“Oh honey,” she said. “Come in.” She didn’t flinch at my baked-in body odor.

“I don’t want to go back there,” I mumbled, my face pressed into her shoulder.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to. You can stay here as long as you want.” She squeezed me again and led me inside, holding my hand tightly, like a sister would, and for the first time since we were children I was certain that she loved me.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“I don’t know…a shower, clean clothes. A good night’s sleep.” I looked down at my feet; they were caked in dirt. My legs were covered in flecks of paint, my shirt was stained with linseed oil, and my hair was held up with an oversize rubber band.

“I can do that,” she said, taking me to the second floor and depositing me in the guest room where the bed hung from the ceiling on chains. “There’s an attached bath in there. Hop in, and I’ll bring you some stuff to try on. Sorry—I’m taller than you.” She mumbled to herself, “Whatever, you know that. I’ll figure something out.” She slipped a hair tie off her wrist and snapped it around mine. “There’s a toothbrush under the sink and all that stuff.”

“Max?” I asked. “One more thing.”

“Anything.”

“If Tyler calls, tell him I’m okay, but please don’t let him come over. Is that all right?”

“Sure, honey,” she said, nodding and closing the door to my room. “Anything you need.”

*  *  *

Fleur turned out to be the sweet, familiar-looking blonde who had perched alone on the Goldsworthy wall at the party, the one who waved at me. She sat below me, on one of the sofas, and from my perch on the balcony I could see the small fingers of her manicured hands, the top of her bony skull, the part in her hair, and the collar of her printed dress as she typed away on a gold laptop. In one of Max’s old shirts and a rolled-up pair of Charlie’s jeans, I walked down the stairs, twisting my hair up as I called out to her.

“Hi,” I said, wrapping Max’s hair tie around my bun and wiping my hands on my jeans. I held one straight out. “You must be Fleur.”

Fleur set the laptop to the side and grinned, then bounded up and shook my hand strongly, with a confident grip.

“Shooting star,” she said right away, and I smiled.

“Yes. Hi. Nice to see you,” I said.

“I don’t think we’ve ever officially met,” she said, head tilting to the side. “But I’m delighted to know you. I hope you’ll let me interview you. I’m a big fan. I’ve seen a lot of your work.”