There’s no telling anyone. No sharing this burden. It’s mine. It’s my body.

I clutch the pillow and cry.

—

I come down around dinnertime, after about an hour of listening to Mom’s and Scarlett’s laughter and the clanks of cookery echoing through the house.

They look chummy as usual. Mom drinks a glass of red wine, Scarlett drinks a Diet Dr Pepper through a curly straw, and they huddle over a magazine. It’s a scene I’m familiar with. The two of them, thick as thieves, not caring about the things I care about.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Mom says, spotting me in the dark of the living room. “You want a glass of wine?”

My head is still misery, and I know I can’t get buzzed from it, but I say yes anyway.

Scarlett refuses to meet my eye, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why.

“Your sister tells me you have a boyfriend,” Mom says, pouring my glass to the brim. “I always liked Ian. Good manners. Calm. He had positive energy. Lovely light blue aura. You know, I ran into him last time I was here. I told you, they never stay that skinny. I like a man like that. Burly. Like a big bear.”

I put my head down on the counter, feel its coolness against my forehead.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Scarlett says.

“Oh!” Mom says. “I didn’t . . . Oh, I’m sorry. Not like a bear.”

I hear her set my wineglass down. I pick my head up so I can chug it.

“I’m sorry, baby. I forgot about that,” she says. “You know, I only heard about it from your sister. I did call. And text. Many times. I wish you’d called me back. After something like that.”

I finish the wine and set the glass back down.

“More, please.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re seeing someone,” Mom says, honoring my request for more wine. “Life isn’t meant to be lived alone.”

“It is,” I say. “By design.”

She makes a disapproving smacking noise with her mouth.

“And let me just say,” I start, continuing despite Scarlett’s eye roll. “One, I’m not really alone. I have Scarlett. I have a twin. I came in a set. Two, I don’t have a boyfriend. Ian Pedretti is not my boyfriend. It’s not happening.”

I lean back and pour the wine straight down my throat.

I should not have gotten out of bed.

“Why not?” Mom asks.

“Because,” I say, “I’m going back to the city in five months.”

“And what will you do there? What are you doing there?”

“My job. My career. Making damn good money. Experiencing everything the greatest city in the world has to offer. Going to museums. Seeing friends. Having casual fun with strangers I never have to see or think about ever again. I’m living the dream.”

“Going to museums,” Scarlett mutters under her breath.

“I always thought you’d make a great teacher,” Mom says, sipping her wine. “You’re generous but no-nonsense. And so smart.”