Olive turns on the kettle. Gemma sits on the carpet against the door and bends her knees. Finally, she says, “No, I don’t remember what happened last night.”

“You were messed up, girl.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Olive says. “I heard you two go to bed. Then I heard Ava crying. And then I heard—maybe you don’t know this, but Ava punches herself in the face when she gets stressed.”

“No,” Gemma says after a silence. “I didn’t know that.”

“I came in. You looked real frightened when you saw me. Sorry about that. I get”—Olive pauses—“a bit mama bear about that woman. Now, is any of this jogging your memory?”

“No,” Gemma whispers.

The kettle boils and Olive makes tea. She offers a cup to Gemma and Gemma shakes her head. “What happened after?”

“You were both a little hard to understand. It’s probably better if you ask her,” Olive says, looking Gemma in the eye. “And you should probably tell her you blacked out again.”

Gemma nods, a lump in her throat.

“What I do know,” Olive continues, “you said you liked her more than anybody else. ‘Anybody else on this shit-ass fuckwatered planet’ were your exact words, I believe. It broke the tension; we laughed. You’re funny when you’re hammered, by the way. But Ava was shocked by this, Gemma. She had no idea you wanted anything more than a place to crash and a good time before flouncing off.”

“That’s not it,” says Gemma. “She told me she wanted me to leave. It hurt, but she told me that very clearly.” Didn’t she? It seemed really obvious—

Olive sighs, and Gemma realizes that Olive looks absolutely exhausted. “That girl.” She dunks her tea bag. “You should talk straight with her about this, in a state where you can remember it all. I know she likes you. And sometimes she says dumb shit when she’s scared. But last night, she said she’d love you to stay here a while. She said that to you directly, to your face.”

“Oh my Lord,” says Gemma. “Yes, of course I will.”

“You said you would,” Olive says plainly. “You’re telling me the truth? You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Olive says. “I need you to not hurt her, Gemma.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

“I need you to keep that promise.”

“Okay.” Gemma feels like a stern gentleness in the universe has lit a match for her. They are silent for a while. Gemma’s eyes drift to a picture frame on Olive’s dresser, and she sees what looks like a younger Olive with a girl covered in tattoos. In the picture, Olive’s laughing with her eyes shut, an arm around the tattooed girl. The girl has her hands up in a goofy “Who, me?” gesture.

“Is that you?” Gemma points.

“Yeah. Me and my friend Tracy.”

“Where’s she?”

“She’s no longer alive,” Olive says. “But she moved out west decades ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Gemma says. “I hate losing people.”

“I don’t even know anybody who knew her anymore,” Olive says. “I’m the only one. Sometimes it breaks my heart so hard I can’t even think about it.”