I’d done all my research, I knew I was the exact woman he was looking for, so why wasn’t he answering me back? For the love of God, why was this taking so long?

That weekend, I stayed at home, lying naked on my mattress for most of the day, unwilling to install my own window AC unit for fear of it falling and killing whoever happened to be walking out of the Chinese food place below me at that moment. That would be a horribly embarrassing way to go, and I decided I would not contribute to that narrative. So instead, I opened the windows, let the stuffy still air fill my stifling apartment, and I found Veronica’s Instagram account again.

It wasn’t that I was stalking him—or any of them—it’s that I knew what needed to happen: we needed to go out again, I needed to be with him. I’d do whatever it took. Waiting for someone else to get on the same page is as exhausting and frustrating as waiting for your own death.

As I was lying there, my phone extended precariously over my nose, a new photo popped up on her page. It was Veronica, an effervescent smile slapped across her face, standing next to Reed, the brother, who was beaming at his wife in a way that made my throat hot with bile. In their hands, pointed toward the camera, was an ultrasound. I’ve got a troublemaker on my hands! the caption read, paired with blue heart and baby bottle emojis.

They were having a baby. Bringing a child into the world. A boy.

We didn’t need any more boys like them in the world. We didn’t need them teaching sons their ways, setting a moral code, establishing right and wrong.

Nausea overcame me and I rolled over just fast enough to throw up on my sweaty pillowcase.

After I caught my breath, I tossed my phone across the room and stood to start stripping the sheets. I didn’t have a second pair so I’d either have to go to the Laundromat tonight or sleep on a bare mattress. I couldn’t stand the smell of throw-up.

As I pulled the pillowcase off the bed, an anticipatory fizzle of anxiety hit my chest.

Well, at least Graham will respond to me soon, I thought. Nothing pressures someone to get a girlfriend like a sibling’s baby announcement.

The gallery opening in Chelsea was filled with the kind of people I was trying to be friends with—people like Lena but less interesting. It’s a strange crowd, where straitlaced Harvard business money meets Oberlin girls with pierced nipples and arm tattoos. Though I guess it’s often Harvard business money that breeds Oberlin girls with pierced nipples and arm tattoos. If you’re twenty-three, with an art show, Daddy’s paying for it somehow.