The walkie-talkie on her desk crackled.
“After everything,” I said, “you don’t trust me.”
“Anita?” came Linda-events-liaison’s wheedling voice through the walkie-talkie. “Are you free? I’ve got a confused lost old lady and I cannot understand her accent.”
“I said, don’t get pissed. I trust you. I just want you to remember this is about my mother, who would do anything for you—”
“I won’t fuck up,” I said, as lightly as I could manage. Perhaps she had never forgiven me for the Lemonade Period. Perhaps she could never believe in a better Neil. And if Anita didn’t know a redeemed Neil, then maybe he didn’t exist.
I lifted the curtain and the first thing I saw, like a beacon, was a navy blue sign for the men’s room. I would just be a minute. I slipped in. When I stepped out, I was back, edges thrumming and eyesight clear. It was good product. I’d probably feel it for as long as an hour. An hour of this borrowed selfhood, an hour of trusting myself. Someone had to. I reentered the swarm.
* * *
? ? ?
I found Prachi preening for Raja Rani Photos. “So special,” the square-jawed man said. “You look so special, see, I see many brides all the time, you look special, though.”
“Prachi.” I waved. “Anita wants you to meet a couple of the jewelry people so she can hook you up with some discounts.”
“It’s everything all in one place, Neil!” She panted as she tried to keep pace with me. “I’ve gotten, like, three things checked off my list. But Anita . . . Are you two . . . ?”
“Something,” I said, stopping so she could reach me. “I don’t know what though.”
Prachi dropped her purse on the floor and actually squealed. I reached down to pick it up, feeling my bag swing. I was aware of its new weight. “Neil! You haven’t said a thing! When did it start? But not that long ago—when I saw her—you weren’t even in touch then! How freaking random! Wait, so is she, like, a career event planner? And, oh, Amma, well—deal with her later. Neil, it’s exciting! I want you to have this feeling, I just knew, I saw it so fast with Avi . . .”
I was sweating. “Prach, that’s all a longer thing, and I’m not ready.”
Anita appeared behind Prachi. “Ready for what? Ready to see the jewelers?”
Prachi began to walk quickly in front of us toward the banner reading jewelry bazaar. She peeked back several times, twinkling.
“Did you tell her something?” Anita elbowed me.
“She guessed.” （Anita’s breath sharpened.） “About us. She guessed about us. She could tell. She could tell we like each other. She could tell there is something serious going on here.”
“Oh.” Her chest rose and fell more slowly. “Well,” she said. “Fuck.”
I started. “Excuse me. Excuse me. You didn’t want her—other people—to know?”
Anita shook her head. “We can have this conversation later, Neil.”
“A conversation? It needs a conversation? What kind of conversation do you want to have? We can talk. We can talk later, or we can talk now—”
“Ohmigod!” Prachi was leaning over the counter at creative jewelz: gold and diamonds all kinds. “That’s a classic mangalsutra; you know, we hadn’t decided . . .”
“Actually, Prachi, I have this VIP badge for you.” Anita handed a laminated pink card to Prachi, glancing at me a moment, briefly, with a twinge of suspicion. “Let’s go over there.” She pointed. I shoved my hand in the tote, fingers widening the mouth of that first Ziploc, where I felt a cold 3D-printed fake, a smooth bangle. It seemed terribly flimsy, like if I squeezed it too hard, it might melt, staining my palm yellow.
Prachi was trying on a stack of bangles at mehta gold when someone else began our first job for us. A heavyset man knocked into her and mumbled a harried sorry before scurrying on. I only had to complete the action, grabbing her as if to pull her up but instead dropping both of us to the floor. My sister landed in an embarrassed squat, as the bangles and two fat armbands （Anita having chosen several too large for Prachi’s wrist） slipped off.
I had replacements in my bag for several of the thinnest bangles. The mess of the real ones littered the floor. For a millisecond, before instinct kicked in, I blinked stupidly at the gold on the vacuumed gray carpet.
I knelt and began to gather the real gold, swapping in the fakes, which were lost among the authentic things quite quickly. Anita waved her clipboard in the owner’s face, demanding his signature on photo releases.