“I’d say my favorite part of being here is pretty obvious, don’t you think?”
“Yeah?” she asked, the word coming out lower than intended.
He didn’t look away. “Yeah.”
Crickets chirped in the darkness. The air between them felt like it was shifting. Only then did Hena realize how close they were standing. So close she could feel the heat of his body, inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. His gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips. It lingered there. Her heart fluttered. Because she saw it then: the wanting. The same want she felt, written all over his face.
She touched his shirt sleeve as his hand grazed her wrist. Goosebumps trailed her arms. She took one small step closer and lifted her gaze to his. Leaning closer, she almost forgot to breathe.
“The button goes here,” a nearby voice burst out.
They jumped apart.
“I know that!” a man retorted. “It’s literally what I’m doing!”
A group of people were adjusting wires for the fireworks show a few paces away. They tested the platform and tapped the mic, not even noticing Hena and Reza in the darkness.
She felt jolted awake as though from a dream, except her skin still tingled from where his hand had grazed her. It wasn’t a dream. It had been real. But the moment had passed.
“We should—” she started.
“Yeah.” He nodded to the resort.
They sidestepped the maze and walked across the grassy lawn back to the festivities. They exchanged no words, but she could feel his eyes drifting toward her.
Hena steadied herself. She tried to make sense of the emotions coursing through her. That she longed to kiss him was nothing new—she had since she’d first laid eyes on him at the registration desk.
It was the other emotion that was more complicated to sift through: a sensation like she was standing on the precipice of a skyscraper, staring down.
They stepped into the hall. The up-tempo dance music had slowed—now classical sitar music played softly in the background. She ignored the curious looks as people noticed them entering together. No doubt it would fuel speculation. If only they had given the crowd something real to talk about.
She grabbed a ceramic cup and poured herself chai from the carafe. Reza stood beside her. His fingers trailed the rim of a cup.
“Should I pour you some too?” she asked, reaching for his cup.
Reza didn’t respond, his attention elsewhere. Toward something at the entrance.
In fact, everyone had stopped talking and was looking in the same direction. At him. The man with the dark mustache and stoic expression.
Dread washed over her.
Was she seeing things?
No. She wasn’t. She knew this man well.
A manila folder tucked under his arm, he surveyed the room.
His eyes landed on hers, and he walked up to her.
“Hena Mirza?” Detective Milcheck asked. “We need to talk.”
Nipa,Aunt of the Groom
Haris says I’m going too far. He insists Hena is a great girl. That she’s misunderstood. Do you know he had the nerve to ask me to stop worrying so much? Sweet boy, this is just his way—honest and trusting. But how am I not to worry? How can I not be protective? He’s my only son, and we’ve seen what happens to the men in their life. Look at Nasir. Look at her own father.
They say Latif Mirza was a good person. It’s what everyone says, including my husband and Haris himself. I shall not speak ill of the dead, but I will say I know the family well enough to know they are trouble.
It’s why I’m not surprised by the police presence. We’re at a Mirza wedding. This is how they go.