Excerpt from HOW SIMI GOT HER GROOM BACK by Sonali Dev:
Chapter 4 – RUMI
The bus jerks to a stop with a giant mechanical sigh of relief, and I jolt awake. The first thing that strikes me is the missing weight of my backpack on my chest. I sit up and search the seat next to me, then bend over and look under my seat.
No!
The world stops. Everything stops.
My heart hammers in my ears. This can’t be happening. The bus is completely, eerily empty. Not another soul on board, except for the driver. I jump up and grab the overhead luggage rack with both hands and pull myself up, getting a foothold on the seat. My eyes search up and down the empty racks. Rising panic makes it impossible to process what I’m seeing. Emptiness. Nothing but emptiness on either side.
Shit shit shit.
Over the past year, I’ve slept on a lot of public transport. After I left LA, I spent six months going from place to place on trains and buses before I found my way to Chicago. I also grew up in Mumbai. Clutching my belongings for dear life is coded into my DNA. My hyperawareness of my surroundings has always been at peak paranoia levels. I’ve always slept with my arms wrapped around my backpack, the straps clinging to my shoulders like an insecure baby. How did I
let this happen?
I drop to my hands and knees and start crawling around the bus. There’s nothing under the seats, except bottles and cans and paper cups lying on their sides. Every last bit of my already paltry worldly possessions is gone. Gone.
Tina’s documents, my only leverage, gone.
“Hey lady. This is the last stop,” the driver yells back at me. “Time to get off.”
I ignore him and check every seat. More nothing. Without those documents, I have nothing.
I run to the front of the bus. “Someone took my backpack.” I sound like I’m in the throes of hysteria.
The man scratches his shoulder and looks bored. “Did you check around your seat?”
The urge to run at him and scratch out his eyes grips me, and I wrap my arms around myself. “It’s not on the bus. Please. Please. Did you see anyone walk out with a black backpack?”
“Sure,” he says. “Everyone. I’m sorry. Listen, I need to empty out the bus.” He doesn’t sound even a little sorry.
All I have left is the change I shoved into my jeans after buying that last bus ticket.
“You have to get off the bus,” the driver says again.
My legs shake as I make myself do as he says. It took me twenty hours to make my way from Chicago to Nashville. Then finding a bus from Nashville to Hochkinsville took almost as much time because I had to wait at the Nashville bus station for a good ten hours. It hadn’t helped that I started to feel queasy, achy, and feverish on the bus out of Chicago.
Through it all, I clung to my backpack like my life depended on it. Because it did. When I got on the bus, the exhaustion and the achiness was so bad, my body trembled with it. I had to fight to keep my eyes open. I laid the backpack on the seat next to me for just one second. One second while I settled into my seat.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up with the bag gone.
The driver says something. He’s trying to be sympathetic, but what does his sympathy matter now? It’s late in the evening, but there’s still some light left in the sky. My eyes search for a clock, but the terminal building is barely more than a shack. It’s like I took a bus out of Nashville and landed in a dystopian, barely inhabited version of America. I’m fully in character: penniless, my body starving and feverish, and I smell like I’ve survived an apocalyptic war, in the sewers.
I shake out my empty hands. Everything’s gone. All because I was stupid enough to let myself feel cornered by Tina. Why did I even come here? What is the guarantee that I’ll find Simi? How am I going to find her?
My lost backpack drags at my shoulders like a ghost. I make my way to the decrepit building. Sweat pours down my back. It’s like being back in Mumbai at the height of the post-monsoon heat. October heat is something every Mumbaikar is intimately familiar with. After months of being pummeled by the pouring rain, the earth releases all the pent-up fire in its belly, wrapping the city in a vice grip of steam. It’s inside me now, burning me down.
Simi hated the heat. How has she lived here for four years? Images of Simi as a baby, a toddler, a teenager tumble through me, arms and legs spread like a starfish on the mattress we shared, sheets thrown off, hair wet with sweat. I can smell the top of her head. My baby. How had she survived without me for four years? My heart squeezes with how much I miss her. Then anger drowns me.
