I had an almost unbearable urge to tell her about Freud. Was it because I was desperate to ruin the relationship, to finally push her over the edge? Nothing I had done so far had been enough; maybe this last thing would make her see who I really was. Or—and this was not impossible—was it because I had never had a real friend before? I wasn’t sure if this counted, but it was as close as I’d come. I sipped the tea again; it felt like literal proof of kinship. And somehow her beauty felt protective; it would shield us from anything bad that would happen if I told. She had both hands curled around her mug and was bent toward it, taking a sip, her hair hanging around her face like a cozy tent; but she was looking at me over the rim of the mug, as if trying to figure out what I was going to say.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I said.

She sat up straight and brought the mug down toward her knees, shook her hair out of her face. “Hit me.”

“I thought I saw Freud,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind.

She leaned toward me, squinting.

“Sigmund Freud,” I said.

“You thought you saw him.”

I nodded.

“On the street?”

“No,” I said. “In a bar.”

“As in, you saw someone who looked like him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He was so real…“

Jojo stared at me, eyes wide, but she didn’t look away. “Keep going,” she said, her voice soft.

“He was at Celeste’s party, too,” I said. “I mean, I saw the back of his head.”

“At Celeste’s party.”

“Yes.” I looked down at her long, slender feet. I wanted to hold them. As if to her toes, her kind and delicate toes, I whispered, “Did you see him there?”

“Hmm,” she said, and when I dared to glance back at her she flashed a quick, awkward smile. “The guy with the beard? Her painter friend?”

I shook my head. It was him. It had to be.

“I told him about my life,” I said. “Not at the party. After.”

She nodded.

“I lay on my back on a couch,” I said. “And”—how far would I go?—“he did a laying of hands.” Then I stopped.

Now she did look afraid. I wanted to suck the words back out of the air. Why had I told? My precious secret, or was it my shame? But I was scared, too, and it comforted me, feeling it together.

“I’m not sure I know what to do with that,” she said, and swallowed. “Do you think, maybe…” She paused.

I looked straight into her eyes, to let her know it was okay.

“Maybe you should see someone?” She scrunched up her face.

I pursed my lips. I felt empty.

“It isn’t a punishment,” she said.