He was Freud. Sigmund Freud, bartender.

I knew he was Freud the way you know, in a dream, that a woman is your mother, even if she looks like no one you’ve ever seen before. When I came, I buried my mouth in my shoulder to stop myself from screaming.

Afterward, I lay on my bed, so giddy I felt like laughing. I looked to the shelf above my childhood desk, where stuffed animals still sat three rows deep—my parents had talked about turning my bedroom into a guest room, but as yet, they hadn’t.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” I whispered to the plush teddy bear who had guarded my sleep so many nights. I didn’t know if I meant my orgasm, which often made me laugh with relief, or my realization that I had met, that I now knew, that I now had—Freud.

I went to the door and pressed my ear against it, trying to make out the voices. There were my father’s tones, the woodsy depth of them. And then a bouquet of laughter, my mother’s bursting loudly above the rest. I couldn’t make out Langham’s, but I guessed it wasn’t there.

I plucked my underwear from the floor and pulled it back on, then the slacks—and then, in a wave of pique, ripped them off again. I wasn’t gross! Freud had said so! What did I need to hide myself for? I folded the pants and, on my way back out, laid them on the corner of my parents’ bed. Their bedroom was as tasteful as the rest of the apartment—plush neutrals—and as scrubbed clean of personality. My mother got great pleasure out of the compliments she received from guests, even on her bedroom. They presented well, my parents. And so had I.

As I passed the bookcase once more, I searched for Freud’s book, something I had not done in a very long time. When I found it, I spent a few minutes just stroking the spine, wondering if I should dare. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and slid it out to hold.

There he was. I felt weak with relief. I traced his face with my finger, his body, his hand. I pressed my mouth to the cover, so softly, and when I lifted it away there was the faintest spot of wet. My mark. I slid it back onto the shelf.

Patrice and her husband were the only ones still in the living room with my parents. Langham had left, and Olivia, too—so they were fucking. I should have yelled out, Bulimic! as soon as I’d realized who she was; Langham would have known, then, that she was as disgusting as I. My parents and the Lyles were hunched toward each other, whispering, as I approached. About what?—me? I strained to hear what they were saying, watched Patrice tuck her hair behind her ear, my mother shift closer to my father. I couldn’t hear a word. The floorboards sang out under me and my mother glanced up. My father followed, flicked his eyes down to my bare legs, then back up to my face. I looked away. At once, the old feelings returned, the sense that I was falling. My anxiety sprang up, trying to help me grab on to something, but I was like a cartoon cat grasping at flimsy tree branches as he tumbled into a chasm. But—Freud. I had a secret. My parents hated Freud as much as they hated me—but now we had each other.