The sex was bland, but that’s what happens when you’re fucking on two-hundred-dollar sheets in a room with views of Central Park compared to the last time when you were in the bathroom of a bar with sticky floors and God Loves Dick subtly engraved into the brand-new molding. That’s what happens when you whitewash the sexy filth.

Graham fell asleep almost immediately, spooning my naked body like he was afraid if he let me go, I’d disappear. I didn’t expect him to be so affectionate. He seemed like the kind of guy who would roll over, falling into the kind of deep sleep that allowed him to forget I was there and wake up a little surprised. Oh...hi!

Once he was snoring in my ear, his chest heaving up and down with every breath, I snaked out of his heavy grip carefully, making sure not to shake him or the bed too much. I don’t sleep. I haven’t since that night Ruthie didn’t come home and I especially couldn’t here, in a strange bed with a strange man. If I let my guard down who knows what he would do.

I pulled a thick gray robe off the back of Graham’s closet and slipped into it as I snuck out of the room, shutting the door behind me so I’d have some audible warning if he were to wake up and come looking for me.

I walked around the room, turning off all the lights that Graham left on in our haste to get to the bedroom. I wanted to be in the dark. The best sleuthing happens in the dark, when I feel removed from time, like it could be 10:00 p.m. or 4:00 a.m. and I wouldn’t know.

I started in the bathroom. Under the sink: Clorox, the Laundress laundry detergent—his mom bought that, for sure—a four-pack of bamboo toilet paper—environmentally conscious—a plunger. On the counter: an electric toothbrush, whitening toothpaste, mouthwash, hand soap. He cares about his teeth. I saved the best for last, the medicine cabinet: a half-finished Kiehl’s facial cream—he moisturizes, interesting—a slew of shaving accessories, some toothbrush head replacements, deodorant—Degree Men Sport, just like every man I’ve ever met—a comb with no hair in it, a box of Band-Aids, a box of Icy Hot patches, face wash, Epsom salts—athletic—gummy vitamins, and...prescriptions... Zoloft, Prozac, Lexapro, Celexa. Anxiety. Severe anxiety.

In the living room, I took my phone out of the purse I’d dropped on the floor on my way to the bedroom. A few messages from Lena asking about the date. A few emails from work I won’t open.

I browsed the photos on the built-in bookshelves flanking the television. A line of graduates—as hot as him, as rich as him—standing in their black caps and gowns, smiling in their accomplishments.