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My jaw drops, and Imtiaz realizes a second too late what he’s said out loud—and in front of whom.
Ammi’s mouth forms an O.
“You were traveling with a man?”
I gnash my teeth and send a mini-glare in Imtiaz’s direction. “Yes, but my fiancé knew about it, and he said it was fine,” I say in a steady voice. I’m hoping that mentioning I had Imtiaz’s approval (not that I need it) will calm her down and cause her not to freak out. “We were just helping each other out.”
Ammi brightens slightly, though one eyebrow stays lifted. “Oh, if Imtiaz was okay with it, then fine,” she says. “But my, what a coincidence! You ended up traveling with your future bhaiyya. You’ll have to tell us all about it.”
Oh, God, the thought of Sarfaraz being referred to as bhaiyya, meaning brother, churns my stomach. I resist the urge to cover my mouth to keep down the breakfast I ate this morning. He finally looks me in the eye, but I can’t decipher what he’s thinking.
I’m this close to losing it when Hibba Baji wraps her arm around me. “Come on, let’s go inside. It’s too hot to be standing out here. You can tell us all about how the two of you met.”
I want so badly to talk to Sarfaraz about this new development, but I’m not left alone for a single second. First, I’m bombarded by relatives who all express how worried they were for me when my travel plans got derailed, and then I have to sit and catch up with them and pretend like what they’re saying isn’t going in one ear and out the other. Then I’m taken to the room where I’ll be staying until the wedding and forced into a new pair of shalwar kameez. Then we go back downstairs to the dining room, where a meal has been set up.
Mr. Porter sits at the head of the table, with Mrs. Porter next to him, and Imtiaz across from her. My mind immediately registers Sarfaraz’s distinct absence. Where is he? Has he hidden himself away in the house? Or has he left entirely? He can’t have left without talking to me.
I blink the thoughts away when everyone at the table stands up. Mr. Porter is a tall man—it’s obvious where Sarfaraz got his height from. Thick gel keeps his salt-and-pepper hair pushed back, and relief relaxes the lines in his face when I walk into the room. “Oh, Maya,” he greets. He hugs me, and I hug him back. Mr. Porter may seem scary, and some bad stuff must have gone down for Sarfaraz to be completely dismissed from his family, but he’s the closest thing I have to a father now. He breaks the hug and pats my head. “We were all so worried about you. We’re so glad you’re here, and in one piece.”
“I’m glad I made it, too, Dad,” I say. I call him Dad at his insistence since the engagement.
I hug Mrs. Porter, too, who I call Mummy. When I pull away from the hug, I move a step back and take the whole Porter family in.
Now that I’m looking at the three of them properly, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out earlier. The Porter men all have the same cheekbone structure, the same forehead, the same nose. The only difference between Sarfaraz and the others in his family is his extremely dark brown eyes; Mr. Porter’s are green, which Imtiaz inherited. Mrs. Porter has brown eyes, too, but hers are brighter, more on the hazel side. Sarfaraz must have inherited his from his own Pakistani mother. His skin is lighter than Imtiaz’s, which is something that can happen with mixed kids. The mixture of genes can make siblings look wildly different from each other—and forget siblings who have different mothers. With a jolt, I remember how Sarfaraz said that his stepmother is Pakistani. He also said he came here to visit family. I don’t know why I didn’t connect the dots earlier like he must have.
“Well, I think we need to talk.” Ammi’s voice interrupts my thoughts. We all take our seats at the table.
“Before you say anything,” Mrs. Porter says to us, but it’s mostly in Ammi’s direction, “we’re very sorry we didn’t tell you we have another son.” Sorrow haunts her face as she adds, with a mini glare toward her husband, “Sarfaraz hasn’t been a part of our family for years now.”
My heart twists. In all the time we’ve known each other, I never asked Sarfaraz about his family. Of course, there’s no telling if he would have opened up to me about them. I thought him telling me about his ex-wife, clearly a sensitive subject, was good enough. But I feel terrible; how long has he been alone?
“What happened?” Ammi asks.
Mr. Porter looks like he would rather eat a bowl of nails than discuss this, but he says, “You know that I have my own law firm, yes?”
When we nod, he continues. “Well, I wanted Sarfaraz to go into corporate law with me.” Mr. Porter’s expression sours. “But he didn’t want that. He wanted to be—”
“A family lawyer,” I automatically finish, earning me a confused look from Hibba Baji. I ignore her and focus my attention on Mr. Porter.
“Yes, he wanted to be a family lawyer,” he finishes gruffly. “But I didn’t know until after he had finished law school, after I paid for all his schooling and his wedding, that he lied to me the whole time. He didn’t study corporate law at all, despite the fact that he told me he did. So, I cut him off; I would not tolerate such behavior from my son.”
I pause, the new information conflicting in my gut. It’s not right that Sarfaraz lied to his dad, but it also seems like an overreaction to cut him off. But what do I know about the relationship between father and child? I don’t exactly have a dad myself.
Mr. Porter flashes an angry look to Imtiaz. “So, you can imagine how it feels to know my other son invited Sarfaraz to his wedding.”
Imtiaz balls his hands into a fist, presumably to contain his annoyance. “For the last time, Dad, I’m not apologizing for inviting Bhaiyya. I’m a grown man, and I can make my own choices about who I want at my wedding. Besides, if Maya and I are fine with it, that’s all that matters.” He looks directly at me. “Right, Maya?”
Red blooms on my face. “Right,” I squeak, my throat dry.
Though his brow quirks momentarily, Imtiaz ignores my strange behavior and turns to Ammi. “Auntie Ji, I’m so sorry that my family lied to you about me being an only child,” he begins. “But if you can look past this, I’d still like to marry Maya.”
Ammi’s poker face is immaculate; her lips are in a straight line, not curling up or down. Her eyes are relaxed, not a lick of tension in her pupils. Her forehead is line free. She taps her fingers on the table, then looks to me. “Maya? What do you think?”
I gulp when everyone turns their attention my way. I clear my throat. “It’s fine with me,” I answer, because what else can I say? If I say I don’t want Sarfaraz here, he’ll be forced to leave, and I won’t be able to confront him. “If it’s important to Imtiaz, then it’s important to me.”
“Then it’s settled,” Imtiaz declares, sending his father a firm stare.
Mr. Porter’s nostrils flare, but Mrs. Porter touches his arm. “Jaanu, we can’t force him to leave.” She gives him a pleading look. “Besides, I want to spend time with him. I have not seen my other son in many years.”
