Almost nightly, she would nestle into his bed, ignore her own reading, and work her way through his vast collection of books. She was slowly falling behind on her promise of an anthro book a day, but she had a whole year, she told herself, and his books were so enticing—unusual books on Roman and Greek medicine, each full of intricate and confused drawings of the inner body; large volumes of Eastern art filled with page after page of blushing brides, bathing courtesans, slave girls at auction; travel guides to destinations like Mt. Kailas, Bhaktapur, and Polonnaruwa, places she had never heard of and could barely locate on a map; books on psycho-semantics and evolutionary theory and theoretical biology; but the most entrancing of all were the shelves of Indian books—novels and histories, books on gods and goddesses, mandalas and chakras, tantrikas and sadhus, caste and class, storybooks, comic books, erotic books, books in Hindi and English and French, hardcovers and paperbacks, shelf after shelf after shelf. Often she would stand in front of them, force her fingers over their worn covers, and guess at what they contained. She wanted to heap them around her, peek into this world, but she couldn’t seem to get past the covers. It was ridiculous. India was no more foreign than Africa, she would reason with herself, but each time she pulled one from the shelf and held it in her hands, she felt nine years old and terrified of slumber-party ghosts.

Once he caught her holding a thick volume of Indian short stories. “Careful there,” he teased. “Those books are full of bad Indian men. You sure you want to get involved with a bad Indian man?”

She laughed, but he grew serious.

“Some Indian men are bad,” he said.

She looked at him and felt a second of apprehension. “But you’re not like that.”

“No. I’m not.”

She put the book back and put her arms around him. “You’re all good.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” He laughed and kissed her head.

Josie felt pitched into a new reality. It was wonderful, even if they hadn’t yet done that thing he promised. Still, she could feel it building, something terrifying and splendid layering between them.

Everything seemed perfect. Everything except Mary. A few days after the dinner party, Mary had pulled Josie into her bedroom and closed the door.

“I’m sorry,” Mary had said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” Josie looked at the floor and nodded. “Will you tell me what’s going on? Please?” Josie felt her heart stretch taut in her chest, and she gritted her teeth. “I can tell you’re happy,” Mary continued. “I’m so glad. Really. So … tell me. Come on.” Mary paused and Josie stared at her hands.

“This is ridiculous,” Mary continued. “Please.”