“I have one more question,” Bob said.

“Of course.”

“Are you a virgin, madam?”

“Excuse me?”

Sam pushed away from the table, his chair scraping against the tile floor.

“I want my wife and I to truly belong to each other.” Bob handed her a card. “This doctor is a family friend. He can do the premarital exam. If it all checks out—”

“No.” Sensing Sam’s fury, Layla slammed her arm across his chest as he rose from his seat with all the power and menace of a tsunami. “I knew this might come up at some point. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be offensive.”

Sam growled. “And I won’t mean to cause him pain when I rip off his arms.”

“There’s no need for violence,” she said, thinking quickly. “I’m sure Bob will understand that I require the same of my partner. You can take him to the restroom and do his premarital exam.”

Bob’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sam is a doctor. He’ll be able to confirm you are untouched so we can truly belong to each other. Isn’t that what you’re expecting to hear from your doctor friend about me?”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m a man.”

“And I shouldn’t have the same requirement? How is that fair? Are you afraid of having your intimate area examined and judged by a stranger? Or are you saying you’re . . .” She slapped a hand over her mouth in mock horror. “Not pure?”

Bob looked shocked, then affronted. “I’m a healthy thirty-two-year-old man and I needed experience for the marriage—”

“So you’re not a virgin?” Layla stood abruptly. “I’m so sorry, Bob. I’m afraid that’s a deal killer for me.”

“Now can I punch him?” Sam asked, his body quivering with rage.

“No, but you can walk him out.” She felt curiously calm as she smiled at Bob. Only a few weeks ago she would have reacted in a much different way. But she was running her own business now and making mature choices about her future. “Blue Fury” was behind her. Except for falling off the sex wagon last night with Sam, she was a changed woman. She could fight fire with fire—not fury—and she didn’t need a man to save her. “Thank you for coming. It was nice to meet you.”

Decent—albeit traditional—guy that he was, Bob shook her hand. “I should have known when I saw your receptionist and her dog that we weren’t a match. Your passion and fire would be wasted on me, Layla. You need to find your Qays.”

“You want me to find a man I can drive to madness and death?”

Bob laughed, his gaze flicking to Sam. “I don’t think you’ll need to look too hard.”

• 16 •

SAM took a deep breath and then another, steeling himself for his least favorite activity of all time. Even as a boy, he had dreaded the family trips to the shops on El Camino Real in Sunnyvale. Invariably he would be dragged into an Indian clothing store, and hours would go by before his mother remembered she had a son who needed food and water. It was a torture worse than death—bright colors, loud music, unorganized racks and tables heaped with clothes, women roaming the aisles in packs, pouncing on him because he was the same size as a nephew or cousin who had wisely refused to be fitted for wedding attire . . .

There was no escape.

So why was he voluntarily walking into one of the hellholes now? Was he here for Nisha or to put things right with Layla? He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her after Baboo’s visit because as soon as the psychologist had gone, she and Daisy had disappeared for the afternoon.

He found Layla’s aunt’s store, Krishna Fashions, tucked away in a suburban strip mall at the intersection of the Lawrence Expressway and East El Camino Real. Widely known as Little India, the area had sprung up to serve the needs of the South Bay’s South Asian population during the Silicon Valley boom. Anchored by the Bharat Bazaar market, the area boasted a plethora of clothing stores, buffets, restaurants, cafés, and food stalls.

Everywhere sounds and scents assailed him. Store windows filled with brightly colored saris and salwar kameez enticed groups of aunties out for a Saturday stroll, while girls in pretty pink party dresses pulled their grandparents toward the chaat stands along the road, begging for walk-away treats. Across the road, a line had formed outside the door to the Pink Palace, famous for their masala dosas, the lacy, crisp rice-flour crepes stuffed with turmeric-spiced potatoes and onions he’d loved as a boy.

Sam pushed open the door only to be greeted by the glare of lights, the blare of Bollywood music, and a vast array of colors, patterns, and clothes. He wandered through the men’s section as he searched the sprawling store for Nisha and Layla. It had been years since he’d shopped for traditional clothes. He doubted his kurta pajama or sherwani would fit him now. Although the pants were loose fitting, the long tunic would no doubt be tight around his chest after two years of daily workouts at the gym.

His hand slid over the soft fabric of an embroidered jacket as he remembered all the weddings, sangeet ceremonies, and engagement parties he’d attended over the years. He missed the dancing, music, endless food, rishta aunties trying to marry off all the single men and women, the drunk uncles, and the hours he’d spent with his friends at the bar checking out all the girls in their beautiful clothes. Had Layla been at any of those weddings? If she had, why hadn’t he noticed her before?

“Are you looking for a sherwani?” A woman dressed in a plain beige sari, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun, peered over the rack. She was accompanied by a slightly younger woman wearing a name tag that read DEEPA on her bright orange and pink salwar kameez. There was a strong family resemblance between them, although the older woman was about the same age as his mother.

“Over here we have the new styles.” The older woman gestured to a rack of wedding attire.

“I’m just looking for my sister. She’s here with her friend Layla.”

“Layla is Nira’s niece,” Deepa said, gesturing to her companion. “They’re in the changing room trying on clothes. I’ll let them know you’re here.”

“This one just came in.” Nira pulled out a long cream-colored jacket with heavy maroon embroidery. “Modern but traditional. Classy and elegant. You aren’t a man who likes too much fuss so you’ll appreciate that the decoration on this sherwani is just down the front and over the chest.”

Sam studied the outfit. It was exactly what he would have chosen if he were getting married. “It’s very nice, Auntie-ji, but I’m not going to any weddings, least of all my own.”