“I mean I can’t say no. I can’t say no to this guy; I’ve tried. I mean, I want to. I want to say no. I simply cannot.”

“Why?”

“I get distracted.”

He’s so distracting.

“Why would you want to say no to him?”

“I just don’t think this should be happening.”

“This?”

“Yes, this. Whatever this is. I don’t think it’s a good idea, yet I can’t bring myself to stop it.”

“Why isn’t it a good idea?”

“Because I barely know the guy. He certainly has no clue what he’s getting himself into— I just wish I could prevent it from happening. But I can’t focus—”

“Well, I think you’re wrong. I think this is exactly what you need.”

“Starting something right after trying to commit suicide is what I need?”

“Starting something. Yes.”

“Well, I’m blaming you for this.”

“Why me?”

“‘Be open, Thomas.’” I made air quotes, mocking her.

She laughed. “I truly think this is a good thing. Same as with your friend, Jonas.”

“I’m still blaming you,” I said bitterly.

“Then you’re really going to hate what I have to say next.”

I didn’t say anything, just frowned.

“Let him in.”

“Jonas?”

“You know better.” She adapted, of-fucking-course.

At the end of my session, I could feel Dr. Foster watching as Jonas and I disappeared from view. I took him to the coffee shop I used to go to around the corner. Not because there was a chance of bumping into Ethan there—for my last couple of sessions he was a no-show—but because they always played Bowie, and that was something Jonas would seriously appreciate. Sure enough, “Five Years” was playing in the background. We walked in, and he quickly went for the same booth I always went for, which was kind of a cool coincidence.

“What in the fuck is that?” he said loudly, getting the attention of the only four other costumers—a middle-aged couple and two teenage girls.

I’d taken off my—Ethan’s—jacket and unknowingly revealed the mark on my neck, which was pretty hard to miss.

“What?” I asked, sitting down across from him.

“That hickey. It’s massive.”

“Shut up.” I self-consciously held my hand to my neck as though to cover it up. “It’s not that big.”

“Not that big? That thing took some serious time. And effort. Good for you.”

The waiter came over. “Can I take your order?” He’d heard most of the conversation and, as such, was unable to not look at the hickey as well.

“White-chocolate mocha, please.” I turned to Jonas, who nodded, and I added, “Two.”

“I bet I know who did it,” Jonas said smugly as the waiter turned and left.

“I doubt you do.”

“The swimmer.”

“How the fuck can you know that?”