I’m surprised no one mentions how much we glare at each other. Neither of us is making an effort to conceal what’s happening. And when Gemma asks if Joe and I can help tidy up the kitchen together while everyone else is on dining room duty, I wash the dishes and he dries them, and all we do is whisper-shout.

“You’re being obvious,” I hiss at him.

“That’s not the greatest sin to commit. I could be mean, bitter, short tempered . . .”

“I hate that this is happening,” I groan, handing him a dripping plate.

“You know.” He runs a towel over it. “Strangely enough, I hated it more when this wasn’t happening.”

Does this mean he is glad to see me? That he still cares? I daren’t ask. It’s an unfair question to ask him, and one of devastating consequences to me.

The next morning, Dom and I pack our bags, say our goodbyes, and leave. During the ride home, I think about my conversation with Joe and decide that he is not wrong. Telling Dom what happened between us would achieve nothing but heartache. It is likely Dom wouldn’t end things with me, but he would always know, and it would always haunt him.

He’d imagine us kissing, writhing, groaning, gripping.

When I get back home, the apartment is empty. It’s better that way. I still have to digest Nora and Colt’s conversation about me. I have an urge to tell them that I’m fine. That they can move in together. That she can leave. I’m not lonely at all. But the truth is, all I have is Dom, and even that looks like a big fat question mark right now.

Time stutters throughout the day. Dom has a shift at the hospital, and I find myself pacing my room, back and forth. My thoughts revolve around Joe, but I tell myself it’s natural. It’s just the shock. It’ll wear off. Dom is my reality. He is the man I’m in love with.

I want to prove Joe wrong about me, and I don’t even know why.

Struck by an unexplainable desire to do something with my hands, I take out the fuck-you box Dad sent me and pour its contents onto my comforter. There’s an old camera Mom gave me when I was a preteen and dabbled in amateur photography, and the sketches of the graves I drew. There are also Polaroid pictures of Mom and me in her gallery. Pictures from our Alcatraz tour and eating ice cream in Union Square, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on our bikes, and riding the back of the cable car. Mom always said it was a travesty that big-city people never saw their home through tourists’ eyes. We loved to do the corny stuff on our free weekends, when Renn and Dad were busy hitting the waves.