Now, Josie spoke softly. “Mary,” she said. She wanted to reach out to her, run her fingers through Mary’s black halo of curls, kiss her softly on the mouth, and whisper something big and powerful. But what? And what would it change? Everything had happened as it should. Whether Josie knew it at the time or not, she had chosen—first Tyler, then Mary, then Devesh—chosen Tyler because he reminded her of herself, chosen Mary because she would make Josie ache, and chosen Devesh in hopes that he could take this ache away. Yes, the world was causal, but it was also messy, cryptic. It made a pattern you could decipher only after the fact, and now she was beginning to see—names and arrows and symbols in a fragile scrawl before her. This is who I am, she thought.

“I’m sorry,” Josie said.

Mary looked at her, and Josie could see she was, even now, torn between affection and cruelty. “For what?” she said.

“For everything.”

Mary picked up two stray socks, rolled them neatly into a pair, but Josie could see her hands shaking.

“I—” Josie started.

“Okay,” Mary interrupted. She paused, then started again. “Look, Josie. It’s ending this way….” She paused, looked down. “But it doesn’t undo how it was. I … I’m glad you were here. I’m just … glad.”

Mary looked up, and Josie felt the whole of the declaration—an aching tenderness between them. “Me too,” she said.

Mary nodded and bent to pick up a discarded pacifier.

“I’ll go pack,” Josie said. She made her way to her bedroom, sat on the bed, and looked at the boxes. She had spoken to Devesh before she left Santa Barbara, a strained short conversation, but he had insisted she move her things to his house. Permanently, he had said. A few months ago she would have been elated, her things in his house, and now she tried to grab hold of this feeling—everything she owned tucked up, supported and embraced. She could rest in his palm like a small, black river rock. But now the thought made her wince. This morning when she had dropped her suitcase off at Devesh’s, she had thought it looked sad and out of place. She lay back on the bed and flipped through the mail Mary had left on the bed: her cell phone bill, a bunch of junk, and a postcard from Phillip—a picture of the new restaurant on the front, Come visit; I promise no okra! on the back. She dropped the card to the bed, closed her eyes, and heard the front door open.

“Can I eat at Clara’s?” Tyler shouted.

Josie sat up.

“Yeah, fine,” Mary said.