Obviously, she’s survived much better than I have.
She has an education, a job, an apartment.
It’s been over a year since I’ve stood under a real shower or slept in a real bed. In the studio, I slept on the waiting area couch and washed in the sink. At least with Ron, the bathrooms and beds were comfortable.
Whether it was the hotel rooms he took me to or the apartment he set me up in, everything was comfortable. The man was obsessed with luxury. Clothes and cars and furniture and watches. I’m a collector. I love beautiful things, he loved to say. But you might be the most beautiful of all the things I’ve ever owned.
Ron thinking he owned me at least gave me a full belly and a place to sleep. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember why I wanted to get out of there so desperately. When your basic human needs are met, freedom feels deceptively important.
What a laugh Ron would have gotten out of hearing me say that. I still can’t believe the asshole was inconsiderate enough to get hit by a drunk driver. Such an irony, given how many times I had to keep him from getting in the driver’s seat when he’d had one drink too many. That day he was dead sober. Quite literally.
I hear the sound of laughter—maniacal, barely human. I look around, but there’s no one else at the abandoned terminal. Just me. The laughter is mine. My body is shaking with it. It’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard. I drop into the solitary bench, lean my head back, and let myself laugh, unable to stop.
It goes on and on, until a hand lands on my shoulder. I open my eyes. My face is wet from my laughter, my body sticky with sweat under the sweatshirt. I should take it off before it cooks my flesh.
“Here, you must be hungry.” It’s a woman in a gray uniform. Not a cop but some sort of ticket agent, probably. She has frizzy gray hair and kind eyes, and it gives her the look of a holy woman like the ones who preach in saffron robes outside temples in India.
The hunger must be making me delirious, because the woman’s face changes to the face of one of our neighbors in Mumbai. The one who always glowered at our mother but tried to slip Simi and me bars of Amul chocolate.
I grab the Styrofoam container the woman holds out.
“There’s half a burrito in there. Who can eat a whole giant one of those? I haven’t touched it. You can have it,” she says.
The woman is giving me alms. And I’m taking them. She thinks I’m a beggar. She hands me the box and looks away, as though wretchedness is contagious and spreads through eye contact.
I open the box. The burrito inside, even though it’s only supposedly half, is gargantuan. Drool floods my mouth. I take a bite even before I’ve said thank you.
“Fbonk bou,” I say around the explosion of flavors in my mouth.
“You’re welcome, honey,” she says before walking away.
I should stop her, but I can’t stop eating. Hunger is a black hole inside me, sucking everything in. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
I didn’t want to spend my last dollars on something as unimportant asfood—not when I needed the money to get to my sister. Simi is capable of feeding me for the rest of my life, even though the only thing she offered me the last time we talked was money to stay away.
Growing up, Simi was everything to me. There isn’t a single thing, other than her, that I can remember with any sort of joy. She’s the only good thing in all my memories. My one success. And I lost her. I worked hard to lose her.
I pushed her to study, pushed her into the nursing program when I found out how short on nurses the world was. It was the only way I could think of to get her out. I was desperate for her to get away. To be free. I knew I couldn’t have freedom myself until she was off my hands. Now here I am.
“You still here, hon?” The burrito woman is back.
The burrito is gone, and I feel ragingly queasy. I always do when I haven’t eaten for a while and then shock my system with a cannonball of calories. My body feels so hot, I might be combusting.
“It’s not safe to hang around here.” The sun has disappeared from the sky. A single lamppost half-heartedly sprinkles us with light. “There’s a shelter in town. I could drop you off.”
“Is there a hospital in town?” I ask, reaching for my last ray of hope.
“Are you not feeling well?” The concern on her face should restore at least a tiny piece of my faith in humanity, but instead it makes me angry. Why is this woman in a position where she gets to pity me?
“My sister works at the hospital.” I hate how proud I sound.
