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Her phone was switched off and the airline staff were adamant that she had never checked in for her flight to London from LA. With no way to reach her, Aseem, his parents, and I boarded the train carrying between us a vast range of emotions; everything from panic, worry, concern, and irritation rolled up and tucked in between us as tightly as the theplas and parathas that my mother-in-law had packed into her carry-on.

"That is not the point, Aish." Aseem's voice drifts in through the thick duvet. "Do you have any idea how worried we were? The least you could have done is called."

A few beats go by and in the muffled silence, I let my breathing slow down, focusing on the rhythmic sound of the train pushing against the tracks, letting the shunt and roll of the carriage lull me back to sleep. My eyelids have just begun to feel heavy when Aseem speaks again.

"Oh, come on. You know how much this trip means to Mama. And Myra's been planning this for months."

I roll onto my back and peel my eye-mask away, acutely aware of the queasiness building in the pit of my stomach. Aseem is sitting next to me, eyes closed, head leaning back, but I can tell just looking at the set of his shoulders that he's anything but relaxed. With everything we have going on, it's a stance I've seen him assume far too often over the past couple of months.

Aseem's voice, when he speaks, is measured, and once again I am reminded of the inner calm that he's able to navigate back to no matter how chaotic his surroundings. His unflappability has always been the thing that I love the most about him. And often, the thing that frustrates me the most.

"It's an island, Aisha. You can't just rock up whenever you want."

I inch closer to him and tug the curtain open with my toes. Dappled sunlight dances across our tiny cabin as the train winds its way through the glen, deeper still into the Highlands. I am tempted to click a quick picture for Instagram, but I doubt I can avoid catching my own reflection in the window and if there was ever a day for a "woke up like this" selfie, it's not today. I've barely slept all night, I know my face will betray all the tell-tale signs of exhaustion and sleeplessness. I'm sure as hell not going to give the keyboard warriors who have been harassing me for months any more ammunition.

I imagine Aisha's voice on the other end, the unimpeachable tone she seems to reserve for her family, the charming excuses she always has tucked up her sleeve, and then I watch Aseem melt, as usual giving in to his little sister. It's annoying, yes, but there's never been any point arguing with Aisha.

If there's anyone in this family who can get away with murder, it's her.

"Fine," he sighs. "I'll handle things here. This time. How quickly can you get to the airport in LA?"

I sit up and curl one arm around my husband, pressing myself into him as I lean over to reach for the bottle of water on the fold-down table. Three years of marriage and I still can't keep my eyes—or my hands—off him. I snuggle up next to him, bottle of Highland Spring in hand.

I look at Aseem when he finally finishes the call, my eyebrows raised. "She missed her flight," he says, running a finger along my cheek.

"And her phone—why was it switched off?"

Aseem shrugs, unwilling to reveal the details of whatever latest escapade his sister's been on. I don't press him on it. I'd rather get the real story—no doubt involving an entirely inappropriate man and a few bottles of tequila—from her later. "She's getting on the next flight out. But first," he says, pulling me close and kissing me. I feel the anxiety from earlier dissipate as his hand slips under my T-shirt and his fingers work their way up my back, massaging my neck, my shoulders...

The knock on the door feels so intimate, so startling, that we both jump apart. Almost on cue, my mother-in-law's voice filters through and Aseem scrambles out of bed, getting up to slide the pocket door open.

I remind myself that I love his attentiveness.

"Nashta?" my mother-in-law asks. Breakfast. One of the first Hindi words I picked up when I moved to Delhi. I ignore the flicker of irritation—it's barely seven a.m.—and climb out of bed.

It's just one week. I can do this. "We'll be right there, Mama," I say.

I straighten my T-shirt and wriggle past Aseem into the en suite. I shower as best as I can in the tiny space, then squeeze myself into the pair of jeans and jumper I'd packed for today, carefully applying my makeup in the moving train. I dab on an extra layer of concealer, plaster on my best smile, and step out of the cabin, determined to make this work.

* * *