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Amma frowns when I return home before the typical end of my shift, and I curse myself for forgetting to tell her I called out.

Maybe it’s for the best. I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to her about the class.

Thinking on my feet, I say, “Mr. Tahir let us out early. The twins and I were going to meet up with Mena at the wheelhouse.” Amma’s brows draw together, and I squirm in the kitchen doorway, wondering why she seems so troubled. “Is that okay? If you need me for something, I can cancel.”

“No, I don’t need you,” she says, but she’s slicing the eggplant she holds over the curved blade of her daa with more force than necessary. “Is it actually the twins you’re seeing?”

Ice bleeds into my veins. Could she somehow have figured out my plans with Harun?

No way. Not after I objected to the match so heartily.

“Of course I am,” I reply with as much affront as I can muster. “Didn’t you hear the aunties at the mela? You don’t have to worry about Nayim anymore. We broke up.”

Her grip tightens on the daa. “That’s true, then? The imam’s wife said he returned to Bangladesh. You haven’t talked to him?”

“I don’t know anything about him anymore.” I shrug but can’t quite keep the caustic edge from my voice at the revelation that she and her friends have been gossiping about Nayim. About us. Of course they have. “Your friends are probably right. They usually are. He’s somewhere far, far away from me, in any case. Just like you wanted.”

Such a long beat passes that I think she’s done with me, until she stands up and claps her hands together. “The best way to cure a broken heart is to find something new to fill it! Perhaps we should find you something prettier to wear in case you bump into a nice Bengali boy?”

“Huh? S-something prettier? Another boy? What’s wrong with this—”

Before I can protest her comment about fishing for a new suitor or finish listing the merits of the T-shirt and jeans I’d thrown on to meet Professor Liu, Amma has already manhandled me into her bedroom to cart out the luggage under her bed, where she stores the creations specially made for me, Arif, and Resna.

In no time at all, I end up waiting in Woodland Park, where Dalia has driven me again, dressed in a flowing pink, strawberry-print dress my mother modeled after a trend she saw on Pinterest a couple of years ago, dizzy from having gotten sucked into Hurricane Amma for the umpteenth time.

Her delight in getting rid of Nayim irks me, but I begrudgingly accept her wisdom when Harun swallows hard at the sight of me, eyes wide behind his glasses and cheeks ruddy.

“Y-you look pretty,” he says, before remembering to greet Dalia.

She shoots me a smirk. “I can’t believe you’re already meeting the family, Zar.”

By family, she means our not-chaperones for the night: Sammi and a martyr of a boy who can only be her younger brother, Harun’s best friend and cousin, Shaad. He resembles Harun in every way but the most important, lacking the earnest sweetness Harun hides behind a frown. Shaad’s loose curls are styled back using gel; there’s a pout on his full lips; and red-soled Air Jordans don his feet, matching the tint of the Ray-Bans over his eyes.

The sulk and sunglasses vanish as he appraises Dalia, pulling the latter down his aristocratic nose. “Well, well, well. Maybe today won’t suck, after all. Are you joining us too?”

He gives her a smolder that she breezes right past with a practiced smile. “Nope, sorry. Some of us have jobs, not inheritances.”

If possible, the barb elicits a dopier grin. “Shame. Next time?”

Harun levels an apologetic glance my way. “Sorry about that. Romeo over there wheedled today’s plans out of me, and then Sammi Afa got it out of him. She said she’d only cover for us if we let them tag along.”

Sammi slings her arms around her cousin’s and brother’s shoulders, forcing both to bend toward her almost comedically. “You can’t imagine how delighted I was to hear about your escapades with Haru-moni, Zahra. Much as I love these two, I need you to rescue me from a testosterone overdose. We never did have enough girls in the family.”

Dalia elbows me. “Who knows? If you play your cards right, that might change soon.”

“Dal, please,” I grit out, casting a long-suffering look at her.

She responds by pushing me toward the BMW like she can’t wait to get rid of me. I stagger into Harun, who catches me. The two of us peer at each other for a second, hearts thumping in time with one another, until Shaad wolf-whistles and we jerk away.

Glaring at his cousin, Harun opens the front passenger door and I step in. Shaad and Sammi duck into the backseat. We all tell Dalia goodbye and drive off. Once we’ve gone a few blocks, I examine my three companions. “Where are we going?”

“The balloon festival,” Harun says. “Have you been?”

“No… What do you do at a balloon festival?”

“If you don’t know, don’t Google it,” he replies with an endearingly serious expression. “I want to see your face when we get there.”

Oh, there’s that blush again.

“O-okay.” I flash him a timid smile, then glance over at Sammi and Shaad, who seem to be nitpicking each other’s outfit choices. “So, they’re actually coming?”

