“Ah. I think your father may have misunderstood my inquiry.” Sunil pressed a button and the blinds snapped closed, shrouding the room in semidarkness.

Layla blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light and Sunil came into focus. He was thin and wiry, with an oversize lollipop head topped with a glossy thatch of hair. His long, slim fingers were almost skeletal in appearance, and although he was definitely brown, he looked like he bathed in saffron paste or one of the many skin-lightening creams elderly aunties always recommended to attract a better husband.

“Here’s the deal.” Sunil leaned forward. “I can’t marry you because you’re not a Singh.”

Layla slumped back in her chair and feigned disappointment. “I’m sorry to hear that. I would have thought that personal flaw would have been evident from the fact that my last name is clearly stated on my desilovematch.com profile.”

“I invited you here because you looked hot in your picture,” Sunil continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I’m attracted to you so I’m willing to bang you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bang.” He made a lewd gesture with his hands. “You and me. I’ll do it.”

She stared at him, appalled. “My dad didn’t post my profile because he thought I was desperate to get laid.”

Sunil was exactly the kind of man she’d hooked up with after Dev died. Shallow, narcissistic, and interested in only one thing. She could sleep with Sunil without any fear of an emotional connection. She could drown the pain of losing Sam in a few mindless moments of pleasure, the way she’d done after Dev.

Except she didn’t want to forget. She wanted to keep her memories of Sam from the day she threw office supplies at his head to the last afternoon they’d spent together. He’d shown her that it was okay to love again and that she could survive another heartbreak.

“But you are desperate,” he said. “I can tell from the way you looked at me when you walked in. You want me. Bad.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful that you’re willing to sleep with me?”

Impatience vibrated around him. “Yes.”

Unwanted and unexpected, she had a fleeting thought about texting Sam. She’d enjoyed meeting new people with him, not just for the sake of finding a husband, but because those were the moments when she’d found out that he loved horror movies and donuts, supported the wrong team, and was fiercely protective of the people he cared about.

“I don’t think so.” In her imagination, she heard a growl, the thunder of feet. The door flew open and Sam stalked into the room, grabbed Sunil by the neck, and slammed him up against the glass.

Except it wasn’t Sam grabbing Sunil. It was her. Flinging open the door and walking away. And, damn, it felt good.

She called Daisy from the elevator. “That was a total bust. Who’s next?”

“Akhil Jones. He’s waiting across the road in a coffee shop. He’s in the middle of an engineering degree at USC. He likes long walks on the beach, picnics in the park, and lazy Sundays in bed at his home where he still lives with his parents. Musical influences include R5, Paramore, Panic! at the Disco, and Sleeping with Sirens.” She sighed into the phone. “Sounds dreamy. If you don’t want him, I don’t mind robbing the cradle for a man who isn’t afraid to send a picture of himself screaming on Splash Mountain at Disneyland.”

Layla was across the road and in the coffee shop by the time Daisy finished extolling the virtues of younger men. She knew Akhil right away from his solar-powered Transformers backpack and the fact he was the only person in the café drinking juice.

“Akhil? I’m Layla.” She held out her hand and smiled at the skinny kid with the five-finger forehead.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ha ha. Nope.” She gave him a tight smile. “I’m going to cut it short right here, Akhil. I’m looking for someone a bit more . . . mature.”

Someone with a deep voice and broad shoulders and a sarcastic sense of humor. A friend and companion who could make her smile at the worst times and laugh at the best times. Someone who treated her like an equal and made her feel like a princess. Someone who wanted her whether she was wearing pima cotton briefs or shapewear or nothing at all.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“That’s okay, Akhil.” She turned away. “Your Buttercup is out there. You just have to know how to find her.”

• 27 •

SAM realized where he’d been going only when he pulled up in front of his parents’ house. He’d been driving for hours since receiving Nisha’s text telling him she didn’t need a ride home from rehab. Sam didn’t know if she’d found out about Layla and didn’t want to see him, or if she really was going out with a friend, but since he’d never had a Monday evening free since the accident, he didn’t know how to spend the time.

Through the window, he could see the flicker of the television. Although his mother had quickly adapted to streaming services—likely because they offered her an endless supply of horror films—his father refused to watch anything that wasn’t on cable.

His heart ached when he saw movement behind the curtains. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a real conversation with his parents. Save for the most basic greetings, and discussions about Nisha’s welfare, he’d shared nothing of his life, and what he knew of theirs came through his sister.

A knock on the window brought him back to the moment. He lowered the window and nodded a greeting at his father.

“What are you doing sitting out here alone in the dark?”

Sam shrugged. “Nisha canceled on me. I didn’t know what to do.”

His father smiled. “She has a new friend from rehab and they went out together for dinner. She’s taking the disabled transport bus home. I said I would pick her up, but she said no. She wants to do it herself. All this since you introduced her to your friend Layla. I don’t know this girl, but I like her already.”

She needed an emotional push, not a physical one.

“Layla said I was smothering her.”

“You were protecting her,” his father said. “We all were. But maybe we forgot to let her fly.” He handed Sam a paper bag. “Your mother saw you sitting here so she made you something to eat. Don’t worry. It’s Western food. Some kind of sandwich.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Why don’t you come inside where it’s warm? We don’t have to talk. You can watch a scary movie with your mother like you used to do. I don’t like all that blood and screaming, and the people have no sense. Why go alone into a basement without a flashlight? Why do the girls all fall down when they run?”