“I have to pee,” I said and left the bathroom door open, like we used to. As I listened to my piss hit the bowl, I wondered if what I missed was less Leah herself, than the time we shared before sharing time the way we did was either eroticized or pathologized; before it was consumed by men. I washed my hands then unzipped my sweatshirt even more, like she might take the hint and ask to see my implants. Suddenly, I wanted to show her, not sexually, but out of pride, like look at what I’ve acquired, look at how I’ve grown, look what can be achieved with positive thinking, high vibes. I came out and she went in, closed the door.

“I need a shower,” she yelled from inside. I heard the lock.

I UNPACKED OUR food, refrigerated the cold stuff, peeled open the skinny chips I’d bought, created a stack. Chewing took a while and I felt the noise of each crunch, felt Leah would too. I clipped the bag, shelved it, ate two Xanax from the bottle I’d stashed in my mom’s purse. I still had plenty. Dr. Holle had prescribed me a thirty-day supply. She’d refilled it when I called and followed a script Jake suggested.

“I thought the pills were something else and disposed of them,” I’d said, my voice staged, unnatural. The nurses bought my story, or they didn’t, but certainly they wouldn’t buy it again.

I moved to the couch, checked other people’s stories. Ella’s, where she propped in a high-chair like a child and offered up the soft underside of her banded arm for a blood draw. A lab technician slapped the veins. The needle hit. Ella opened her mouth and her filtered lips jumped off the screen like a scream. “We’re running tests for black mold biotoxins,” she said. “At least I’m keeping my sense of humor.” I watched through to Erin the fitness model, taking turns squatting in a Smith machine with her #workoutbestie, who had 20,000 followers, thick ankles and a fine but not #fine butt. First, Erin filmed her friend’s ten reps, then the friend filmed Erin, pushing for twelve. The shot showed the branded ass of Erin’s workout pants, ruched at the crack to make each cheek a separate entity. Swipe up for discount code. I swiped, but Leah’s weight arrived on the couch beside me and I closed the sale page, turned the phone so she could see the girls.

“I thought you avoided strength training,” she said. “Too much bulk.”

“I mean, I thought that in high school,” I said.

“So you lift now?”

“Sometimes,” I lied.