“It’s just not fair,” I said. “I was actually looking forward to sharing the dreamworld with her. I mean, I hadn’t figured out the exact logistics yet, but I wanted to. And now we’ll never have that. I might not have that with anyone.”

“You don’t know that,” Damien said. “Just … next time you have a girlfriend, don’t go into her dreams without permission. Or just never go into her dreams.”

The thought of having another girlfriend—one who isn’t Emily—made me feel queasy, but hearing that particular advice from Damien of all people really grated on me.

“I can’t just not go into her dreams,” I said. I’m still not sure I believe that that’s a lie. “I’m not going to never sleep around my partner and when I sleep, I dreamdive. It’s a pretty simple equation.”

“But you’ve got pretty good control over it now, right?” he said. “So I’m sure you could work it out.”

“Why does everyone assume it’s so goddamned easy to do that? To just not do the thing my body wants to do.”

“Look,” he said, “all I’m saying is that it seems that going into the dreamworld is the source of all your problems. Maybe take it away.”

“It’s only the source of my problems because no one will ever give me a chance to explain that it’s not … it’s not a creepy thing!” I said, my face heating in an effort to get Damien to understand. He’s the one person who’s supposed to. “You said yourself that it’s not our fault. It’s like any other Atypical ability—I didn’t get to choose it.”

“But you choose to spend all that time in the dreamworld,” he said.

“And you choose to be an asshole,” I snapped. “At least my dumb, destructive choices never put anyone in danger.”

“What, you think you’ve never hurt anyone?” he asked. “You think it didn’t hurt your family that, after learning your dad is dying, you chose to spend two months in some other place entirely instead of spending time with them?”

“Fuck you.”

I don’t know why I didn’t get up and leave in that moment, but I was stuck to that stupid vinyl booth, looking at Damien’s stupid, sad face.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” I wasn’t being glib when I asked that, I genuinely wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly, he spoke so quietly.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, only slightly louder. “That was way out of line.”

“Oh,” I said, picking at the corner of the paper place mat to avoid making eye contact. “No, you—you’re right. I hate that you’re right, but you’re right.”