The second wedding was in February.
Not a plan — not initially. It had emerged from a conversation in the library in December, one of the Saturday library sessions that had become the rhythm of their weekends, and she had said something about the ceremony and he had looked at her with the expression she knew well now, the one that was a question before he'd formed it, and she had said: "I want to."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to," she said. "That's why I want to."
It was small. The guest list was thirty-two people — people she had chosen and people he had chosen, and the distinction between the two categories had blurred in four months of shared life in the way things blur when you've been building something together. Divya. The Mehras. Anand. Three of her colleagues from
