She’d kind of moved on, she’d thought, from being catfished, but seeing Arjun’s name had slammed all that mortification back at her, knocking her out of the careful plans she’d made. But then she’d recalibrated. She’d declined an apology, mostly because she preferred to never see Arjun’s face if she could help it. Dev had promised to keep him out of view.
It was probably unrealistic to assume that was an actual possibility when he was in the same house and Dev’s only cousin, but she’d keep her fingers crossed.
“If you couldn’t live closer, at least you found a boy who seems nice. Mo, InshAllah, soon we’ll only have one daughter left to get married off. Remember when your mother said five girls would be a burden and a headache? I wish she was here to see this.”
Jia’s grandmother was in Pakistan, not dead, but her mom rarely made a distinction between the two when it came to her mother-in-law. Her father only grunted, too busy taking in the scenery to listen to his wife.
Ayesha cleared her throat. Her sister sat in the passenger seat. Jia hadn’t been able to hug her hard enough. Her sister raised her eyebrow a millimeter, and as womb mates, Jia got the message immediately.
This is a bad idea. Jia shifted. “Engaged is different than married, Mom.”
“Yes, of course. But you are on the right track.”
Her dad readjusted his legs in the cramped back seat. She’d borrowed Jas’s car to transport everyone, but her dad was tall. Tall and skinny, and no matter how well he got his clothes tailored, they always hung off his lanky frame. Today’s athletic shirt and pants were no different. “Don’t pressure her, Farzana.”
The way he said it made Jia believe he’d had to repeat those words a lot over the five-and-a-half-hour flight.
“I’m not pressuring her.”
“And don’t pressure the boy when we meet him, either,” Mohammad warned.
“I will not,” Farzana huffed. “You act like I am new to marrying my daughters off. I know how to trap a good man.”
Jia turned her signal on. “That sounds ethical.”
“I hope we have time to freshen up before we meet his grandmother,” her mom fretted. “You packed appropriate things to wear for the weekend, didn’t you, Jia? It wouldn’t do to meet Shweta Dixit looking cheap.”
She had two closets and a storage unit full of really nice clothes. What did her mom think she did online? “Oops, I packed crop tops and miniskirts.”
Her mom pretended not to hear her, which was standard. “Traditional wear, of course. Modest, light colors, and you must not put on any flashy makeup or jewelry. I do not want her to get the wrong idea about us.”
That was the antithesis of Jia’s whole aesthetic, but she agreed this one time. She’d opted to pack more conservative outfits, unsure of where Shweta Dixit fell on style. “Yes, Mom. No flashy stuff, got it.”
“I mean modest in the traditional sense, not the modern sense,” Farzana insisted.
Jia was well aware that the things she wore and considered modest would have been haram when her mother was her age. Times changed. “Got it. I have packed a light pink potato sack.”
“I’m wearing a light pink sack, pick another color, please,” Ayesha said primly, laughter dancing in her eyes.
Farzana’s cascade of sniffs caught her and her sister off guard. “You okay, Mom?” Ayesha twisted in her seat.
Mohammad turned to his wife. “What’s wrong?”
Jia caught her mother wiping her tears in the rearview mirror. “It’s nice to hear you two together again. I’ve missed this banter between my baby girls.”
Jia softened into a pile of goo. Her mother drove her crazy sometimes, but she also loved her daughters. “You can join my and Ayesha’s video chats whenever you want. Moving across the country just means the banter happens in different mediums,” Jia said.
“Exactly right,” Ayesha agreed. “Distance doesn’t make any difference whatsoever.” She faced forward, head high, but she also snaked her hand over the console to touch her fingertips to Jia’s leg. Jia released the wheel to grasp her twin’s hand.
“Do you know what the population of Malibu is, Jia?” Mohammad asked.
Jia squeezed her sister’s fingers. “I don’t. Why don’t you look it up, Dad?”
“Hmm. I shall. Farzana, look at those boats out there . . .”
“It’s gorgeous.” Farzana tapped her window. “See the red one?”
Her father dutifully leaned over his wife. “Can’t wait to catch up with you properly,” Ayesha murmured to Jia.
Jia wished she could talk to her sister about what was going to go down, but she couldn’t. Her mother had the ears of a bat. Ayesha had lodged her complaint against the ruse via text, and that would have to do until they were alone. “Can’t wait to catch up either,” she responded, also sotto voce.
“What are you two whispering about up there?” their mother asked.
“Nothing.” Jia came to a stop in front of the beach house they were spending a couple of nights at. Nerves started to tremble in her belly, too many to appreciate the beautiful home.
“Are you okay?” Ayesha whispered.
Jia nodded without looking at her sister and circled the car to help her dad get their bags. Her parents pulled ahead, leaving her and Ayesha to walk slowly behind them toward the imposing home. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She smiled at her sister. It was probably a tight smile.
“Um, I don’t think you need me to list all the reasons you ought to be freaking out right now.”
Ayesha was right. She didn’t need the list.
They came to a stop outside the door, and Farzana turned to face them. She fixed her collar. “Do I look okay?” Her whisper was fierce. “I don’t want to risk meeting Shweta looking too rumpled.”
Jia raised an eyebrow. If she didn’t know better, she’d think her unflappable mother was a little starstruck. “You look pretty, MashAllah.”
Mohammad cleared his throat and bared his teeth. “I don’t have any stuck lettuce, do I? I knew I shouldn’t have had a salad for lunch.”
Was her dad starstruck too? “You’re fine, Dad.”
Their mother considered her husband’s teeth with more care. “Yes, you’re good.” Farzana straightened her shoulders. “Best behavior, girls.”
She and Ayesha exchanged a glance. “Um, can someone press that doorbell?” Jia suggested.
Farzana jumped. “Yes, I shall.”
Jia shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress to keep from picking at her nails. Her dress was modest enough for their mom, but it was also a bright sunshine yellow. The color gave her courage, and she needed it for this, meeting her fake fiancé’s world-famous grandmother.
The door opened, and they were greeted by a smiling woman in plain clothes. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Mohammad’s voice went up and he cleared his throat. “I am Dr. Ahmed.”
The woman inclined her head and stepped aside. “Come,” she said, and they followed her into the home. “I will—”
“Ahmed family. Welcome.”
The deep, throaty voice made them all jump. They looked up the stairway, and Jia did a double take. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from a Bollywood legend, but the woman with salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in leggings and an oversize tunic, all of which was smudged with dirt, wasn’t it.