Palm Tree starts barking happily the moment I turn the corner, and she spots me. And the way Corinne’s brow knits in confusion, I’m not sure I’m her favorite sight at the moment either. How much does she know?

I walk the rest of the way to her and wait for her to finish her call, shuffling my feet.

“I’ll see you later . . . ,” I overhear. “And Mom? I’m so sorry.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Okay. I can do this. I can do this. I can explain this.

“Hey, I texted you this afternoon,” I say as she puts the phone away.

She doesn’t recoil when I lean in to kiss her hello, but it’s nothing like we usually kiss—with a smile or awkward pucker when there’s someone around. Instead, she stares at me like she’s trying to read my thoughts.

“Mrs. Raphael turned Lit class into a study period, so I took PT to the vet for his checkup,” she says. There’s a delay in her voice, as though she’s still processing. “That was my mom just now. She’s still at work dealing with . . . Henri, is it true?”

Despite how unlikely it was, part of me hoped this conversation wouldn’t happen. I don’t want to do this. I know how this ends.

I sigh. “Yes. But Corinne, I—”

“So, you actually did this?” she asks again, tugging the leash back slightly when an impatient Palm Tree that would normally have been picked up jumps for my knee. “You . . . wrote a fake recommendation letter from my mom? My mom who trusted you? What is wrong with you?”

So everything; she knows everything.

“When?”

I take too long to answer, and Corinne being quicker than me is nothing new. “When we were in Switzerland, right? When you were alone in our apartment . . .”

I don’t say anything.

“What the hell, Henri! Do you have any idea how much of an invasion that is?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You used me!”

“I didn’t! I just . . . I was up there with Palm Tree, and your mom’s computer was on. . . . Her Columbia email account was open, and . . . and—I don’t know—it was just . . . impulsive.”

It’s not the full truth, but the details won’t matter right now. She’s standing farther away from me than she was when we first started talking, and I need Corinne to know that I’m not whatever hustler she’s picturing right now, smirking while going through her mom’s office drawers with gloved hands.

“There’s nothing impulsive about opening someone’s email account and writing a recommendation letter on your behalf and sending it out, Henri. Those are at least seven or eight decisions!”