“Yes,” Sammi answers in Harun’s stead, prompting Shaad to groan as she presumably encroaches his personal space. “My darling baby brother is going away to school soon. Who knows when we’ll get to spend time with each other again? So I forced him to come with me.” I turn, bemused, in time to catch her wink. “But don’t worry, Zahra. The festival is big enough that we won’t be third-wheeling on your date with Haru-moni.”

“Kill me now,” Shaad grumbles, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

“Oh, hush,” his sister replies. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll get you funnel cake.”

His eyes narrow. “I can buy my own funnel cake!”

I giggle as they devolve into more bickering. They remind me of how I am with Arif, except he’d appreciate me more if he ever saw the way Sammi babies her brother.

The balloon festival is in suburban Readington Township, a part of New Jersey I’ve never been to before despite living only an hour away, but we spend so much of that time on the highway that we don’t pass many impressive sights.

I’m still wondering what’s so special about it when we drive into the township, with its uniform white houses on bright green lawns. Sure, they’re cute, but I have a feeling very few people who look like us live here. Before I can make this crack to Harun, however, I see them . Bright, colorful specks dot the sky, the closer we get to the airport hosting the festival.

“Are those—”

“Hot-air balloons,” Harun says.

Dozens of teardrop shapes in every color and pattern available float amid the clouds, above the rolling fields of green on which the Solberg Airport buildings are located. Most of the space is occupied by various stages and vendors, carnival rides, circus tents, and petting zoos. All remaining areas harbor grounded balloons and visiting families.

A giant banner proclaims the name of the festival, but there are other endorsements as well: a quote from the governor calling it one of New Jersey’s best events, the American Bus Association dubbing it one of the greatest festivals in North America.

An old white ticket taker reads the tickets Harun hands her, squints between them and us, then finally says, “Two VIP tickets and two general? VIP flights are soon. Enjoy!”

Sammi snatches the two stubs with GENERAL stamped across them from her cousin, then drags her brother away, calling over her shoulder, “You two kids have fun! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” then smacks Shaad’s arm when he audibly adds, “That’s not exactly much.”

Harun pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry about them.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m just glad we could see each other again today. I didn’t think you’d planned something so big, though. VIP tickets?”

“Sammi Afa foisted them on me, actually,” he replies. “Repayment for extorting her way onto this trip. Hope this is okay? I know you were kinda jittery on the bridge, but you don’t have a fear of heights, do you?”

I eye him. “I’m starting to think you taking me to all these lofty places is an excuse to get me to cling to you.”

“My master plan is working?” he asks with a grin.

I pretend to consider this, then shrug. “Maybe.”

“Good.” His fingertips extend to brush mine. “Because I’d love to hear what happened with that professor.”

Feeling bold, I take his swinging hand and hold it the entire time we make our way through the maze of stalls and rides.

“It was great!”

His brows arch as I explain exactly what went down at the community college. “Zar, that’s amazing! You are amazing!”

“It’s nothing,” I mumble, though I’m secretly pleased by how impressed he is.

“It is not nothing. Trust me, I’ve spent enough money on writing tutors to know that, and that was just for essays,” he chides. “You think you’ll do it?”

I worry my lip. “I don’t know how my mother will react. She’s always seen writing as my hobby. While she might be pleased if I’m able to attend a free creative writing course, she’ll probably think it’s a waste of time. She already has all these other plans for me.”

Now that she thinks Harun and I are a no-go, those plans involve finding another suitable match. It would be the comfortable life that she’s promised, I have no doubt, but it doesn’t sit right with me, to rely on any husband so much.

Harun squeezes my hand, contemplation creasing his forehead. “Writing is your bridge.” It takes me a minute to get it, but when I do, I snort, and he smiles. “Actually, that’s not the same at all. My folks are all talk. They didn’t actually mind when I told them I’m studying mechanical engineering. But Zar, you’re so good at writing that you have to do it.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes are dark and sincere as he nods. “Yeah.”

I might have stood on my tiptoes to kiss him right then and there, if some guy with a bullhorn and mic didn’t boom at that exact moment, “VIP tickets, please make your way over to the balloons listed at the bottoms of your stubs.”

“Wait.” My eyes bulge. “Are we getting on a hot-air balloon?”

“I did ask if you were afraid of heights,” Harun reminds me.

“Well, yeah, but—”

“No buts,” he replies. “You trust me, right?”

I hesitate for no more than a second, then nod. He’s always taken such care with me during these fake dates, even though they were often more of an inconvenience to him, what with him providing the chaperone, ride, and dinner every single time we met up despite Operation Zahrun being my idea all along.

He gives our interlocked fingers one last squeeze, before leading me toward the balloon labeled on our ticket, one decorated with blooming flowers. The pilot opens the hatch for us, and Harun helps me climb aboard. The basket wobbles as I do. I turn to hold on to him, then go red when I realize what I’ve done, grateful that we’re the only passengers.

