AGAINST THE NIGHT SKY, THE DOMED YURT GLOWED.
It reminded Raj of the paper lanterns he and Candace had lifted into the tropical air at that other party two winters ago on Sanibel Island. When Raj had been no different from the trespassers swilling champagne in the yurt right now, uncorking one bottle after another, pop sploosh, pop sploosh. Back on Sanibel Island, in early 2020, he’d done the same, a giddy fool drunk on the certainty that he and Candace would be together always.
Now, Raj sat in the tangle of overgrown rosemary near the yurt. Close enough to smell the partiers’ food, the scent of it nearly knocking him on his back. He could see it: bubbling cheese, roasted tomato, basil, onion, and—salmon? The sweet tang of balsamic and nutty olive oil. Toasted bread lathered with garlic paste. The meat (a grill sizzled and spit) made his stomach twist. How he missed meat that was not the gristly threads of the beechies he occasionally hunted. He had survived on canned food—beans, tuna, peas, and pineapple chunks in syrup—whatever the old man left at the mouth of the cave.
Candace had loved to cook for him, despite how picky he was, another part of his rigidity only she had ever accepted—unlike his ex-girlfriends, his mother, and especially Nani. His grandmother once smacked him with a wooden spoon dripping sauce for refusing to eat her chapati.
But for Candace, he had eaten all. Abandoned his protein shakes, protein bars, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. He had deemed most foods unclean as a kid—refused to eat anything oily, fried, pungent, and absolutely no fish.
Candace was a pescatarian. He ate every dish she cooked for him. Red curry soup. Egg-and-shrimp dumplings. Seafood and scallion pancake, despite his suspicion that fishcake had nothing resembling organic fish in its makeup.
He would have done anything for her.
He should have, he thought now as the scent of slow-cooked pork (and freshly chopped cilantro?) joined the heavenly cloud wafting from the yurt.
He should have been on guard. He should have protected her. He should have made every decision solely for her well-being. Instead, he had been as cocksure as the trespassers whose party grew louder and more abrasive against the night. It mocked him—this playful banter of people satisfied with their lives, with themselves, their careless laughter ebbing and flowing.
Bang sploosh, bang sploosh.
WHEN HE’D FIRST brought Candace to Topanga, seven months ago, they’d almost died of exposure. Then Raj opened his eyes one morning—or maybe it was afternoon, time did not exist in the dimly lit cave—to see the old man’s craggy face. His heart a chittering wind-up toy, beating so fast he knew he was near death. The old man said Raj had been seizing. Gave him water while cradling Raj’s head in one of his hairy-knuckled hands. Raj drank and drank. The old man gave him a pair of worn hiking boots two sizes too small and wool socks. Plus, a light blue fleece blanket that Raj gave to Candace. She cradled the blanket in her arms like a baby night and day in her corner. There were gifts of food—canned vegetables and boxes of chicken broth and jugs of water. Bags of dried beans Raj soaked overnight in a rusted pan just as he’d seen his Nani do. The old man visited the cave each week with food and water. A heel of bread, bruised pears, and split tomatoes. The dog, Klondike, curled up next to Raj and let him run his fingers through the thick and wiry silver-white fur. The sandpaper tickle of the dog’s tongue on Raj’s cheek was pure ecstasy. Candace laughed as the dog nuzzled Raj’s new beard. What joy the sound had brought Raj!
RAJ HAD CHARTERED two private planes to Sanibel for every employee of Plasteeq, after the company’s Q2 of 2020 had been its most profitable ever. The price of Plasteeq shares had tripled in the pandemic—all that faux-plastic needed for food deliveries to those quarantining at home. Raj had benefited from the virus, Candace made sure to remind him. To which he always responded, “Well, I have the best marketing director—her name is Candace Lu.”
A perfect balmy night on an island where he’d rented a villa to thank his employees. He’d had another motive as well—he hoped to impress the woman he loved. At first, he (with Candace’s prodding) had insisted all employees stay outside on the beach, or on the deck of the palatial villa, masks on, but as the champagne bottles were uncorked, the mai tais replenished, the bonfires stoked, and the amps turned up (Raj had hired Post Malone for the night), masks came off. A surprise rain shower sent all seventy-two partiers scurrying to a rounded structure similar to the yurt. Windowless.
After a steamy half hour of bodies pressed tightly together (Raj had been grateful for the warmth), they returned to the beach. As Raj had carefully planned, the Plasteeq employees sent a hundred paper lanterns aloft, the candles within lit so each floating globe held an ethereal amber light. Raj dropped to one knee in the sand, velvet jewelry box open to reveal the two-carat Sri Lankan Padparadscha sapphire ring, the pinkish orange stone the color of lotus blossoms. The same color of the chain of paper lanterns ascending behind Candace as she looked down at Raj, her cheeks wet.
She said yes.