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“You’re not going out anywhere or spending time with anyone?”

“I’m going out. How else would I hear your sets?”

“I mean other than that.” Cat paused. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

Cat sighed again, dragging it out audibly. “How’s work going?”

“Work is good. I’m still working at that MTA facility. The new apprentices are here.” This was safer territory. She told Cat about the apprentice who was testing her patience. And she heard all about Cat’s day job as a spa receptionist, and the new people in her life: cute mechanic from the bike shop, hot tattoo artist who was bad at texting back.

When they said goodbye, the air between them was more or less cleared. Isabel carried her ramen to the table. There was an abandoned mug with three tea bags in it next to the pile of student papers that now lived on the table permanently. Mira had marked up some of them in her elegant cursive with a purple pen. Isabel smiled, then caught herself.

She might go out of her way to help Mira find a new place. But after that…

She hadn’t been lying to Cat. Mira wasn’t awful to talk to. And of course Isabel supported the grad students as a matter of principle. But whatever Mira did after that wasn’t Isabel’s problem, even if she occasionally had a hard time remembering it.

When Isabel opened the door,the apartment smelled good. Mira was cooking something full of aromatics and spices. She was standing at the stove, and she greeted Isabel, looking flustered. “Sorry, this is taking longer than I expected.”

“That’s fine. I need to shower and eat.” It was true, but Isabel lingered by the kitchen. She’d gone straight from work to taking her aunt to the doctor, and she was tired and starving. Comingin from the cold and finding Mira making dinner was stirring something up inside her.

She looked away. No point in dwelling on some domestic fantasy. She was just hungry, was all. She needed to get some food in her.

“Actually,” Mira said, “I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner together, so I can thank you for helping me.”

Isabel opened her mouth to say no. But there was a bright-looking stew on the stove, and the rice cooker on the counter was full of warm rice. She didn’t have the willpower to refuse.

She’d have to do something for Mira later to make it up to her. “Uh, thanks. I appreciate it. Can I help?”

Mira dipped a spoon into her pot of stew. “That’s okay.” She blew on her spoonful, tasted it, and smiled. “Almost done.”

Isabel’s heart beat faster. Seeing Mira in her kitchen, licking the spoon and giving her that smile…after months and months of returning to a dark, empty apartment, it was too much. She nodded and hurried to her room. She needed to clear her head.

When Isabel came back out, showered and dressed, Mira set two big, wide bowls on the table. Rice topped with a scoop of fiery-red vegetable stew, cabbage flecked with coconut and mustard seeds, a generous dollop of yogurt. An open store-bought jar of mango pickle sat in the middle of the table.

They sat down. Isabel couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a home-cooked meal other than instant ramen, fried rice, or boxed mac and cheese, and some of those were stretching the definition. She took a bite. It was delicious—bright and sunny from tamarind and mango pickle, perfect for the gray October evening. She had a few more big bites, then remembered her manners. “It’s good. Thanks. I like the cabbage.”

Mira smiled. Yearning tugged at Isabel. She wanted to keep seeing that smile lighting up Mira’s face.

There wasn’t anything wrong with that. Mira was going through a tough time, and it was good to see her happy about something, even something as small as Isabel complimenting her cooking. Mira always seemed surprised by the simplest things, like she didn’t expect much out of other people.

“I’m glad you like it,” Mira said. She scooped out more mango pickle from the jar. “It’s such a relief to be cooking for myself again and making whatever I want to eat. And in such a nice kitchen, too. I didn’t even know how much I missed it.”

“You used to cook for your ex?” The idea of it rankled Isabel.

Mira’s smile turned sardonic. “He wanted to eat what his mom used to make for him, but he wasn’t willing to make it himself. Let’s just say that.”

Isabel snorted. It was still a mystery why this smart, funny, beautiful woman had ever dated someone like that. Then again, her own little sister… But now wasn’t the time to think about Grace and her lackluster fiancé. “If he didn’t like this,” Isabel said, gesturing to her food, “that’s his problem.”

“That’s sweet of you,” Mira said. Isabel’s face turned hot. People called her plenty of things.Sweetwasn’t one of them. “I had rice and sambar for dinner a lot when I was growing up, so this is comfort food for me. I know other South Asian kids complained about not having pizza or hamburgers, or what have you, but I never felt that way.”

“Where’s your family from?” On second thought, maybe Isabel shouldn’t have asked. Mira was probably sick of being asked where she was from, and what she was, and things of that ilk. Or maybe she didn’t want to talk about her family. It was just a little too easy to talk to Mira, and sometimes things slipped out of Isabel’s mouth. “If you want to say.”

“I don’t mind you asking.” There was a mild emphasis onyou. “My dad is Indian and originally from Chennai, and my mom is white and Jewish and grew up here, in New York,although she and my dad settled in Chicago. This was in the eighties, when it was a lot harder to get good Indian food, especially South Indian, so my dad had to figure out how to cook. My mom told him she’d only marry him if they only had one child and she didn’t have to do any of the cooking.”

Maybe that was what Mira wanted in a relationship, too. Someone who would support her while she lived her own life, someone she could rely on for the everyday things. She deserved it after what that man had put her through. “You learned how to cook from your dad?”

“A little. I mostly learned from food blogs and YouTube videos.” Mira paused. “We get along, more or less. It’s just that my dad is the most pedantic person I’ve ever known. Which, given that I’ve spent five years in grad school, is saying something.”