Chapter 13 — The Ordinary Months

January was cold in the specific bone-deep way of Chicago January, and Inaaya bought a better coat and Arjun bought a proper thermos for the walk to Manny's that he still made, sometimes, when sleep didn't come easily.They stopped going to Manny's together every night.This happened not as a decision but as a natural shift — the nights improved, the need for the 3 AM ritual became occasional rather than essential, and when they saw each other it was for reasons that weren't about refuge.She still loved Manny's. She still went sometimes alone — not from sadness but from the genuine appreciation of a place that had been important, the way you returned to places that mattered. The tea woman was back, with a new paperback. Dana had apparently decided to commit to the sidework and was doing it with great efficiency at two in the morning. Lou had started acknowledging Inaaya with a small nod, which was his version of warmth.In January, Arjun's divorce was finalized.He told her over the phone, on a Wednesday evening. Not from distress — his voice was steady, the voice of someone who had expected a thing and was watching it arrive. "It's done," he said. "I don't feel how I expected to feel.""How did you expect to feel?""More. Or differently." A pause. "I feel — clear. Like when a problem has been resolved and you don't need to carry the uncertainty anymore. It's still heavy but it's a different weight.""A real weight instead of an uncertain one.""Yes."She was quiet for a moment. "Are you okay?""Yes," he said. "I genuinely think I am." A pause. "That might be a sign of progress."She had her own milestone in January: she accepted an invitation to her cousin's wedding in March, which she'd been avoiding because the cousin had been invited to Inaaya's own planned wedding and the whole family knew what had happened, and going meant being looked at with the specific soft pity of extended family.She told Arjun about the cousin's wedding on a Saturday, over coffee at his kitchen table, which had become one of their regular places — his kitchen, her apartment, the museum, the Italian place they'd gone back to twice, the walk along the lakefront that they'd done several times now regardless of weather."Come with me," she said. She hadn't planned to say it.He looked up from his coffee."To the wedding," she said. "If you want. It would be — it would be easier with someone, and I'd want it to be you."He thought about it. She watched him think about it — not hesitating, actually considering."Yes," he said. "I'd like that.""It'll be loud," she said. "My family is very large and they will ask you many questions.""I grew up Indian," he said. "I know about family weddings.""They will ask if you are a doctor.""I'll tell them I'm an engineer. They'll accept it.""They'll ask if your parents are back home.""Also true and also acceptable to them."She smiled. "They'll want to know how we met."He looked at her over his coffee cup. "We met in a coffee shop," he said. "That's true. The hour is negotiable."She laughed. He smiled."February," she said, one morning in January, looking at her calendar. "I want to go back to Manny's in February.""We can go whenever you want.""No, I mean — just us, at the counter. Like before. To say thank you to the place, if that makes sense."He thought about it. "It makes complete sense.""Good." She went back to her calendar. "Pick a Tuesday."* * *The February Tuesday was the 14th, which they only noticed when Arjun pointed it out and she said "that's embarrassing" and he said "it's appropriate" and she said "it's exactly as embarrassing as I said."They went at 3 AM. The diner was the same — Lou, Dana, the flickering neon, the bad coffee. The tea woman was there with her paperback. Two new people Inaaya didn't recognize were in the back booth, sitting in a familiar silence.She and Arjun sat at the counter. Their stools. Dana put their coffees down without being asked and then disappeared to her phone.They sat in the quiet that was familiar and also different now — not the quiet of two people carefully not saying what was between them. The quiet of two people who had said it."I want to tell you something," he said."Tell me.""I'm glad my battery died," he said.She looked at him."That first night. I'd been awake for two hours and I thought — I'll go for a walk. I had my headphones in. My phone died three blocks from the apartment. I saw the light in the diner window." He paused. "I'm glad the battery died."She turned her mug."I'm glad the November rain started," she said. "I was going to walk a different way home that first night. The rain made me go the short way, past Manny's." She looked at the flickering neon sign. "I'm glad for the bad infrastructure of this city."He smiled. "To Manny's," he said, raising his coffee cup.She raised hers. "To Manny's," she said. "And the terrible coffee.""And the four-minute battery life that saved my life.""And the November rain."They touched cups.Outside the window, Chicago did its February thing — cold and committed and, in its way, beautiful. The lights were on all up and down the street, the city perpetually lit, the kind of place that didn't really have a 3 AM because something was always open, always running.She looked at the two people in the back booth — the new ones she didn't know. They were doing what she and Arjun had done that first night. Sitting in adjacent silence. Each with their coffee. Not talking.She hoped they'd come back.