Lander sighs. “I have . . . disliked my brother all my life. Every once in a while I’ll feel a spark of sympathy for him, but he’s pretty good at stomping that out. Why?”

I shake my head. “I want to know you. And I don’t. I’ve made assumptions about you, maybe even drawn a few premature conclusions . . . but I don’t actually know you.” And then finally I turn to him and meet his gaze before adding, “And you don’t know me.”

“I know that you’re scared. And I can see that you’re shaking.”

Again I close my eyes, willing my body to still.

“Did my brother do something?”

“Oh, I’m sure your brother has done a lot of things. But he’s not my problem right now. I’m the problem. I’m scared because . . . because for the first time in years I feel a need for human comfort. I’m scared because I don’t know you and yet I’m beginning to feel like part of me needs you. I don’t know how to handle this. I’m not equipped to handle this.”

Again the room grows quiet. I can’t believe how brazen I’m being. I don’t even know what it means. Am I playing him? Am I digging for information that I can use against him? Or am I searching for information that will allow me to drop my vendetta against him? Is it possible that I really want to be closer to this man, that I need him?

How terrifying it is that I can no longer read my own intentions. I’ve played so many roles: the easy temptress, the vengeful angel, the affectionate and loyal girlfriend, the opportunist, the eager student . . . So many different identities and now they’re all trying to merge. But that’s not really possible. My body can’t be a melting pot for the various facets of my personality, and so instead they battle it out inside my heart and my head, driving me fast toward something that feels like insanity.

Lander runs his hand over my hair. “Ask me anything.”

I look up at him wonderingly. “Tell me,” I say quietly, “about your mother.”

“Ah,” he removes his hand and crosses his ankle over his knee. “My mother was a martyr. She was always sacrificing herself for lost causes. Before I was born she was a small-town schoolteacher in Florida who publicly campaigned against the use of ‘under God’ in the Pledge of Allegiance. She thought the pledge should be read in its original form. She did a whole lesson plan on how the pledge was written by a patriotic American socialist. Sure, it was true, but it predictably cost her her job.”

I give him a quick, quizzical look. “The Pledge of Allegiance was written by a socialist?”