Chapter 6
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By the time Hena returned to the bridal shower, the patio was crawling with wedding guests. True to their marching orders, the women around her wore frocks, saris, and shalwar kamizes in varying shades of lavender, pink, periwinkle, and baby blue.
In contrast to the sea of pastels, Lulu wore a low-necked cream kurta and matching tights.
Her hair was pulled back in a loose, stylish braid, brown strands framing her glowing face.
As uncomfortable as Hena felt about the glances cast in her direction, she couldn’t help but brighten at the sight of her sister. Lulu was a beautiful bride.
The bridesmaids ushered guests through the carefully choreographed order of events.
Though the bridal shower games were as excruciating as Hena had anticipated—“pass the bridal bouquet” hot potato, toilet paper wedding dresses, and “pin the kiss on the groom”—they kept her distracted.
So distracted, in fact, it wasn’t until they broke for food that she realized her mother wasn’t there.
She found Khala by the punch bowl.
“Where’s Ammi?” she asked.
“The morning outing took a lot out of her,” Khala said. “She’s resting.”
“She’s not joining for even a little while?”
“She wanted to, but Gita said she should take it easy. A bit of weakness is all.”
There was no way her mother was feeling just “a bit” of weakness.
“Grit your teeth and push through” might as well have been Ammi’s ethos.
It’s what she told Hena when she dragged her to tennis practice with a twisted ankle.
Insisted Hena deliver the school assembly speech despite a raging fever in seventh grade.
She had been so concerned with appearances that the night of Hena’s wedding, when her world had effectively ended at their family boathouse, Ammi had swept past her to comfort Nasir’s mother instead.
Hena had understood the gesture—an attempt to placate, to prevent a bigger scene—but it hadn’t worked.
It had only made the gossip grow louder.
“I don’t know why Gita cleared her to come to the shop. Anyone could tell it was too much for her,” Hena muttered.
“She wanted to be there,” Khala said. “Besides, there will be plenty of other events for her to attend.”
Courtney, one of the bridesmaids, clinked a crystal glass and invited everyone to join the bridal party at the gift-opening area. Hena took a seat in the second row of chairs facing Lulu.
Gift time meant the end was near, and all things considered, it hadn’t been too bad. The guests seemed to have gotten over the shock of her attendance, and while there were still whispers and lingering looks, things felt calmer now. She was grateful for it.
Courtney handed out party favors—Tiffany key chains engraved with the couple’s initials and wedding date. Irum handed Lulu her presents one at a time to open.
“Cartier earrings?” Lulu exclaimed, unwrapping the first gift. “Khala, thank you!”
She gave their aunt a big hug. In fact, after every gift—the custom cutting board, the Le Creuset cookware, a Vitamix blender, an artisanal tea set—Lulu walked over to personally thank and embrace each person.
Then she opened a box, bit back a laugh, and lifted up a sexy black negligee.
“All right, which one of you got me this?”
“That’s from me!” Auntie Dilsha called from the back row, setting off a chorus of laughter. “Tradition mandates the bride be mortified by her elder aunties.”
“No need to be shy,” Auntie Hanifa called out from the front row. “We were all young once.”
The gifts dwindled. A spa basket. An iron skillet. A set of knives that made Lulu shriek with joy and turn to Irum.
“These are the Imperion handcrafted ones I told you about!” she cried, reading the card. “I didn’t even have them on the registry!”
“Because giving knives to someone on their wedding is bad luck,” Auntie Nipa said, shaking her head.
“That’s a silly superstition.” Lulu scoffed. “If a blender is fine, why can’t a knife be?”
Hena suppressed a smile. Lulu lived to cook, and whether or not she ever opened a restaurant, knives were the perfect gift for her. She’d given Hena a set of Shun knives for her own wedding.
One of those knives had saved her life.
Lulu opened each gift until only one remained—Hena’s. She unwrapped the striped paper and paused before lifting up the gold necklace with its blue-and-white evil-eye charm. A flicker of nerves shot through Hena when Lulu’s gaze found hers.
“Is this the same one?” she asked.
Hena nodded, relieved she hadn’t forgotten.
Lulu could buy herself anything, so Hena had gone for nostalgia.
Their mother had bought both of them these identical necklaces shortly after their father died.
It was a silly superstition that the charm could ward off evil, their mother had said.
Still, she had insisted they wear them. Given how young Lulu had been, she’d snapped hers in half on the school playground the next day.
They’d searched the area in vain. Lulu had wept.
Begged for a new one. She’d wanted it to keep her safe, but their mother had refused.
She had also refused to allow Hena to give Lulu hers.
Carelessness has consequences, she had said.
Lulu’s fingers grazed the delicate gold.
“Thanks,” she said.
No hug. No effusive praise. Which was fine. A gift wasn’t about the giver, and truthfully, Hena should’ve given it to her sister long ago. Better late than never. As much as she didn’t believe in amulets, she hoped it would keep Lulu safe as she began her new life with Khaled.
“Thank you all for coming,” Courtney said as Lulu stifled a yawn. “A buffet will be set up in the dining hall tonight for anyone who’s hungry later on.”
“What about the marriage advice book?” Haris’s mother called from two rows across.
“I think Lulu is pretty tired—” Courtney began.
“Nonsense,” Auntie Hanifa protested. “We had such fun filling those out. Let us hear a few, at least?”
Others nodded in agreement. Lulu relented and asked Irum to read them aloud. Irum grabbed the monogrammed white book and took a seat next to Lulu.
