I woke up at noon with a headache, and found her in the living room answering emails.

“I guess you don’t remember what happened last night,” she said, still typing.

“I got drunk?”

“I found you passed out on the floor in the middle of the night. Your glass was shattered.”

“Sorry. I’m not a good drinker.” I reached up to rub my temples and noticed a large bruise on one forearm.

“Oh, I’d say you’re an excellent drinker. You finished the bottle, opened the second one, and drained that as well.”

“I did?” A hazy memory arose: searching everywhere for a bottle opener.

She looked worried. “Are you an alcoholic, too?” That word, too, forcing me to think of Dad.

“Might be.”

“Why not do something about it? There are rehab clinics in the States, there must be some here.”

“I like having some bad habits, so I don’t hate myself too much.” I didn’t add: and it makes me feel closer to Dad. It’s one of the few things I inherited from him.

She never bought wine again. Every time I went for a night out after that, she watched with fury as I blow-dried my hair and put on makeup. Her anger was complicated—sometimes she seemed like a mother with an unruly daughter, other times like a little girl whose mom was going on a date she didn’t approve of. Peixuan doesn’t believe in makeup, and hates parties. She’s always complaining that Americans spend too much time on meaningless socializing, which is making them stupider and stupider. Living with me probably made her realize that things aren’t much better in China. Maybe the whole world is becoming more foolish.

Each time I washed my face, I saw in the mirror our bras hanging from the bathtub rail, shoulder to shoulder. Mine were half-moons in cheap lace or faux satin, peach or pale pink, with bows in front and rhinestones that would fall off after a few washes. Hers were all white cotton, full cups with thick bands, so similar-looking she must have bought them in bulk.

“Such flashy bras—I guess they’re for men to look at?” she said glumly once, while I was changing.

“For men? Don’t you look at yourself in the mirror?”

But she rarely did—probably because of her scar. This kept her in a state of ignorance. Sometimes I thought her expression was the same as when we were little, except that now she’d lost her luster. I remembered how every Monday morning she’d walk to the flagpole with the flag in her arms, skin pale and dazzling, slender figure full of a young woman’s vigor. I thought every boy in the school must be in love with her.

One evening we began talking more openly. Nothing that would have been out of place between most cousins, but I felt I was crossing a line.

I asked if she had a boyfriend. She said no.

“A fuckbuddy, then?”