On the news, the reports of the fire’s progress kept coming, the facts circled over and repeated. The tons of water and fire retardants released from the air, the efforts to box it inside a buffer zone, the crews working in lines, hacking away at whatever could burn. The van left the coastal roads, and the air-conditioning momentarily brought in the smell of smoke. Nick switched off the radio. This was his last month of work; he was moving north at the end of July. He told Noa about the yurt he’d been constructing on his friend’s land. It would be different to live in the round, without corners, he said. With his free hand he scrolled on his phone to a photo of the view from the property of distant blue mountains. He was studying biodynamic farming. The land was a cooperative, united in the goal of sustainability and community. In the summer, they swam naked in the Yuba River. He showed her a photo of the passionate river, rushing wild and muddy after a storm. Now it would already be green, he said, pouring down from the High Sierra, clear all the way to the granite bottom.

Nick probably didn’t believe in marriage, Noa decided as they made their way toward the bride’s house in the hills. He probably didn’t even believe in monogamy, considering it a convention as obsolete as corners. Did Monica and Leonard no longer believe in monogamy, either? And what about her? What did she believe in? She thought of Gabe, and with an ache of longing his body came back to her, the way it smelled, and how his stomach went concave when she slid her fingers beneath the elastic of his underwear. His face when he came. By now some other girl must have seen that expression, the one that looked like both pleasure and pain. The girl at the pool where he was a lifeguard, maybe, with shiny hair and breasts that sat like perfect oranges in her bikini top, who wouldn’t hesitate to sleep with him. Noa imagined Gabe’s mouth on hers, and her longing opened into jealousy and pain. Feeling her face flush, she turned to look out the window.

At the bride’s house, the pool man was skimming the purple jacaranda flowers out of the water with his long net. A white tent with gauzy sides had been erected to shade the guests from the sun and wind, and the sound of a hammer rang out from within. The wedding organizer came to meet them and led them along a path edged with lavender. Noa broke off a flower and crushed it between her fingers. The smell it released reminded her of Israel, of the stucco houses of the kibbutz, with their gardens decorated with old tractor parts used as planters, out of which spilled succulents in all shapes and sizes. Inside the tent, twenty-four round tables were covered with white tablecloths, and a raised dais was being constructed for the table of the bride and groom.