“Ooh, this is a good one,” she said, flipping to the first page. “It says, ‘Habits form early and easily, but once settled, they are impossible to undo. Choose carefully what routines you set at the start of your marriage lest you find yourself stuck with them forever.’ ”
“That was mine,” Auntie Nipa said proudly. “It means if you iron his clothes the morning after your wedding, you’ll be ironing them thirty years from now too.”
There were nods of agreement. Hena bit back a laugh. Her sister had never ironed an outfit in her life. If someone needed any pressing done, Khaled better know how.
Courtney peered over Irum’s shoulder to read the next one.
“ ‘Never go to bed angry.’ ”
“The next one says the opposite,” Irum added. “ ‘Hold your temper before bed. Once words are spoken, they cannot be unsaid.’ ”
“Absolutely,” said Auntie Hanifa. “Cooler heads always prevail in the morning.”
Hena couldn’t believe she agreed with Auntie Hanifa. She supposed even a broken clock was right twice a day.
Courtney and Irum continued to alternate reading. The advice was mostly standard: the importance of date nights, communication. Hena yawned—her late night with Reza was catching up to her. She would need a nap soon.
When Courtney flipped to the next page, she paused.
“Huh. It says, ‘Invest in a good tracker for Khaled. The worst thing you can do is misplace your husband, and we all know disappearances run in the family.’ ”
Misplace your husband.
The words hit Hena like a gut punch.
Auntie Nipa and Auntie Hanifa covered their mouths and gasped in mock horror. Murmurs spread.
Poor Courtney looked out of the loop, but no one else was confused. Their expressions said it all: disdain, smugness, delight. These women had never left high school behind.
“Excuse me.”
Irum. She was standing, shoulders rigid. A hush fell over the audience. Her lower lip trembled as she glared at the crowd.
“My brother is missing. It’s not a joke,” she said. “To treat our pain like—” She choked back a sob. Wordlessly, she raced into the resort.
The crowd fell silent as Lulu rose.
“Irum is right,” Lulu told the women. “That was awful. We’re already navigating a wedding while handling a difficult family health matter. Let’s do better. Please.”
Auntie Hanifa and Auntie Nipa visibly bristled at Lulu’s lecture, but the others seemed to wilt against her scolding, properly chastened.
Hena clenched her jaw. How could these people not understand that their words didn’t just hurt her? She wasn’t the only one who’d lost Nasir. His absence was more than a punch line.
She returned to her table, grabbed her clutch, and slipped into the resort. The sooner she got back to her room, the better.
Passing the lobby, she glimpsed the men’s party through the floor-to-ceiling windows as the football game blared in the background.
Her heart leapt when she saw Reza at the front desk.
He was chatting with Lucinda. Mansur, another groomsman, was by his side.
Something Reza said made both of them laugh before Mansur slapped Reza’s back and headed outside.
Lucinda spotted Hena. She waved.
“Ms. Mirza, is everything to your liking so far?” she asked.
“Call me Hena. And everything is great, thank you.”
The brown-haired man from the fondue bar, who had initially taken her luggage, hurried over to Lucinda to confer about a parking snafu as she handed Reza a first aid kit.
“Hope you’re better in no time,” Lucinda told him.
“What happened?” Hena asked Reza.
“Just a little burn.” He held out his right hand. An angry red mark ran along the side of his palm.
Hena winced. “What’s going on at this party?”
“It’s my fault. I was chatting with the pitmaster. I smoke my wings differently—was trying to show him and accidentally grazed the grill.”
“You got injured while mansplaining how to cook chicken?”
“Hey now! Is it mansplaining if you’re in a room full of men, explaining to a man?”
She bit back a smile. “Fair point.”
“It looks worse than it is. What really hurts is getting my ass handed to me at poker. These people are sharks. Now I have to learn how to be a lefty so I can apply this.” He opened the kit and reached for the Neosporin.
“Let me do it.”
He followed her to the lobby sofas. His hand relaxed in hers as she applied the medicine, unsealed the gauze, and pressed it against his skin.
“You do this often?” he asked.
She didn’t look up, but she felt his gaze. “Bandaging up guys who think they’re invincible? I guess I’m a certified pro.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’d say so.” She smoothed the bandage in place. “There. All better.”
“Thanks, Hena.” He gave her hand a grateful squeeze.
Be cool, Hena, she thought, withdrawing her hand from his.
“What’s on deck for the evening?” she asked.
“Khaled said he’s arranging a hookah bar on the back patio tonight. I’m hoping to get out of it. You?”
“Room service and calling it a night.”
“Room service sounds perfect,” he said wistfully.
“You’re welcome to join me.”
“Yeah? The dessert menu looked tempting.”
She took in his broad shoulders, his almond-shaped eyes, and groaned inwardly. After last night, she assumed he literally meant dessert—but she’d still welcome his company.
They exchanged numbers. He promised to call once his plans firmed up.
Back in her suite, she kicked off her heels. Her phone buzzed. A text from Reza.
Reza: No getting out of the hookah bar. I’ll have to hang back.
Hena: Sorry to hear.
Reza: I’m sorrier.
Reza: Rain check?
She thumbs-upped the message. It was just as well. While she would’ve welcomed another evening in his company, sleepiness was setting in fast. A shower and pajamas were the smarter choice.
She reached into her clutch for lip balm and felt something crumpled inside—a pastel cocktail napkin from the bridal shower. She was about to toss it in the wastebasket when she noticed the handwriting on it.
Unfolding the napkin, she grew still.
The writing was messy, but the words were unmistakable:
Once a slut, always a slut.