I slide under the sheets and focus on the TV, the chefs inside it. Each person is two people, now. They offer up meals inspired by childhood memories. Salt, acid, heat, twin judges say. Inedible, they tell the loser. “At least I’m going out on a dish I believe in,” she says. I check the time—11:47 P.M.—then reach for the room service tray I stole from the hallway. Carefully, with reverence, I remove the steak knife, place it on the bedside table. Then, I open the metal dish-cover to reveal cold fries and bits of chicken strips stained with ketchup.

They only make me hungrier. I should have ordered food, let Henry pay, let him watch me cut tough bites of meat, sop up the blood, chew, swallow, satisfy myself. And then? I could have stayed, let him lecture me about what I need or don’t need, what’s beautiful, what’s true. I could have replied to Vanity Fair, could still. I reach for my phone. The TV plays a commercial for foundation. Invisible, the voice says, effortless. Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe she’s a natural beauty, an untouched beauty. The sales pitch for every powder, cream, procedure. But there’s always a consequence, some side effect that keeps away the promised miracle. Acne from pore-clogging foundation. Asymmetry from filler injected willy-nilly. Body dysmorphia from the asymmetry caused by the filler, which even when dissolved leaves your skin stretched out and floppy. It’s the same with pills: Vicodin cuts the pain, but then you can’t shit; Ambien puts you down, but the nightmares make you want to stay up; Ativan helps you forget your anxiety but takes with it everything else you wanted to remember. I drop the phone. How can I trust my memory? My story, altered by time and drugs and every passage I’ve made into anesthesia, and out again. Even if I spoke to Vanity Fair, came forward about Jake, I’ve little reason to think the world would believe a woman like me, so obviously dysmorphic, out of touch with what’s real. And if they did, there’s always a consequence.