That night, when Molly went home, she took Mr. Barlow with her—the two of them leaving my mom asleep upstairs in our house. When I was getting into bed with Grace, she said she was sorry she ever used the word weird for anyone in my family. “Em is alone tonight—I doubt she’s sleeping with your mother,” Grace told me. “You should go find Em and sleep with her—I know you would rather be in bed with Em than with me, anyway,” Grace said, but she said it nicely. There was no edge to it. “Just don’t sleep with your mom,” Grace added, as I went looking for Em. That had an edge to it.

I found Em in the guest bedroom I’d moved my clothes to. “You have enough clothes for the rest of your life,” Em said to me. “I’m sorry about your mom,” she said, holding me while I cried. “You’re my rescue job now,” Em told me. A little later, she said, “I’ve not thought about two writers living together—I’m trying to imagine it.”

“I’ve thought about it—I can imagine it,” I told her. My hand inadvertently touched her breast. I hadn’t meant to touch her there. I put my hand somewhere more neutral, like her hip—a bony part of her hip, I think, but I’m not sure where my hand ended up.

“You imagine things faster than I can—as a writer,” Em said.

“Imagining things faster isn’t necessarily a virtue—not as a writer,” I said.

“The idea of two writers living together—I’m trying to imagine it,” Em repeated. Very slowly, but deliberately, she took my hand from her hip, or wherever that bony part was, putting it back on her breast. We fell asleep this way—two writers, trying to imagine what was possible.

In the morning, around the time Matthew usually came looking for me, Em reminded me that my mother was alone in one of the guest bedrooms. “You should be with her, I think—I’ll bet Ray would like that,” Em said.