Langham had shifted beside me, bringing me back into the room. It was the secret-in-public, perhaps, that I had responded to—like a laser beam, piercing through the cloud of table conversation, visible only to Langham and me. “He’s on week four of his shame-attacking exercises…” Langham’s eyes. “Did you read the new paper on…” Langham’s mustache, his lips. “I heard she sold the practice!” Langham’s large fingers, curled around his fork, which he sank into the pillow of his potatoes. That had sealed it, somehow: his hand on the fork. And then, as we stood at the bookcase, finally beside one another, my parents were one room away as tension built thick between us. I sensed his head rotate away again. But he was there, I knew I could have him, and this was enough to make me wet. I sank into this dependable sensation: escape, certainty, home.

The DSM-5 was right in front of my face, flanked by a biography of Truman and a thick volume on the history of the zipper. Langham reached toward the zipper book, his arm brushing my shoulder. He flipped to the back.

“How could anyone possibly read six hundred eighty-three pages on the history of the zipper?” he asked.

We both laughed, and this dispelled my paralysis so I could turn toward him. I let myself linger on his face. His mustache, though thick, was trim and well combed, and the skin of his cheeks looked soft, like he’d just shaved. I wondered what his aftershave smelled like. The hum of conversation wafted from the dining room. He took a small step toward me, as if to give me room to retreat. Scent of cedar. His eyes moved over my face, taking in its details, too; I wondered if he approved of my eyes or found fault with my nose. We were negotiating a kiss, informing each other that it was on the horizon. I held his gaze. I willed him to pursue me, the ultimate control. He leaned in, his mustache scratching my face.

Since that night last week, every time the phone rang my heart had jumped in excited panic. But it was the drugstore, a wrong number, my roommate asking me to buy toilet paper—never my parents, having discovered Langham and I had fucked in my father’s walk-in closet, calling to confront me. Once, it was Langham himself, but I hadn’t picked up, and he hadn’t tried again. I wasn’t sure how I expected my parents to make the discovery, just that they would. But I’d been left only with a searing image of Langham’s hairy round belly pushing up against mine.

I hovered a thumb over my phone. My hand was trembling as I swiped down then up, bringing the word “Dinner” on the home screen into and out of view. My heart clunked against my rib cage as if trying to escape. We know what you did. I couldn’t open it yet. I tossed the phone away from me onto the bed—calm down—and reached my hand between my legs. Images flooded me: A hand on my throat. A stingray. My head, yanked back by the hair. Twin orbs of a man’s ass, thick eyebrows, a swish of black hair, fingers digging into my flesh. I never came when I was with a man—I hadn’t last night—but alone, I could be the animal I was.