I expect Corinne to be blunt and, at times, abrasive, to have a set of flash cards for absolutely everything, and to one day walk into Congress with a flawless suit and a pink beanie. She’s also passionate, awkward, and unpredictable, and it all amounts to something wonderful.

So it’s not surprising that when she steps forward and kisses me, everything else blurs into the background. I’m not sure which one of us nudges Palm Tree into his crate as she leads us both toward her empty bedroom. There’s no one in this entire apartment to stop us.

That’s the thing about Corinne. She could convince you she’s made entirely out of academic prowess and conviction. So much so that you’ll swear to the stars that there’s not even a speck of anything messy about her, and then she’ll be on top of you on a fluffy purple comforter, her curls loose around her flushed cheeks, leaving you absolutely reeling.

I did something, I say in our oxygen-deprived pauses, still standing close and breathing hard. I did something, and I’m so sorry. Or maybe I just think it really hard, hoping she’ll just guess and stop it all.

“I . . . ,” I say, pulling our faces apart. “Corinne, wait—”

“I have condoms!” she says abruptly, reaching for a drawer by the side of the bed. “I’ve had them for a while.”

“What?!”

She laughs and shakes her head. “You’re going to make a puritan-ass father one day . . . but that day is definitely not nine months from now and definitely not through my cervix. So that condom is nonnegotiable, pal. I also have lube, three kinds, actually.”

“Cor . . .”

“There’s no shame in needing lube, Haltiwanger. It’s not just for the guy.”

Everything about this feels off. Or actually it feels exactly like a conversation about sex with Corinne might go, but God, why today of all days?

“Why do you think I came home?” she says, suddenly right up against me, slipping her arms around my waist. “Empty apartment, parent an ocean away . . . You can’t tell me this isn’t a golden opportunity. Get creative, Haltiwanger!”

Her voice is giddy and teasing. I know that tone. Anyone who’s ever watched a television show with two chiseled twenty-four-year-olds pretending to be teenagers in a room alone knows that tone. If this had happened before Switzerland, I would have been the happiest guy in the world. But Chantale’s computer being so close feels like some sick Tell-Tale Heart mocking me from the other room.

“Corinne, I don’t know. . . .”

“Y-you don’t want to?”

“No!”

In half a second her face crumbles, actually crumbles, before instantly rebuilding itself more closed off than before, and I hate to have caused that.

“I mean, no, I don’t not want to,” I sputter. “Because I would! And I do. It’s just . . .”