No one speaks on the way to the marina, not even to request the radio for distraction. As Kavita drives, her father sits behind her, staring out the window passively. Beside her sits her mother, clutching the brass urn of Sunil’s ashes as though it is treasure that she isn’t quite ready to part with yet. When she first asked them, Kavita wasn’t sure if her parents would agree to come home for the one year anniversary of Sunil’s passing. She wasn’t even sure if having them in the same room was a good idea. But now that they are here, she is grateful for their temporary armistice, and especially, for not having to face the day alone. As she pulls into the parking lot, her insides start to harden, as if steeling themselves against whatever might be coming next. She parks, shuts off the ignition, and looks around for Nirav’s new car, which is lime green, apparently. A few moments later, she finds a car matching that description to her left.

“I think Nirav’s here,” she says in a neutral voice. Neither of her parents responds. She presumes they are still sore about the London incident. Shortly after coming back from San Francisco, she finally told them the truth. They deserved to know what had happened, even if that knowledge hurt them, which of course it did, particularly the question of why their son was treated with less respect than they have shown Nirav over the years, a question for which Kavita had no answer, a question that had no answer good enough, regardless.

“Well,” Kavita says. “We should go meet him.”

Her mother holds the urn tighter. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

Kavita places a hand on her knee. “I know it’s going to be hard. But in the end, I think it’ll be good for us. Remember my friend, Hawk? Well, he said that scattering his sister’s ashes brought them some closure. I think we could use that.”

Neither of her parents agrees or disagrees. She opens her car door with a creak. “Come on,” she tells them, gently. “We’ll get through this together.”

They approach the lighthouse in a silent procession. In the distance, she sees Nirav standing by the lighthouse. He is dressed in a pair of tan linen pants and a loose-fitting navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. With his hands in his pockets, he stares across the river. No sailboats to count today. Not enough of a breeze.