This was also before Bo started pulling away from me, getting his own friends and his own interests. He wasn’t a normal boy. I wanted him to play football so I could cheer him on from the sidelines, but he couldn’t even catch a ball. He was more interested in taking photographs and smoking weed with boys with tattoos. He was so pale and so weak. He couldn’t carry things for me like I expected him to. He didn’t turn into a man. He turned into an artsy weirdo, the type of boy I would have made fun of in high school. He felt like an embarrassment, and I felt like a failure.

I’m not totally sure how Bo supports himself. I have an idea, and I don’t like to think too hard about it. I know he’s photographed for a few magazines, and I know that he has his own apartment and it’s a shithole, but I also know freelance photography is not lucrative enough to rent a studio apartment in criminally overpriced Los Angeles.

I went to his apartment only once and it looked like a cave. It made my apartment look luxurious. The bed dropped from the wall and the bathroom was covered in mold. I saw a few tiny plastic baggies on the floor and put two and two together. Then I undid the math.

My gaze floats to the windowsill and I notice a pile of cigarettes. The night begins floating back. I returned to the apartment filled with adrenaline, smoking in a fury. I remember tackling Beth, and I giggle, then feel ashamed. The teacher in my court-mandated drug and alcohol class said, “You might not remember the things you do when you’re drunk, but the people you hurt will never forget them.” It kind of blew my mind. Before that, I thought if I didn’t remember, the other person wouldn’t remember either. I thought my experience of the event would line up with the other person’s. If I didn’t think it was a big deal, neither would they. If I was over it, they would be too.

I pick up my phone and open my texts. I see Bo at the top. I open it and feel sick.

“You can always apologize,” the leader said, “but they will never forget.”

I’m so sorry, baby! I type out.

I was a bit overserved last night at Steph & Beths … ha ha.

You know I don’t mean any of that. You are my pride & joy.

I hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.

EMILY.

I wake up to banging on my door.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Marta.

“I paid you,” I say when I open the door. We are both wearing nightgowns in the bright light of midday. I remember how much money I made last night. I locked eyes with Beau.