“Sure,” the woman says, “but I have some errands to run in Paducah first, and that’s one town over. So, if you’re okay with that, I’ll take you after.”
I pull my sweatshirt over my head. The Underground Tattoo T-shirt under it is wet with sweat, but I can breathe again, and I follow her. For the next few hours, the woman drives me all over the place. At least she does it in silence, because not letting on that I’m shivering and feverish is taking all my energy. Finally she drops me off under the porch of what I can only hope is Simi’s hospital. How many can there be in this matchbox-size town?
I make my way in, hoping that my face is going to make it easy to find Simi. My sister and I have almost identical faces, albeit very different body types, a fact our mother loved to remark upon. One of my girls is a bat, and the other is a ball. That was our mother—as unfailingly cruel as she was neglectful.
I’m five feet six—a good four inches taller than Simi—and I’ve always been nothing but skin and bones even though I’m the one who can eat an entire pizza by myself and still have room for a milkshake.
Simi, on the other hand, has never cared about food. I spent hours trying to feed her as a child, but Simi would rather do anything else than eat. How my sister always looked like a curvy little children’s doll is anyone’s guess. The only other difference between us is our hair. Simi has our mother’s lush locks that cascade down to her waist. She was always terrified of scissors going anywhere near her head, and I made sure they never did.
I oiled and braided her hair every morning and every night. It was so thick and long that my hands hurt, but I loved it. Taking care of it had filled me with purpose and satisfaction.
My own hair, on the other hand, is barely there. Simi insisted it was because I never let it grow out and constantly experimented with it, but it was a chicken-and-egg situation. I had to keep cutting it because it grew out wispy and ratty. Truth was, the scar I hid beneath it hurt when it grew out.
Other than the body types and hair, we look like identical twins. The same medium-brown skin, neither light enough for what the aunties called “fair” nor dark enough for them to call “dusky.” The same neither small nor big nose. The same little too-wide and pouty mouth we’d inherited from our mom and the same heavy-lidded hazel eyes that slanted up at the edges that are the only thing I remember about our father, a man Simi never met.
I find a young male nurse at the information desk, tell him I’m Simi’s sister, and ask for her.
“You look just like Nurse Naik,” he says, blinking in surprise. “But she isn’t here today.”
“Can you tell me where I can find her?”
“During the week, she usually works at Dr. Johnson’s clinic.”
My head hurts so badly, it feels like it’s going to explode. My belly and my legs aren’t that far behind. I lean on the counter between us. “How far is that from here? Can you write the directions down for me? My phone was stolen.”
“On no. Do you want me to call the cops?”
Gosh no! The last thing on earth I want is for anyone to call the cops. Ever. I smile my most helpless smile. “I just need to get to my sister.” It’s become a chant in my head. I need to get to my sister.
“It’s past nine, the clinic is closed. Did you want me to call Simi for you?”
Finally we’re getting somewhere. “That would be incredibly helpful.” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice and cling to the counter to keep from sliding to the floor. My belly churns.
The guy calls Simi and puts it on speaker. We wait for her to answer. After a few rings, the call goes to voicemail.
Come on. Can I please catch a break? Please?
“Can you try one more time, please?” Keeping the edge of panic out of my voice is getting harder.
The guy calls again. Nothing.
“Can you try her landline?” I ask. If she has one, the hospital she works at should have it.
“Do you have the number? It’s not on file.”
The string wrapped around me, which has been holding me together, snaps. I give up on pretense and lean limply against the counter. My insides are fully churning now. The ugliest burrito-laced belch pushes into my mouth, and I gag. I should never have eaten that stupid thing.
The guy steps around the counter and comes to me. “Hey, listen, are you okay?” He squeezes my shoulder. “You know what, give me a minute. Let me check something.” He goes back behind the desk and taps his keyboard. “We have an emergency number listed for her, and I think this counts as one. Let me call that, okay.”
I want to hug the guy, but my stomach is cramping, and I wrap my arms around myself instead.
