Love me like you love Sam, I thought. Love me.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, “for all the parts, like I said.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“For being an asshole, a despicable person,” I said, and she began to shake her head, “for treating your brother like shit, I obviously don’t deserve him or anyone, for grabbing your arm, it was a horrible thing to do—”

“It’s okay,” she said, and I knew I had warped the conversation so that now she was comforting me, but I couldn’t help myself. “It’s okay, you can stop, I forgive you.” She had realized I was a pathetic creature, not the formidable one she thought she’d been addressing.

“I can move out,” I said.

“What?”

“Isn’t that what you were about to say? You’ve realized what I’m really like, who I really am, and you want me to move out?”

“No,” she said. “That’s not what I was saying, at all.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying, I would be fucked if you moved out all of a sudden,” she said. “I can’t afford—”

“You’re just being nice,” I said.

“I’m not! Can you stop for a second and listen—”

A wave of nausea passed over me, and this time I knew there was no amount of stillness that would cause it to pass. I yanked open the door and puked over the railing, into the bushes. Jojo came onto the landing and put her hand on my back.

“Are you okay?” she said.

I spit the sourness out of my mouth and, after several moments, turned to look at her. She was disgusted by the vomit, I could tell, but I saw, too, a flicker of genuine concern. I felt my chin wobbling.

“You’re so pretty,” I said.

She pursed her lips and swallowed, like I’d said the worst thing, then cupped my shoulder.

“Get some rest,” she said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

Chapter 6

I awoke in the foggy haze of morning. I had hardly slept and was still half submerged in my dream. It had been raining in Vienna. The rain was gothic, the monstrous buildings looming over slick streets. My dream-self had felt awful, so I’d gone out for a drink. I’d forgotten my umbrella, and as I walked the rain grew from a drizzle to a downpour. My jeans and T-shirt stuck to me, my hair became seaweed, rain pounded the crown of my head. Birds swooped off the bare trees in arcs, their wingbeats amplified by the rain. Most times this acute kind of sadness made me panic, but I sank into it, finding a richness there.

The café was grimy, dark, overly warm, with too many tables and walls covered with magazine clippings and posters. At the bar, a thin, tall man with a pert mustache moved languorously.

“Could I borrow a towel?” I stretched out my forearms, which dripped onto the bar. My hair streamed in rivulets. He stared at me with contempt as he wiped the counter underneath, jostling my arms, before he handed me the now-dirty dishrag.