I went into the master bathroom, sat on Jake’s damp bathmat and cued up my mother’s number, then navigated away, checked Leah’s Instagram. Her latest post was an image of the ocean: glassy blue and a sinking sun. I double clicked to like it, my heart the only heart. I couldn’t tell if it was the molly, or the sex party, or just the thought of Leah, but I felt woven into the world, no separation. I commented, “call me.” It was the same thing my mother had written in her last text. I opened the message—call me—and pressed her number. The phone rang and I told myself to be patient, I told myself to be kind. Often, I went into conversations with this goal and failed to keep it. “How can everything hurt?” I would say, certain I understood my mother’s pain, its limitations. Or scared because I couldn’t understand. But once I made it as a model, an influencer, I’d send money home to her, tell her to see a therapist, or whatever specialist she felt she needed, or buy whatever supplement she’d heard might help. Finally, I’d be able to fix her. Even if I thought I shouldn’t have to.

The phone rang three times before Jake’s knock shook the bathroom door and I hung up. The door opened.

“You okay?” he asked. I felt my face go warm. I could have been taking a shit.

“Yeah,” I said and stood. He moved closer. His pupils were pits and they swallowed his face up.

“I just got an email about you,” he said.

It was my mom, I was sure of it.

“For a job,” he said. “This big cannabis company—Blaze?” I covered my mouth with my hand.

“Promotional parties and socials, if things go good maybe billboards.”

“Omg!” I yelled into my palm. Jake was dressed in black, but he looked shimmery, soft. I took my hand away and we kissed. Then he turned me to face the mirror and hugged me from behind, his arms around my waist like we were posing for a prom picture.

“There’s a few details to iron out,” he said to our reflection.

I said yes, anything, full of safe, sweet oxytocin, that celibate love everyone talks about when they talk about MDMA.

“Like, have you ever considered getting implants?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. I was smiling when I said, “What?”

He said, “Breast implants,” and his voice was quick and sweet, the same voice someone else might use to tell me I had spinach between my teeth, a new mole on my back.

“Blaze is generally looking for girls with a curvier ascetic.” He stared at me in the glass. “And I was thinking implants might help you move to the next, like, phase of your career anyway.”