He dials, and the person answers on the first ring.
“Hello, this is Tom from St. Joe’s. I’m looking for Simi . . . No, nothing is wrong . . . Well . . . Her sister is here, looking for her.”
There’s the longest pause, during which my heart spins and slides between hope and desolation as reactions pop on this Tom person’s face. The fact that the spasms in my belly have turned into an unholy agony doesn’t help.
This might be the worst day of my life, which is saying something.
Just as Tom is getting somewhere with the person at the other end, the most brutal jolt of pain rips through my stomach.
“I need a restroom. Right now,” I say to Tom.
He’s obviously seen enough of these situations and runs with me to a door that is blessedly close by. I run into the bathroom so fast that my brain must’ve been left behind. I barely slam the door shut when things fly out of me in all directions, and my insides spin like the eye of a particularly nasty storm. As though the diarrhea isn’t bad enough, vomit spurts out of me. I have no idea how long I stay in there, having my insides emptied out. A knock on the door breaks through my misery.
“You okay in there?”
Define okay.
The urge to laugh grips me. Along with the urge to start crying. Which is a skill I’ve never developed. My belly does another threatening dance, reminding me that I can do neither without horrible consequences. Another startlingly painful cramp grips my belly. For the first time I realize that whatever this is, I might not survive it.
How many times can I beg the universe for a break? How many?
“I’m fine,” I say, but my throat is so raw that the lie doesn’t make it all the way out. “I’m fine.” I force myself to try again, making the lie louder.
“I’m sorry.” There’s genuine regret in his voice. I hate when people apologize for things that aren’t their fault. “Do you need help coming out?” he says.
What the hell, Tom? Can’t a girl even die in peace?
“Just washing my hands,” I say, using whatever energy I can dredge up to scrub my hands with soap.
“Hang on, I’m going to get someone to help you.”
Holy fuck. I’m in a hospital. If I don’t get myself together, they’re going to treat me. I cannot let that happen. I have no paperwork, and I’m not supposed to be in the country.
Cops. Immigration. Deportation. It all flashes like police car lights in my racing mind.
Nope.
Not today, you assholes.
I make my way out of the bathroom.
“Tom! Wait!” How I have the energy to chase after him, I don’t know, but I grab his arm. “I’m fine. Really.”
Obviously he doesn’t believe me, but he stops.
“I just need my sister.” And a hot shower. And a new life.
“Tom? Hey . . .” A round-faced Indian man jogs up to us. “Holy shit,” he says when his gaze lands on me. He presses his hand into his mouth, an inordinately overwrought reaction. “Wow.”
Granted, I look like I’ve just crawled out of a swamp, but is the horror really necessary?
My smell must have reached him by now, because he winces and lets out another “Wow!”
I decide then and there that I will kill this man, whoever he is, if I ever hear him say the word “wow” again.
“You look just like her,” he says. “But completely different.” That declaration is accompanied by a quick scan of my hair and clothes. Another wince. It must be the pain that shoots through my back
and wraps tight around my belly, but the urge to kill the guy returns full force.
“You are?” God bless Tom for thinking of all the important questions.
“Prem Gupta. We just spoke. I’m . . . um . . . Simi’s friend.”
He blushes like a freaking pomegranate when he says the word “friend.” Also, what the hell? Who names their son Prem in this day and age? It’s like calling your son Lover, only more simpering.
As if to punish me for that mean thought, another cramp twists my insides, and bile shoots up my throat. I swallow it back. I need to get out of this place before Tom remembers his threat to get help.
“Thanks, Tom. We’ll leave now.” I grab Lover Gupta by the arm. “You were very kind. Thank you.”
I start walking toward the exit.
“You sure you don’t want to see a doctor?” Tom calls after me.
Go away, I want to scream. But I raise a hand, shake my head, and keep walking.
Well, thank god for Prem Gupta, because I couldn’t have walked out of that hospital without someone to hang on to. If he gets me out of here, I might reconsider killing him.
