I washed my hair with shampoo from the near-empty St. Ives bottle in the basket hanging from the showerhead. The sweet, buttery smell brought me back to previous visits here. Christmas with the whole family—Aunt Tammy and Uncle Brian and their twins, Luke and Noah, running up the stairs eager to open presents. Summer evenings with Dad and Joan on the deck, grilling tri-tip beneath the redwoods. And earlier, Grandpa greeting me with his giant swinging hugs.

I didn’t want to miss them, and I didn’t want to be here. I felt displaced and yet cornered.

I remembered Jacob’s face afterward, so pleased with himself.

There was a weird, frantic fluttering in my chest.

I scrubbed the shampoo out of my hair, raking my nails across my scalp, the sudsy water running over my tightly closed eyes. The rich scent made me gag. I needed new shampoo.

—

The Safeway parking lot was laid out in diagonal rows that made it difficult to figure out how to approach the entrance. I ended up parking Joan’s Honda out by the edge, facing Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. When I got out of the car, the dry summer heat radiated up from the asphalt with an almost physical force. I headed quickly for the store, plunging into the freezing air-conditioning.

I’d been to this Safeway on previous visits, and everything was the same as before, right down to the same eighties power ballads playing in the background. I was only here for shampoo, but I took my time getting to the toiletry aisle. I didn’t have anything better to do. I was finally narrowing in on the shampoo section when my phone dinged. I pulled it out of my purse to find a text from Tasha.

Haven’t heard from you in a while. You in Cali now? Everything OK?

I felt that panicky feeling in my chest again. I shoved my phone back into my purse.

After the slut situation, Tasha had been so supportive, reassuring me over and over that it wasn’t my fault. But she still canceled our summer; she was still going to France. She told me it had nothing to do with what happened with me. She swore that her mom just wanted to take her to Paris for some mother-daughter time before college.

What would it be like to have a mother who wanted to do that?

I didn’t know what to say to Tasha. I plucked a bottle of Pantene from the shelf and left without even smelling the other options.

At the checkout, only one cash register was open, and there was a line. I pulled a Cosmopolitan off the rack to distract myself. An article about sexual positions of the ancients featured a thin, white model draped in part of a toga, her lips painted bright red. She looked straight at the camera, just as I had.