Family for the day, lock for the night

The tikka is on the nightstand in the velvet pouch. I have not spent it, I have not shown it to anyone, and I will not. Aarav's grandmother pressed it into my palm in front of ten relatives and called me family for the day, and I have been turning that phrase over in my mouth like a hard candy for nine hours. Family. For the day. As if on the thirteenth I go back to being the girl with the clipboard, as if only yesterday and the twelfth are the days I am allowed to be warm in that house. I took the photo for my own records and did not post it. The second it hits a feed it becomes proof I am good at my job. Right now I want it to be just mine.

Fardeen, the venue manager, grabbed my wrist. I am writing this sentence because Heena, my planner, will not say it. She was standing two feet away when his hand closed on me and squeezed for two full seconds and she did not open her mouth, because opening it would have cost us the venue. I understand that. I do. But my left wrist still has a red ring on it and my friend watched it happen. I am angry about both things at once and I refuse to rank which one hurts more.

I have decided to bring my own lock to the greenroom on the twelfth. I wrote it on the back of an envelope and locked the envelope in the drawer with the July-30 complaint. Two pieces of paper. Two times I had to protect myself from people who were supposed to be on my side.