“What did Sam tell you?” I asked.

“Not much,” she said. She remained sitting, elbows propped on her knees, holding her phone between them, but her posture straightened as I approached. Her hair, in a ponytail, was curled around the side of her neck to rest on her collarbone. “He told me he made it clear he liked you,” she said, eyeing me, but I didn’t respond. “And that something happened. He didn’t tell me what, but after what happened between us”—here she stretched out her arm, the one I had grabbed—“I can imagine.”

“What did he say, exactly?” I edged toward her. So I’d touched her arm—so what? So I’d wanted Sam to hurt me—did that make me a villain? “Did he say I was a crazy bitch? I wanted him to pull my hair. Okay? That’s it. Do we live in the fucking nineteenth century?” My voice had gone cold, my eyes narrow. I felt vicious.

“It sounded like maybe it wasn’t what you did, but the way you did it,” she said, matching my tone, even adding a layer of pretentious lilting, like she was explaining a simple concept to a simple child. Her jaw was clenched, but I could see her knuckles white around her phone: Anger? Fear?

“Why did you introduce me to him, anyway?” I said. “You knew what I was! Why did you even let me live here?”

“What?” she said, squinting, as though she were genuinely puzzled.

“We went to the same school.”

“I didn’t know that much about you, to be honest,” she said.

“You knew I was a slut!”

She shook her head, bewildered.

“Don’t joke,” I said. “Don’t lie. I know people talk.”

“Not really,” she said. “Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with sleeping around. Who would I be to judge that?”

“But you are judging!” I said, and saw her shake her head, her expression softened and sad. She had reversed course too suddenly, and I realized why: though I wasn’t crying—I was trying desperately not to—I could feel the heat in my face. I tried to summon back my anger. “Why would you introduce me to Sam if you knew?” I said. “Why? And why would you even let me live here?”

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t introduce you to Sam, we all just happened to be out together last night,” she said, and my face flushed with hurt again, she was right—“but, but, when I saw he liked you, I was happy for him, for both of you. I mean, why not? Same reason I gave you the room—I mean, I needed to fill it quickly—but! But! I really liked you, remember, you brought over the chocolates”—my mother’s suggestion—“we talked for an hour about Tolstoy, you asked all about my thesis—”

“I made a good first impression,” I said.

“That’s not what I’m saying. And I don’t care who you sleep with, I don’t care what you do, except when it’s with my brother,” she said. “I love him, my siblings are the most important people to me in the world, and he feels like shit right now.”