“Aww, Conor. I’m sure you were the handsomest pimply eighteen-year-old in the world. So, you asked her if she’d been hired, and she…?”

“Immediately admitted that she had been sent to, and this is the expression she used, take my virginity, as I was now of age.”

“And you told her…?”

“That my virginity was long gone, and that her services were not required, but that she should get as much money as possible out of my father. She sat in my room and showed me pictures of her cats and of her recent vacation in Majorca, we chatted for about twenty minutes, and then she left.”

“Were you mad at your dad?”

“Yes, but not because of this. Frankly, I was proud.”

“Of him?”

“Of myself, for managing to hide the sexual experiences I’d had from a guy who constantly set private investigators after his children.”

“He did? Couldn’t he just…ask?”

He smiles like I live in a world in which hammer sharks and clownfish frolic together in the ocean, and no blood is ever spilled. He shifts into me and presses the button for the fifth floor.

“Wait, wait, wait.” The rise begins. “Your brothers—did he do it just for you…?”

“I highly doubt it.”

I cringe. “God. Rich people are messed up.”

“And we’ve got money for therapy, which leaves us no excuses.”

The suite where he’s staying is larger than my apartment, and nothing like the sleek mid-century decor I usually find in American hotels. It’s a master class in European elegance, and probably wasted on me, but as soon as Conor sets me on the floor, I begin exploring like it’s my job.

“Can I steal the toiletries?” I ask, glancing around the spotless bathroom.

“Do you need me to buy you shampoo?”

“Nah, I just want the thrill of the crime.”

“You may take them, but sorry to inform you, it’s not theft.”

“Forget about it, then. Oh my god, have you seen this shower?”

“I did. What’s so special about it?”

“It’s giant. It’s a sex shower!” I really am drunker than I thought.

He’s clearly trying not to laugh. “Every shower is a sex shower, if you want it enough.”

“You know what? Good point.” I brush past him on my way out of the bathroom, a little woozy. “Can I lie on your bed?” I ask, letting myself flop on the mattress before he agrees. There has been no conversation about me sleeping here. I didn’t ask, he didn’t offer. And yet, I know I’m not going back to my place. Because I don’t want to be with Georgia and Alfie. Because I’m exhausted.

Because of other reasons.

There are little cogs in my head, grinding, and I hope Conor can’t hear them. Yet.

“There’s another bedroom across the living room, too,” he says, but I ignore him and turn on my back, starfishing, smiling at the ceiling, sinking in the soft cloud of the comforter. “Hey, can I ask you for a favor?”