Nothing much had changed at home—other than Polo, who had shot up by several inches, as fourteen-year-old boys are annoyingly apt to. He towered over me now and, concerned about my elder-sibling superiority being challenged, I took a shot at establishing my old position of dominance.

It was past midnight. Everyone except us, including the servants, had gone to bed. Polo was ensconced in the blue beanbag that had taken the shape of his behind over time and thousands of hours of Grand Theft Auto.

‘Oi, go get me some ice cream.’

‘No.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘No.’

‘I told you to go get me some ice cream. You need to go get me some ice cream.’

He lumbered up from the beanbag and walked over. I had to crane my neck to make eye contact.

‘What do I need to do again?’

I gulped. ‘Nothing! Just kidding!’

Dammit.

I padded back to my bedroom. It looked just as it had on the day I left, like the room was rubbing mortality in my face. I’ve missed this place, I thought, trying to push away the niggling discomfort of knowing that my writing desk will outlast me. Yes, I have. Even though returning is never easy, I’ve missed it.

I saw a card on the study table, sitting on a small pile of ‘Maybe Attending’. I picked it up because it had ‘Dhillon’ printed on it. Bottom right, set in custom font. It was understated, lovely. I touched the smooth, expensive paper and the seal gave easy way.

It was a wedding invitation.

Was it his wedding invitation?

I realized that relief had sunk me down on my father’s brown leather recliner. The aftershock of horror lingered, mixed a cocktail with the exhausting relief and made me feel drunk, light-headed, dizzy.

Not him. Not Jay.

A month later, I saw him at the wedding—with the girl he loved. Just a glimpse, from a distance. They looked good together. She looked endearingly lost in her sparkly pink lehenga, though it draped beautifully, highlighting the lines of gold in her hair, showing off a thin line of thin waist. I wondered why no one had told him that it was bad luck to wear black to a wedding, and then laughed into my lemonade—because someone probably did.

The two of them were laughing as well, having a personal moment, and I tried not to look—I forced myself not to intrude. I turned and walked away, but not quick enough to miss the expression on his face, not quick enough to miss the adoration in hers.