Tonight I’d been imagining my guest room at Mary’s in as much detail as I could: the bedside drawer with the loose handle, the alarm clock, reading lamp, tissue box, desk, wall mirror, basket of yarn and crochet hooks, ten-inch TV on the dresser, and the bookshelf composed entirely of lurid murder mysteries from the 1970s.

GreatSc0t: How do you win?

TheDuchessB: To win, you have to experience doubt about your surroundings, convince yourself you really ARE in that other room, on the king- or queen-size or whatever-size mattress, AND that you’re on the opposite side of the bed. If you roll over, you’ll fall out of bed.

GreatSc0t: That’s how you win? By falling out of bed?

TheDuchessB: I’ve never won before, but yes—that’s the objective.

GreatSc0t: Your goal is to concoct a fantasy world that feels so rich and real you’ll injure yourself.

TheDuchessB: PRECISELY

GreatSc0t: I think I’d rather picture the occupant of a different room. Her face, for example. Her hair. The person I’m thinking about is pure tidy when it comes to styling her hair.

I’ve never heard that expression before, but for some reason it causes a pleased blush of warmth to spread through my limbs, which is ridiculous; it’s not MY hair he’s talking about. If he knew Bree was a construct, that she was two of us and we could be separated out, which one would he pick? Is there any universe in which he’d pick me?

I think of Mary, pushing me out the door, all the way to the opposite coast, then hiring a new assistant like it was nothing, like the last eight years meant nothing.

I think of my parents, so pleased with themselves for going where the wind takes them that they’ve never tried to steer themselves in my direction.

TheDuchessB: Why thank you. I try ;) I think you might have been onto something, when you asked if I couldn’t sleep.

GreatSc0t: Have you tried counting goats? Much better than sheep, for obvious reasons.

TheDuchessB: Sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell.

GreatSc0t: Yup. Cake!

I doubt Bree listens to Cake. Whoops. Oh well. And if I’m digging my own grave here, might as well make it worth the trouble.

TheDuchessB: I haven’t heard from my parents in a while. Which isn’t unusual, but . . . sometimes it bothers me.

GreatSc0t: Not super close?

TheDuchessB: Let’s put it this way: I don’t know where they are. I couldn’t even begin to guess. They’re “free spirits.”

GreatSc0t: Were they always like that? Or is it an empty nest / retirement thing?