“Is that really how you see me?” I try to sound casual about it, but I can’t say the word hasn’t been bugging me since I heard it.

She throws me a look as though she’s considering all the bullet points associated with the term and assessing whether or not I meet them. Hus·sy / 'hə·sē / Impudent, immoral, loose person.

“No,” she eventually admits. “For one thing, it’s a very gendered term. ‘Tart’ is more gender-neutral, maybe? But not by much.”

“Corinne . . .”

“You’d be more of a player or womanizer or a philanderer or a roué, even. How come all the guy terms for ‘hussy’ sound so distinguished? That’s some patriarchal bull right there.”

“Corinne!” I repeat, though I can feel a smile creeping on my lips, matching hers.

“Okay, okay, I’m kidding! Find your chill, Haltiwanger.”

“I’ll squeeze that into my calendar of hussy appointments.”

“You’re not a hussy. You’re . . . aware of your charms, yes, but I don’t think you’re immoral, and you mean well. As far as I can tell.”

I catch a glimpse of myself in Corinne’s eyes and suddenly feel stuck in place, realizing how physically close we are right now—physically close and on something that by definition amounts to a bed. Whatever I was going to say next dies in a choke halfway out my throat. I’m torn between wanting to duck away from this sudden makeshift intimacy and also lean into it all at once and to hell with all the second-guessing. And unless I’m completely insane, Corinne might be leaning forward too, eyes darting back and forth across my face like she’s also looking for a clue that she’s misreading this. Maybe neither of us are, and this is where all those weird feelings and false starts were always meant to land. In Canada, on Aunt Terry’s couch.

“Master of the house, doling out the charm.”

We both startle back at the booming male voice that suddenly overfills the room, and I knock my head into the wall, leaping away from Corinne as she lets out a curse under her breath.

“Ready with a handshake and an open palm. . . .”

“What the hell is that?” I say, looking around for this singing, gravelly male voice that sounds like it’s coming from the very walls of the room.

“Les Misérables, original London cast recording.” Corinne sighs knowingly, falling back into the couch and staring blankly at the low ceiling.

“Definitely not some Barry White, huh?” I say, forcing a laugh, heart still in my throat.

“Terry loves a good musical. I guess she finally installed the digital sound system my mom got her for Christmas. I can’t believe I was the one who suggested it.”

“It was a wonderful gift, baby girl!” Terry’s voice shouts from her room, a few doors down.