This should have been good news, but I felt forlorn.

“Well—good,” I said. “Look, I’m really sorry, again.”

“It’s really okay,” she said. “I was heated up about it last night—I get protective around my siblings, you know? But he’s a man, he can handle himself.” At the word “man,” my throat tightened. Jojo smiled a little, sadly, I thought. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore.” Her tone was final, and rather than feeling relieved, I felt very much alone.

“So you don’t want me to move out, is what you’re saying?” Even as I formed the words, I knew they were senseless. Why do you need me to betray you? But I needed her to tell me that she wanted me here, I needed it desperately.

“You don’t really think that, do you?” she said. “Like, seriously?” She shook her head, almost rolling her eyes, and in her reaction I was reminded of how I’d felt with intractable students who seemed to willfully misinterpret my directives. The one who’d left her book closed on her desk when I asked them to turn to a particular page, then sat twisting her hair round and round her finger, looking straight at me, as if daring me to challenge her; or the one who—moments after I’d said, Good morning, let’s get started—had rapped on the window next to his desk to get the attention of his friend, then made a series of gestures I couldn’t possibly understand.

“No,” I admitted. “I don’t really think that.” I paused, then added softly: “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“I want you to live here,” she said, and put her hand on my knee. “Really. And not just because I’d be fucked without your rent.”

“Why, then?” I said. I knew I was probing so forcefully I’d repulse her, but I couldn’t stop myself. I needed to know—or I needed to ruin the whole thing, have it be over, have it again be controlled by me.

She let out a puff of laughter. “Okay, fine,” she said. “I’ll bite. You’re neat.” She ticked off a finger. “You do pay the rent on time. And, maybe most importantly, I like your stories.”

“I’m a disaster,” I said.

“Maybe.” She shrugged but smiled, so I knew it was a joke. “But you’re not a monster.”

I had assumed either she had bought my polished faux self—impenetrable and cool, firmly in control of my feelings—or that she had detected, underneath this projection, the disgusting and dangerous person I knew myself to be. But perhaps all she saw was someone vulnerable and sad. A mess. Not a danger.