Harun doesn’t seem to mind. He hangs on to me in return as we make our way over to the rim of the basket, around the engine at the center. I keep my eyelids shut, my cheek pressed against his chest, feeling the thump of his heart beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.

My grip tightens when the whoosh of the flames blowing into the balloon joins the sound of his heartbeat, steadily lifting us off the ground to the cheers of people below. Sensing my nerves, Harun starts to explain to me in his deep, calm baritone the process by which hot-air balloons work, the safety procedures, and so on, until my panicked breathing and the basket grow level.

“Zahra,” he murmurs next to my ear. “Open your eyes.”

I peel my eyelids apart and gasp at the sight that awaits us.

Solberg Airport and Readington Township are far, far below. Hundreds of people crowd together like ants, waving their arms and glow sticks at the balloons and the musicians performing concerts onstage. Other balloons float, some higher, some lower, but so many, we can hardly see the twilight sky swirling between us.

I know I keep saying it, but I think this is the highest I’ve ever been, yet I’ve never felt more grounded than I do with Harun’s arms around me. As I stare into his eyes, there’s no more doubting any of what I’ve been feeling for him. How funny that I fought against this so long, only to fall for exactly the boy my mother wanted for me.

“I like you,” I blurt.

“I like you, too,” he says.

I shake my head. “No. I mean that I have feelings for you. The unplatonic kind.”

Harun gapes at me.

I bury my face in his chest, muffling a frustrated whine against it.

Feelings. Like. They’re both such inadequate descriptions of the swirl of emotions that squeeze my heart like an embrace, the emotions that have only steadily, inevitably been growing since I met this boy in the dimness of his family’s restaurant.

“You’ve always been there for me, honest with me, understood me,” I say. If I don’t get this out, I’ll regret it forever. “I get it if it’s too soon, but I don’t just like you. I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling is so much bigger. I’ve fallen in… love with you.”

The last part I choke out in one flustered breath. His gasp reverberates through his chest into my skin, but despite being brave enough to confess my love for him, I don’t have the courage to look up yet, in case he rejects me now.

“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, and—”

Gentle fingers ghosting under my chin coax me to lift it. Dark brown eyes sparkling, Harun smiles down at me, so wide my thumb twitches with the urge to rub circles around that infernal dimple. “For someone so smart, you can be awfully dense sometimes, Khan.”

“Hey!”

Soft lips slotting against mine cut any complaints short, tasting of wintergreen mint and cocoa-butter ChapStick. My arms flail in the air in shock, before I regain enough sense to lean into him, lifting up my palms to cradle his cheeks, keeping his glasses from falling off.

His face is warm from the blush that spreads through us both like a sip of hot tea. I wonder if he likes the strawberry flavor of my own gloss.

His breath tickles my lips when he pulls away just enough to say, “I love you, too, Zahra.”

“Y-you do?” I ask.

Now a chuckle ruffles the errant strands that escape my ponytail. “I think I’ve been falling for you for a long time. Maybe before karaoke?”

“You have ?” I groan into the crook of his neck.

His eyes have darkened with emotion that sends a thrill through me when I gaze back up. This time, I stand on my tiptoes to meet him halfway the instant his lips begin to descend toward mine. We pull apart only when we’re both breathless and giddy. His glasses are foggy and skewed, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he leans his forehead against mine and asks, “What does this mean? Do we…”

He trails off, but I know exactly what he’s wondering.

Does dating again mean a wedding for us on the horizon like it usually does for people? Like our parents expect of us? Does he want that? What do we tell them?

“I care about you more than I know what to do with,” I say at last, “but we’re so young.”

Harun lets out a sigh of relief. “Yeah. What’s the rush? We can go back to our parents and tell them we want to keep trying. I don’t even mind having an annoying chaperone along for the rest of our lives, if it means I can be with you.”

“Then you must really like me,” I say with a smirk.

“We’ve already established that.” His forehead scrunches against mine, and his frown is so cute, I have no choice but to peck it away. He lets me, then pulls away, ignoring my growled objection. “I think I’m going to tell our parents that I want to keep seeing you but will consider marriage only after we’ve graduated from college. Both of us.”

He looks at me intently.

It takes me a moment to grasp his words, but when I do, my eyes overflow with tears and I throw myself back into his embrace. If he says that and Amma wants us to be happy together, she’ll have to be okay with college.

“Thank you, Harun.”

A gust of wind makes the basket sway from side to side. Recalling that we’re thousands of feet in the air, I cling to Harun again, taking care not to budge another inch until we land. He holds me the whole time.

I feel at home, tucked safely in his arms.

And if we have to wait, if we have to endure an endless parade of chaperones and rules and rumors, if we have to fight for it, so be it.

If this is true love, it just might be worth it.