“Do you want to take a nap or something?” Iris said with concerned eyes. “You look really tired.”

Vera gazed at Iris with a flash of tenderness. “No,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

New Hampshire was even more of a how-is-this-a-real-place moment for Vera. Postcard-quaint New England clapboard, et cetera. Iris’s uncle was at an artist’s retreat. His name was Charles, an incalculably funny gay man with a black moustache. He painted portraits. They were gorgeous. He had a little studio out here all to himself for a month. “We’re not supposed to have overnight visitors,” he said, “but phooey, you’re family.” He and his friends got along famously with Vera and Iris and Iris’s mom, staying up late in the main hall, shooting pool and playing Ping-Pong and plowing through bottles of wine. They smoked under the stars with a writer from South Dakota who said, “I’ve been here in winter and even the snow is nice. It’s like snow on TV.” Iris nonchalantly wrapped her hand around Vera’s as the writer said this.

Iris’s mom slept on a cot in the studio, with Vera and Iris beside her in a big sleeping bag. Her mom was snoring right away, and Vera and Iris talked into the night. As they grew silent, Iris grappled again for Vera’s hand. The worm in Vera’s insides flooded through her one more time. Vera squeezed her hand, released it, and turned away.

The next night after work, Vera deleted Iris’s number, blocked her on Facebook, and changed her email address. It felt thrilling, limitless, like a midnight sea.

Then she messaged Zoe in a long furious string. Hi I know it’s super fucking late but any chance tomorrow you have an hour or two to hear me open all my guts up about a thing? No pressure. Uh, I mean hi how you doing. Fuck me. Uh, you’re probably asleep which is why you’re offline. Love you. Talk soon. She sent Leah a similar message, though Leah always responded sporadically.

Vera paced around her room and grabbed her cigarettes and began to chain-smoke out the window. Her Gchat blooped. Zoe. Oh of course. I just got up. You’re probably going to sleep, aren’t you.

I should. I’m not in crisis I’m not even like sad or fucked up. I just think I really need to talk about it.

<3 I’ve been there. Are you free later today? I have to work but I want to listen to you and it sounds like maybe it’s better if we do this when we’re both rested and aren’t pressed for time. Text me when you get up k?

Ok 3 Thank you

They met in the late afternoon, Zoe waving in a translucent yellow blouse over a camisole. They walked around Prospect Park twice, and Vera told her all about Iris.

“It’s complicated,” said Vera. “She’s hurt me. A long time ago, I hurt her, too. Not that it’s the same—I don’t know. I owe her a lot. She helped me get on hormones. I wouldn’t have come here without her. I couldn’t have. You know?”