“You don’t look very good. You sure you don’t need to go back in there?”
“Where’s my sister?” My stomach gurgles angrily. If I soil myself in front of this stranger, I am never ever going to forgive the universe.
“She’s babysitting my nieces.”
“Why didn’t she answer her phone?”
“She keeps her phone on silent when she naps with the babies.”
Simi is napping? My life is over, and my princess of a sister is asleep? Great shitballs, I’m going to throw up again.
The next thing I know, I vomit all over Prem Gupta’s shoes. How is there anything left inside me after the mayhem in the bathroom?
“Oh god,” he says eloquently, looking like he’s going to throw up himself. “I’m taking you back inside. You don’t look good.”
If he says that one more time, I’m going to make the effort to throw up on him again.
“You’re burning up. You need a doctor.”
Where did Simi find such an astute man?
I tighten my grip on his arm with every ounce of strength I have left. “We are not going back into that hospital.” The world spins. Darkness pushes into my vision. “Just take me to my sister. Please.”
“Listen, didi, um, I don’t think—”
I yank on his arm. “If you take me back in there, I will kill you with my bare hands.” The guy’s face swings close, then away, then ripples like water. “Promise me.” My voice is a croak, a sob, and a scream all rolled into one. “Just promise me you won’t take me back in there.” I shake him by the arm. Or I think I do, because everything is starting to dissolve around me. “Promise me. Please,” I whimper.
“Okay okay,” he says. “Fine. Just hang on. Stay with me.”
Relief floods through me. I cling to those words as his face fades and everything goes black.
Excerpt from HOW SIMI GOT HER GROOM BACK by Sonali Dev, Text copyright © 2026 by Sonali Dev
HOW SIMI GOT HER GROOM BACK by Sonali Dev
A Novel
Two sisters face the real consequences of a fake marriage scheme in an emotional yet hilarious novel about immigration, healing, and family from USA Today bestselling author Sonali Dev.
Two sisters. One fake marriage. Zero chance of keeping the truth hidden.
The Naik sisters escaped their traumatic past in Mumbai to come to the States, but their journeys have been vastly different. Simi is working toward a bright future as a pediatric nurse in a small town in Kentucky when Rupi shows up at her door in distress, on the run, and as always, dragging trouble in her wake.
With Rupi’s safety in jeopardy, the sisters hatch a desperate plan to keep her in the country: Rupi must get married—and fast—even if it means Simi recruiting the man she’s been secretly dating as her sister’s groom. A perfect plan? Not quite. But there aren’t many alternatives.
As the big day inches closer, Simi and Rupi face a storm of wedding shenanigans and romantic surprises, not to mention sisterly jealousies. As the stakes and tensions rise, will their secrets tear them apart or will they find a way to risk everything for love?
Romance Contemporary | Women’s Fiction Family Life [ Lake Union Publishing, On Sale: March 3, 2026, Hardcover / e-Book, ISBN: 9781662524301 / eISBN: 9781662524288 ]
Buy HOW SIMI GOT HER GROOM BACK: Amazon.com | Kindle | BN.com | Apple Books | Kobo | Google Play | Books-A-Million | Indie BookShops | Ripped Bodice | Audible | Walmart.com | Amazon CA | Amazon UK | Amazon DE | Amazon FR
About Sonali Dev
Sonali Dev’s first literary work was a play about mistaken identities performed at her neighborhood Diwali extravaganza in Mumbai. She was eight years old. Despite this early success, Sonali spent the next few decades getting degrees in architecture and written communication, migrating across the globe, and starting a family while writing for magazines and websites. With the advent of her first gray hair her mad love for telling stories returned full force, and she now combines it with her insights into Indian culture to conjure up stories that make a mad tangle with her life as supermom, domestic goddess, and world traveler. Sonali lives in the Chicago suburbs with her very patient and often amused husband and two teens who demand both patience and humor, and the world’s most perfect dog.
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