“Whoa, Ruby, no.” Oscar crouched to stop me. “You are not my housekeeper.”

“You can’t have it both ways! I can’t be the answer to everything, your entire symphony, and not even know who you are. Not, you know, do stuff like this to actually help!”

“Why don’t you relax,” he said, rubbing my back. “Go sit on the bed. I’ll do this.”

I stared at him for one heartbeat. Two. Three. Tears pooling, breath still.

“Do you remember that day you called me an object?”

Oscar frowned. Waiting.

“You were so embarrassed, but it didn’t bother me. At all. Honestly.” My hand started shaking again. I opened and shut it, tight. “Do you know why? Because I fucking am one.”

I stood. He stayed crouched, watching me with wide eyes.

I picked up a composition page and waved it at him. “This is all I have to offer. Tidying up. Do you get that? Let me be your Roomba.”

He stood up slowly, looking like he wanted to laugh but didn’t dare. “You can clean if you want to clean, Ruby . . .”

“I don’t want to clean!”

Now I was the one laughing, hot tears streaming past my chin.

“I don’t want to be your housekeeper, your plus one, your muse, Oscar, I don’t want to sit on the bed and relax anymore. I want this.” I clenched the composition page tighter, staring at all the notes he’d scribbled out. “I know it’s selfish, but yeah. I want to write symphonies. Sing beautifully, play brilliantly, I want to matter! I want to matter to you, enough for you to . . . trust me. On a basic level. For anyone to.”

I let the paper drop onto the floor again.

“Or, failing that . . .” And I am failing that. “I just—I want out. Out out out, forever out.”

Oscar shook his head. “What do you mean?”

Of course he’s confused. He will never have to understand this.

I sputtered wordlessly into the ceiling—then shouted, “I want to be a small-town baker!”

He burst out laughing. “What?!”

“I want to get amnesia and start over,” I said, my words barely audible through my sobs. “Away from here. A new name, everything. I can’t . . .”

I started for the door, room spinning.

Oscar reached for me but didn’t grab hold. “Ruby . . . I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought I was protecting us. Obviously it was a mistake.”

I turned on him.

“No, see, here’s the thing, Oscar. You aren’t protecting us—you’re protecting me. From seeing what you’re going through, from discomfort, guilt, from looking hard at myself . . . I don’t even know what. You’re protecting me from reacting. I think deep down you want somebody you can keep over here, who’s got their shit together, who can be your back-up life raft, who can sit nicely and listen . . .”

“That is not—”