Epilogue
Bernie
One Year Later
I’m alive, awake, alert, and enthusiastic. Woo!
Smiling to myself, I rest a shoulder against the wall and trace the mehndi on my palm. The artist has hidden small symbols in my henna—our story. The half circle that crosses the center of my hand at first looks like the intricate geometric designs expected in henna, but when I bring my pinkies together, opening my hands flat, the semi-circles connect, revealing the spokes of a bike tire.
Hiding in one of the venue’s service hallways, I will the muscles of my face to go lax. My cheeks need a break from smiling. I promise myself that I just need one minute to catch my breath, to let it sink in that I’m married. It’s around ten at night now, but we got married this morning, just after sunrise—our auspicious time, when Fate thinks we’ll have the best chance at success.
The past few days have felt like a blur of ceremony, but for one of the first times in my life, I’m not really overwhelmed. I have Ash, I don’t really need anything else.
Shifting so both shoulders rest against the wall, I let my hands drop, my bangles musically sliding down my forearms.
“There you are,” a husky voice says near my right shoulder. I rock my head against the wall, lifting my chin toward the sound. Ashish steps in front of me and slips his hands around my waist.
“How do you still look so good?” I ask.
He does. His skin contrasts gorgeously against his white and gold sherwani. For just this reason, I’m glad we decided to have more of an Indian wedding than an American one. My maroon lehenga drips with gold beading, and it’s a hundred times more beautiful than any white wedding dress I would have picked out.
Ash smiles wide, those eyebrows dropping, hazel eyes hypnotizing me just like the first night we met. They pull me in, making my body feel electric. Magic.
“It’s the turmeric paste,” he says seriously, pressing his body into mine and sliding his hands down my arms until our fingers intertwine. Yesterday, Ash’s parents hosted a Haldi ceremony at their house, our families spreading turmeric paste on our faces and hands to bless our marriage.
He looked like he was glowing. I just looked kind of yellow.
“Lucky,” I whisper against his lips.
“I am,” he whispers back, rubbing his lips against mine.
It’s hard to think it’s been a year since I kneeled in the grass at the finish line of the San Diego Gran Fondo, asking Ashish to marry me. So much has happened in a year. We hired one of Ravi’s lawyer friends to represent my interests in the IP infringement allegations. Apparently, Ravi was very active in the startup community in Boston and had some good connections for that kind of thing. Just that little bit of pressure made Seattle State back down.
I quit my job anyway.
Pru was right, I’d been holding on to a dream that didn’t make sense. I wanted possibilities, and they weren’t in Indiana.
Just short of a year from meeting Ash the first time I moved to Boston. I called the number on the business card Gail gave me—her friend, the mustachioed grandpa who had gotten me drunk in June. Bill Roseland turned out to be the director of the Higher Education Community Policy Institute, and he gave me a job. I work remotely in Boston and travel to Washington DC twice a month. Most importantly, he lets me dream.
Ash didn’t move to Seattle when the West Lafayette contract ended. He asked Mike Chen and faculty from MIT to mentor Seattle State faculty instead, reallocating his firm's funding to travel stipends for students who didn’t have cars.
If I hadn’t already asked him to marry me, I probably would have done it when he told me. He shows me every day that he listens and that he thinks my ideas have value.
He’s all mine. And now we’re married.
“Why are you hiding?” Ash asks me.
“I just needed a minute.”
“Hmm, did I tell you that you look beautiful?”
I snort. “Yeah.”
“You look beautiful, sunshine.”
I rub my cheek against his scratchy one, smiling when he drops my hands to dig the tips of his fingers under my choli. Time feels like it slows down, and it’s just us, the smell of crushed flowers, and the sound of dance music seeping through the wall.
“I love you, Ashish.”
“I know.”
He laughs when I squawk, trying to wiggle out from under him. I try to pinch his side, but the beading on his coat is too freaking thick.
“You’re kind of a jerk,” I huff.
He smiles and shakes his head, tucking his face into my neck. “I love you, too, Bernadette Mishra. Now come on, I saved a piece of cake for you to defile. It’s a corner piece, extra frosting.” He tugs me away from the wall and leads me down the end of the hallway.
I mean, with an offer like that, how could I refuse?