Page 33 of The Matchmaker

“For now,” I say lightly.

“For always, Nur.”

We’ll see,I think.

“I just wish I could visit her without having to walk on eggshells around Nina,” I say. “It’s exhausting.”

“You know what you all need?” He yawns. “A family bonding experience. Something to pull you out of your routines.”

“Got any ideas?”

“A basketball game. Everyone gets a Hawks jersey and roots for the home team.”

“Next.”

“Doesn’t your aunt love those Bollywood flicks? A trip to the movies could do the trick.”

“Azar.” I toss a throw pillow at him. “Can you imagine Nina sitting through a musical romp?”

“What do you think she’s into?”

“I don’t know. Horror?”

“Might do her some good to watch something lighter together.”

“Maybe.” That’s one major difference between me and Azar. When someone treads over me once, I remember and act accordingly. Azar? He always sees the good in people. He makes excuses for their foibles. I guess I’m grateful for it, because he also sees the good in me, even when I feel wanting.

“Do you know whereThe Officemight be streaming?” Azar yawns again. He nods to the television.

“It’s nearly two in the morning. You have to be at work in a few hours.”

“But I haven’t seen it in ages.”

“At this point you’ve got the entire series memorized word for word.”

“And you don’t?”

“I do. Which is why I’ve moved on to other shows.”

“You can’t ever move on from the shows that you imprinted on as a teen.”

But neither of us makes a move toward the remote. We keep talking. As time ticks forward, I try to follow the threads, but pretty soon I’m not sure what we’re talking about; I’m just grateful to have my best friend here with me. We speak until our eyes grow heavy, our words slower and more nonsensical, until he’s telling me about the tastiest burger he’s ever had in his life and, mid-sentence, his words trail off. He’s asleep.

Exhaustion wraps itself around me, but sleep is harder to come by. I turn onto my side and watch him. He’s lying on his back, his hands clasped together. His blanket’s askew.

I walk over and straighten it, tucking it up to his chin. He lets out a gentle snore. I give Gertie a quick head rub and then move as quietly as possible, taking care to use the runners to avoid creaking against the wooden floors, and head to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass of water, I lean against the fridge. I can’t stop thinking about that man. His dark sweatshirt. Arm raised toward the camera.

Pulling out my phone, I click the podcast app. Hit refresh.

My breath catches. There’s a new post. Time-stamped to less than one hour ago. I grab my AirPods from where they’re charging on the counter. I slip one into my ear. Click play. There’s that same deep masculine voice. He’s not angry today. He’s downright giddy. And tonight every word comes out crystal clear.

Guess who’snotgetting married? Avani Patel and Dev Kasturi, that’s who! Two lovebirds hand-picked by none other than, drumroll please, Miss Khan herself. Don’t believe me? Check out Avani’s Instagram. Oh wait—she’s deleted it! Doesn’t want the world to see her shame after all thesemonths preening on and on about being one of the chosen few to be matched by the perfect matchmaker. Well, how perfect is your magical match looking now, Avani? I see you, Nura Khan. Now the world does too.

The recording cuts off.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls. I trace a finger over the phone screen. His glee at the cancellation of Avani’s wedding is chilling, but it’s the words in the middle of his rant that take my breath away:I see you, Nura Khan.

The same words that were dripping down the note.

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