My mother tipped her glass of wine toward me across the room with a questioning look. I nodded. As she poured me a glass, she mouthed, Dinner? But at this I shook my head. She had betrayed me, earlier, in the doorway, and I would not let her feed me now. Cake? I dislodged myself from the exchange and examined Olivia, her pert bob, her sweet black dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and a wide boatneck that reached almost to her shoulders. There was something familiar about the cant of her shoulders, and I thought of Client Z, the young bulimic my father had treated when I was a child. I examined Olivia’s face. It had been so long I could hardly recall—though yes, I felt certain it was she. She was no longer noticeably thin with a puffy face; her body and face matched now, her hair looked healthy and clean. Why had he even treated her, when eating disorders were my mother’s specialty? I remembered seeing Client Ζ through the peephole near the end of her treatment, laughing at something my father had said before she entered the office and closed the door. I had felt betrayed and frantic, beholding her, and these sensations flooded me once more. How had she transitioned from patient to colleague? How did he feel about her now? My heartbeat kicked up into my throat—Sam entered my mind, then Jojo—their certain hatred of me—these thoughts were painful, but the pain was comfortable, it was better, it was my home.

My mother rose out of her seat to hand me the glass of wine, and I took big sips of it, looking toward Patrice. She was gesturing toward my father, offering feedback on his case. Her gestures were large, overly so, and I got the sense that she was desperate to hold my father’s attention, to provide feedback that he approved of and was impressed by. He was looking at her, but without the studied interest I could tell she was seeking. She wore a shapeless dress—purple, the most classless color—and something about it made me feel intensely sorry for her. I had the urge to hug her, to ferret her away from here. My father sat still as a statue, bizarrely not giving so much as a nod of gratitude for her insights, which to my mind were sharp. Asshole.

The napkin was with my jacket, hanging in some closet of this apartment. What was the bartender doing right this minute? Was he still on his shift? By now the bar crowd would be thick, the room steamy. I craved that feeling; it gave me a sense of safety, like the crush of a subway during rush hour, my chest pressed up against some man’s distended stomach, or my nose inches from a woman’s floral-shampooed hair, or my head so close to a hairy arm, outstretched toward the pole, that I could almost use it as a pillow. I pictured the bartender’s face, imagined pressing my thumbs along those eyebrows, his eyes floating closed; I would bite his bottom lip, a surprise.