she decided to put her charity before her own happiness.

But there was a new thought nagging at me now. A thought that was fixated on Kaavi’s face after Spencer proposed. If she wasn’t really excited about marrying him, then why go through with everything? I’d bet her mother was putting a ton of pressure on her to get married, but it wasn’t like Kaavi to cave so easily. Or was Spencer just a trophy to her? Someone who was Insta-worthy. Someone who fit her perfect narrative.

I scribbled in my notebook between refreshes and pacing. This plan was definitely not going to work.

Poison? I wrote.

Accidental drowning?

Kidnap until everything blows over?

I crossed that last one out. There could be no loose ends.

Seetha made me a typical Sri Lankan lunch of rice and various separately curried vegetables. She’d fried up some papadam just the way I liked when I was a teenager. I could barely touch it.

“Why, Baba? Too spicy?” she asked. “I didn’t put much chili. I know you don’t like too much anymore.”

“No, no, Seetha, it’s great. Thank you.” I made myself take a few more mouthfuls. Seetha eyed me eating with a fork but didn’t say anything. Rice and curry is typically eaten with your hand, but I’d lost touch and it was struggle enough to force something down my throat as it was.

“Baba, are you okay?” Seetha asked. She’d never really asked me if I was okay before. Seetha cooked for me, and took care of my house, and stayed up for me when I went out. She kept an eye on me when I was a teenager, scaring off boys and hovering around if anyone ever came to see me. But we never really spoke. We had a kind of quiet peace between us, which I had grown accustomed to. Which is why I responded immediately.

“I’m fine, Seetha.”

But she came and stood near me. She’d never take a seat at the table with me, even though I had asked her to eat with me many, many times. It didn’t matter if she was my guardian and took it upon herself to give me a curfew when I was younger—social hierarchies were social hierarchies.