“It’s okay,” I said. I didn’t want to admit how badly I had needed him to say all this. I needed him to say that he’d hurt me, had done something pretty bad, and then I could say that I’d survived it. I thought about reaching for him, but of course I didn’t. “Zeke, you didn’t hurt me. Or, like, yeah, my arm, whatever, but I’m okay.”

“Are you?” he asked, and I could see a little panic move across his features. “Like, you’re here, right? Something must be wrong.”

“Not . . . wrong, exactly. It’s just . . . Zeke, the thing is, a reporter found out that it was me. She knows I made the poster—”

“Oh,” he said, shaking his head.

“—but it’s okay. I told her that I did it. I’m just . . . I’m ready to admit it. And she’s going to write this article about it, and she’s going to interview me. It’s all going to come out.”

“Shit, Frankie,” he said, still shaking his head. “How did she find out?”

“It’s so complicated. I’ll tell you, but, just, right now, I wanted to let you know. It’s going to come out. People are going to know.”

“Did you tell this reporter about me?” he asked.

“I haven’t,” I admitted. “Not a word, I promise.”

“But you’re going to tell her?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t I? Like, you made it, too. We made it, you and me.”

“But, you haven’t told her?” he asked, like he’d found some loophole that he could exploit, the way he leaned forward to look more closely at me. “She doesn’t know?”

“Not yet. That’s what I’m saying, Zeke. I wanted to let you know before I told her.”

There was a long pause. I had to keep scooting a little bit at a time to keep from sinking into the sofa.

“I’m scared, Frankie,” he finally said.

“Me, too,” I told him. “But I don’t know what else to do. I just . . . I think I need to admit it. I feel like I have to say it was me and just kind of see what happens.”

“Frankie?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Could you not tell this reporter about me?” he asked. “Like, just tell her that you did it by yourself?”

“I . . . no, why would—”

“I’m scared. You’re a famous writer, and you can admit it, and it might be interesting to see what happens, but I think I know what will happen to me. I think it will do bad things to me.”

“But, maybe not?” I offered, and it felt so lame. It felt cruel. But I couldn’t stop. “Because it won’t just be you, right? I’ll say that we did it. You and me. And I think maybe I can take whatever scares you and I can handle it.”