Kamila stood watching his eyes as he watched the show. This was troubling—shetoldDad she was eating with Rohan. Dad was absentminded the last time he had a mental health episode. She should have come home for dinner. But his eyes looked okay. He was completely focused on the woman on the screen making what looked like cabbage soup. “I’m going to the basement to do a run-through of Darcy’s routine for the puppy prom. But then do you want to go though some recipe books to figure out what to eat for the rest of the week?”
“Sounds fine,” Dad said.
Kamila went downstairs to practice with Darcy.
Her dog was in one of her rare accommodating moods, so Kamila got three rounds of the routine in before a tennis ball proved to be infinitely more interesting. After making a heart-healthy meal plan with Dad, taking a shower, blow-drying her hair, and completing her seven-step skin-care routine, it was past eleven thirty. She quickly edited and uploaded a video of Darcy dancing on TikTok and cross-posted to Instagram, then put away her phone and turned on her e-reader.
Kamila’s text tone rang a few minutes later. She glanced at her phone, fully intending to not respond until tomorrow.
But it was Rohan. The text on the screen said,I have the answer to your problem. I could… And then the text cut off.
Ha,problem. Kamila had way more than just one problem right now. She unlocked her phone.
The rest of the text continued,I could host this week’s Bollywood night.
That was not at all what she’d expected. Bollywood night was her thing—no one else hosted it. Rohan didn’t have people over to his place. She immediately texted back.
Kamila:What do you mean? And why are you texting me so late? I could have been sleeping.
Rohan:You just posted a video of Darcy dancing on Instagram. I knew you were up.
Kamila:You follow Darcy’s Instagram?
He didn’t answer that question.
Rohan:I went to my condo gym after we had dinner. It overlooks the building’s party room. It’s on the rooftop terrace. There are heaters, lots of seating, and they just got a screen and projector. I already checked—it’s available this Friday night.
Kamila didn’t know what to write back. Bollywood night at a posh King Street rooftop terrace instead of the living room of her brownstone? Rohan hosting a party?
Kamila:Seriously? You’d do that?
Rohan:It’s not a big deal. You do it every week. I’d like to take some pressure off you.
Kamila:What about Dad? I don’t like leaving him at dinnertime.
Rohan:Got it covered. Rashida Aunty is hosting a dinner before her card party.
Kamila:Wow. You thought of everything. I’ll have to bring my ukulele and serenade you with “Wind beneath My Wings.”
She frowned at her phone. If Anil was invited, she’d have to be the new “sophisticated accountant” Kamila. No ukulele. Actually, having the party at Rohan’s fancy condo could help her. It would definitely be posh and sophisticated.
Rohan:Kam, I take back what I said earlier. You are ridiculous.
Kamila:And you’re generous. Thank you. I appreciate it. You won’t have to do this alone—we’ll host together. As practice for the Aim High party. I can get the biryani. Do you want me to make appetizers?
Rohan:I’m not taking something off your plate if you’re still doing the work. You can send out an email letting everyone know about the location change, but leave everything else to me.
Kamila:At least let me come help you set up the space. I assume it’s pretty bare, right? I’ll come and tzhuj it up a bit.
Rohan:I’m sorry, what? Tsh…
Kamila:Tzhuj. You know, kick up the glamour a bit. Except, elegantly.
Rohan:Did you make up that word?
Kamila:No.
Seconds later, an incoming video call from Rohan showed up on her screen. She hesitated a moment—she wasn’t really fit for a video chat. Her hair was in that bonnet he said made her look like a sultan, and her pajamas were not the cute ones. But this was Rohan—hardly company. She opened the call.
