Layla shrugged. “He’s in a medically induced coma to help him heal from the heart surgery. The doctor said it’s routine, but it’s hard to see him lying so still.”

“It’s weird to be in the kitchen with only your mom shouting,” Daisy said. “It seems almost quiet.”

Longtime assistant chef Arun Shah handed Daisy another bag of onions. “Our new assistant chef calls her Mrs. Gordon Ramsay behind her back.”

Layla laughed at the reference to the British chef known for verbally abusing his staff. Although she came across as quiet and soft-spoken in public, her mother had a big voice in the kitchen and was abrupt and unforgiving when she was stressed. She expected a lot of her staff, but no more than she expected of herself. And although she could be harsh, she was always fair and unfailingly kind. As a result, staff turnover was low and many, like Arun, had been with the family since The Spice Mill first opened its doors.

“Where’s the prawn?” Layla’s mother shouted out, adjusting the Giants’ cap that she always wore when she was cooking, her long braid tucked underneath. She was a longtime Giants fan and had passed on her love of the team to Layla.

“One minute, Chef.”

“Arun, I’ve seen snails move faster than you. Pick it up.”

“Prawn in the window.” Arun put a plate on the counter, ready to be served.

Layla’s mother tested it with a fork. “Overcooked. What’s wrong with your eyes? Are you getting too old for the kitchen?”

“No, Chef.” Arun raced over to the gas stove. “Sorry, Chef. Three minutes and I’ll have another plate ready.”

“And you.” Layla’s mother poked the dough as she walked past. “More massaging. Less squeezing.”

“That’s what I said last weekend in bed,” Daisy whispered.

Layla laughed as her fingers sank into the soft, warm dough. “Who were you with?”

“My Bollywood dance instructor. I couldn’t help myself after he taught us ‘Dard-e-Disco.’ He looks just like Shah Rukh Khan, who is the only old Bollywood actor I legit have a crush on.”

Daisy wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. There were tricks to cutting onions and she’d forgotten to use them. “You have to come to the next class. You’re an amazing dancer. I always thought you’d be the next Mehar Auntie when you were old enough to be an auntie.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Layla had always loved Bollywood-style dancing. She’d learned her first dance from Mehar Auntie and had taken lessons for years, culminating in a performance of “Nagada Nagada” at her high school talent show with Daisy and a handful of friends. “Anyway, I haven’t danced in ages.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Daisy said. “Remember this?” She put the knife down and danced a few steps, hands swinging from side to side as she hummed the chorus of the familiar song. Layla stopped kneading to sing, and for a moment there was no Jonas or “Blue Fury,” no sexy-but-irritating man in her office, and her father was about to walk through the door and hug her troubles away.

“Is this Bollywood or a restaurant?” Layla’s mother shook her head. “Now you’ll need to start again. Do I need to separate you two like I did when you were small? Alone, you are good girls. Together, you are rascals.”

Daisy hung her head in mock shame. “Sorry, Jana Auntie.”

“Hey, baby girl.” Danny Kapoor, her mother’s new assistant chef, joined them at the counter. With his big, brown, puppy dog eyes, sensuous lips, thick dark hair, and high cheekbones, Danny was more suited to walking down a runway than standing behind a stove—and he knew it. Even in the middle of meal prep, his shirt was open one button too many, and his hips moved in ways that were respectable only in a Bollywood film. Layla had met him a few times when she’d come home to visit, but they’d never had a real conversation.

“I heard you’re going through a rough spot,” his soft voice flowed over her like sickly sweet liquid caramel as he edged between Layla and Daisy. “Just wanted to let you know I’ve been there, and if you need to talk—”

“She has me,” Daisy snapped.

“Of course she does,” he said smoothly. “I just meant if she wanted the guy perspective or needed extra support, I’m always here.” He flashed his charming smile at Daisy, who was now busy spelling fuckboy in onion slices on the cutting board.

Layla had met more than one fuckboy in her quest to numb the pain of Dev’s death. Attractive, charming, yet notoriously selfish and careless with their overall actions, they didn’t care how they affected other people as long they got what they wanted and had fun while doing it—and it was very clear where Danny’s interests lay.

“That’s very nice, Danny. I appreciate it, but I’m not—”

“You’re still hurting, babe. I get it. Tomorrow, when you’re ready, I’ll be here for you.”

“How’s your girlfriend?” Daisy asked loudly.

“She’s good.” He leaned against the counter, seemingly unconcerned about being called out. “She travels a lot for her job. I think she’s in Paris right now, so there is an empty space in my bed waiting to be filled.”

“Danny!” Layla’s mother shouted across the kitchen. “I’m not paying you to socialize. The potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves.”

“Later, babe.” He blew Layla a kiss.

Daisy pretended to gag.

“He’s harmless,” Layla said. “Maybe he’s what I need to get over Jonas. Sex with utterly no emotional connection.”

“I thought that’s what you’ve had for the last five years.”

“What are you girls whispering about?” Pari Auntie called out, her arms elbow-deep in spinach. “Not men, I hope. These young people today . . .”

Charu Auntie walked past with a basket of okra. “Don’t listen to her. An unexpected breakup can cause considerable psychological distress. The social pain has been associated with a twentyfold higher risk of developing depression in the coming year. It’s important to lean on family and friends for support. You’ll find that brain activity in the craving centers will have decreased significantly after about ten weeks.”

“Actually, it’s been almost two weeks and I don’t think of him at all,” Layla offered.

“Then you weren’t truly emotionally invested in that relationship,” Charu Auntie said. “Or you’re a psychopath.”

“Definitely a psychopath.” Daisy sliced furiously, decimating the onion as tears poured down her cheeks. “She didn’t feel anything when she stole the pakoras from my lunch kit in sixth grade.”