I go to the bathroom to pee because I am not trying to get a UTI.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I pour two fresh glasses of Gatorade on ice. I return to the bed and hand Beau his glass. I sip from mine.

“I just got my ChromoZone results,” he says.

“Fuck that website,” I say.

“Why?” Beau sips his Gatorade, then puts it on the bedside table.

I think about telling Beau the truth—the disappointing information that I am fully Irish—but I don’t want Beau to know how genetically uninspired I am.

“It’s vaguely eugenicist,” I say instead.

“Right,” he says absently. He refocuses his attention to the screen. “This is saying I have a sister.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and think about fucking him again. “Well, do you?” I ask. He suddenly seems impervious to my touch, which worries me.

“Not that I know of,” he says.

“Oh my god,” I say. “This is like a Lifetime movie.”

He shrugs, and I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. The energy is being sucked from the room. Beau and I are no longer the same person, quantum entangled and filled with warm light. He is far away from me, moving further by the second.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Some girl named”—he scrunches his eyes to read— “Emily Forrest.”

I feel like I am experiencing some kind of psychosis, or maybe a stroke or heart attack. I realize, for the first time, that Beau does not know my actual name. He knows me only as Ice. “Who is this Emily Forrest person?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. Emily Forrest is surely a common name. Actually, I know it is a common name because I have googled it before. A gynecologist in Tampa dominates my search results.

He hands me the phone and I click the profile, prepared to see this popular gynecologist. Or the volleyball player in San Antonio who also shares my name.

But that’s not what I see.

Instead I see:

“Emily Forrest. Riverside, California. 98.9 percent Irish.” Yup, it is me.

Yup, it is me.

In the bathroom, I turn on the shower.

Then I slap myself across the face.

I have to get Beau out of my apartment.

I turn off the shower and decide to act.

Getting my brother who does not know he is my brother out of my carnal bed is the biggest acting job of my life. I pretend I’m in a movie, a very weird movie.

“My dad is coming by today, so I need to clean,” I say, and then realize that “my dad”—if ChromoZone is correct—means Beau’s dad, but Beau does not know this. It’s all too weird. I can’t think. I just have to act.