Page 9 of The Matchmaker

“It smells delicious!”

A door creaks down the hall and Khala emerges from around the corner. She’s wearing a turquoise shalwar kameez. Her silvery-gray hair is swept up. She looks as graceful as ever.

“Happy thirty-two, beta.” She gives me a peck on the cheek. “I had not heard from you in a few days. I was beginning to worry.”

My aunt’s newest pastime: worrying about me. “Sorry, Khala. Didn’t you get my texts?”

“I need to hear your voice to know all is well. How is everything at work?”

I tell her about the wedding last weekend. Saba and Abid’s nuptials. Tidbits about some of our latest clients.

“You are balancing so many different things.” She pats my arm. “Perhaps it’s time to scale back the personalized matchmaking a bit? That app of yours is enough to keep a team of fifty on their toes.”

“Wedohave a remote team of nearly fifty people who handle the app side of things,” I remind her.

“Nevertheless, the ultimate responsibility falls to you.”

“Khala—”

“It is merely a suggestion,” she says gently. “Life is short. Look at me—health can turn on a dime, can’t it? You deserve girlfriends and brunch. Vacations. I can’t help but worry.”

A stonelike sensation lodges in my stomach. Not this again. How casually she tells me to scale back what we’ve worked so hard to grow. The part of the work which makes us…well,us. It’s not supposed to be like this.

I can still smell the antibacterial hand wash in the hospital room I’d raced into after her first stroke. I’d had to summon all my professional skills to stay calm. My once formidable khala with her designer shalwar kameez and gold bangles, diminished to a small frame in a thin cotton gown beneath starched sheets. It was like watching a superhero shed their costume.

“She’ll be all right,” the doctor had said. “As far as strokes go, this one was minor.”

But the minor strokes continued over the next few weeks and months without rhyme or reason. Then came the diagnosis: stage three vascular dementia. Suddenly, I was thrust from being her partner at the agency to the only one in charge.

But instead of telling me she’s proud of me, instead of being relieved that I’m carrying on the work that connects us from Atlanta to the flatlands of Punjab where the work began, she thinks I should stop. She means well. I know she does. But each time she makes suggestions like these, they land like a punch. My cousin Nina is to blame. I’m sure of it. All these little mentions of pulling back from our work began soon after she moved in.

“How is my dear Gertie doing?” Khala asks.

“Ridiculous as always.” Thankful for the change in conversation, I pull out my phone and swipe through the photos ofKhala’s senior Siberian forest cat, who’s taken up residence with me since Nina arrived. Nina’s allergic to cats. She’d probably say she’s allergic to me as well, but I’m not about to be shaken out of Khala’s life quite so easily.

“Gertie’s getting the finest treatment any feline has ever received,” I assure her. I wasn’t exactly in the market for a pet, but Gertie’s family, and the sweetest cat to boot.

“I would not have trusted her with anyone else.” She glances at the front door. “Is Azar still joining us for dinner? It has been ages since I last saw him.”

“He’s running a little late, but of course he’s coming. He’s my closest friend.”

“More like one of youronlyfriends,” Khala corrects me.

I’d protest this, but she’s right. She knows better than anyone that this job requires complete devotion—outside of office hours, there’s really only space for Azar. It’s not as thoughhercalendar was stacked with casual brunch dates while I was growing up. The only vacations we ever took had doubled as work trips—mornings watching cartoons with room service in a plush hotel room in cities like New York, Chicago, even Tokyo once, while Khala headed to intake meetings, after which we’d hit up a local zoo or museum. I can’t get too worked up, though. She remembered my birthday. We’ve had an entire conversation without a single memory slip. I’m grateful for good days. There have been more and more of them lately. Maybe thingsaregetting better.

“Can you help me with the crystal?” she asks. “I can’t reach the glasses in the top cabinet in the kitchen and I want to make sure the dining table is all set up before Azar arrives.”

“Am I already being put to work? Isn’t thismybirthday celebration?” I tease.

“I thought you loved helping your khala?” She winks.

As I entered the open and airy kitchen, the happy feeling fades when I see Nina.

“You’re late,” she says.

She’s at the kitchen island in front of opened bags of flour and sugar. Her dark hair is newly pixie-short. Her slender shoulders are squared back, her jaw set firm. She looks so much like Khala that sometimes if I glance at her absentmindedly, I feel a jolt to my system like I’ve traveled back in time. Like I’m looking at my aunt when I first entered her life at the age of seven. They have the same curved nose. The same doe-like brown eyes. If only sheactedlike my khala in any way. Lilah climbs onto the stool next to her mother.

“Work got busy,” I tell Nina. “And Friday traffic was a monster.”

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