But—Jojo. Not my apartment: our apartment. Would she be home? My nails in her skin. I thought you did want to see him…or maybe weren’t letting yourself. She would excoriate me for yelling at her, for hurting her, for leaving the party, and, above all, for whatever she’d found out about Sam. Would he have told her? Part of me thought it unlikely: Who would tell his sister about fucking her roommate, how right in the middle she’d stopped him, commanded he pull her hair, how he hadn’t been able to do it, how he’d been so scared his dick had gone soft? But part of me knew he wouldn’t have to say all that. He could just as easily say I was crazy, a crazy bitch, and wouldn’t Jojo agree? She could be sleeping now, it was so late, or she could be at her boyfriend’s. I prayed she would be. But she could also be home, she could be awake, she could lay into me, kick me out of the apartment even. Where would I go? Where would I live? As long as I could avoid her, I could keep my home. I couldn’t go back to Freud; he had locked the door of the bar as I left. I could sleep on the street. I could get hit by a car. But twenty steps had passed. I had arrived. I would be as silent as I could, see if I could avoid her. I walked up the stairs that stretched over our landlady’s garden apartment to our door. How the fuck could you do that to Sam? I found my keys. How could you treat him that way—my brother? My hands shook. But it was possible she wasn’t there, she could be at her boyfriend’s, or still at the party, or maybe she was with Sam right now, hearing the whole story—unbelievable, she is unbelievable—plotting their revenge. I unlocked the door. My ears rang. She would kick me out of the apartment, she would tell everyone she knew.

I pushed open the door to our apartment. Jojo was sitting on the stairs that led up to the second floor, to my room. I stood frozen in the doorway.

“You can come inside,” she said. Her face was in the shadows and I couldn’t make out her expression. I edged into the apartment and closed the door behind me, but didn’t lock it, in case I needed to bolt.

“Have you been sitting here waiting for me?” I said.

“I was just talking to Sam.” She had her phone in one hand and tapped it against her other palm a few times, like a baseball bat.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. I felt faint and wondered if I would pass out.

“For which parts?”

“All the parts.”

“List them.”

I couldn’t bring myself to describe my behavior, it felt like a step too far. If I started speaking, would I ever stop? Would I tell her I’d put my fingers around Sam’s dick like scissors? Would I tell her how much I’d wanted him to hurt me? Would I keep going, tell her about my parents, how my mother was ashamed of me, how my father was disgusted by me? Worst of all, would I tell her about Freud? I couldn’t say anything, if I said one thing I would say everything, and if I said everything I would have nothing left.