I look down at the book in my lap. There are no words on the page anymore, not even when I put my finger underneath the line so I can focus. He walks across the kitchen, and I watch his feet go by. He goes into their bedroom, and I can hear him moving around, opening and shutting drawers, banging things. There’s no reason to be afraid of Mike Lyle, I tell myself, just because he’s in California, he’s the same guy he’s ever been, just a loser in a shiny car. It occurs to me that I should go into the bathroom and just put my clothes on wet, and then leave. I don’t need to say another word to him. I close the book, but then he comes out of the bedroom, goes in the bathroom himself, and shuts the door. I listen to the sound of my clothes scraping around in the dryer. I wish I’d never washed them. It seems like the worst idea I ever had.

When the door opens again, he stands there without moving, but I don’t look up. “Hey,” he says softly. He’s smiling.

“You tried on her things,” he says.

“No.”

He holds out the body stocking. It lies across his hands like a long black rope. “You stretched it out,” he says. “These things aren’t cheap.” While I watch, he wraps it around each hand and pulls it tight so it looks like a cord, and his smile disappears. Then he laughs. “I’m just kiddin’ around, you know that. We’re old friends, you and me.” He walks over to me with the body stocking coiled around one hand. I tighten my grip on Moby Dick. He drops it into my lap, kind of coils it on the book. He chuckles. “I’m just playing with you,” he says. “Just like you do when you’re home, you play with people. But you’re not home now.” He moves a strand of damp hair from front to back, and as he does so, drags a fingernail across the side of my neck. He stands very close, breathing down on me. He works his fingers into my hair on the back of my head. Everything goes white for a second, and I hear wind rushing in my ears.

“I like your hair long,” he whispers. “Rich girl.” His leg is against my arm. “Your long blond hair. Rich girl,” he says again.

“I’m not rich.”

I move my arm. He steps even closer so that I am aware of his penis pushing out the front of his pants and I can feel the heat of it against the side of my arm. I move my arm away, but he steps in closer, and this time he starts rubbing against it. “You think you’re better than we are, don’t you?” He waits for me to answer.

“No,” I whisper.