I fold in on myself. Bite my tongue to keep from saying too much. “I didn’t realize it was impossible to speak with me.”

His frustration is evident. “You can’t keep living like this!” he yells and it stings. He never yells.

“Like what?” It comes out broken, like a sob.

“Like you’re haunting every room you enter.” He’s looking at me so open, wounded, green eyes glistening with tears he’s too stubborn to let fall. “Be honest, Frances, if not with me, then with yourself. I don’t know how to make you let me in.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, tell me what you want, I beg you!” My emotions boil over like a pot on the stove. There’s no putting them away now.

He shakes his head, his too-long hair falling in waves across his forehead. “I don’t want anything from you, Frances.”

“Fine.” My voice is thick. Tears rush down my cheeks. “Then you’ll get nothing.”

We look at each other, my face wet with hot tears. He doesn’t cry, but his mouth is turned down into an awful scowl. I am laid bare under his gaze and I hate it.

I stomp over to Lena and Maxine right as the train pulls up. They say nothing about my tear-streaked face, but Lena rests a comforting hand on my shoulder.

Pascal goes to sit in another train car, this time without protest. He looks upset, but no one knows yet just how far we can trust him, so he slinks off, uncomforted and alone.

In the gentle rocking of the quiet train car, it’s easy to pretend that what happened back at the lake was a dream. Or that I’m someone else. What a comfort it would be to be anyone else on this train but me.

My skirt is still wet. It sticks to the fabric of the seats. I’ve stopped crying but my eyes still sting and I have no doubt my face is puffy and red. Oliver doesn’t look much better. I can’t stand that I’m the one who’s made him look that sad.

His words weigh heavy on my chest. I cannot love you if you don’t let me know you.

“I want to explain,” I confess, my head resting against the window. “I’m just not sure where to begin.” I don’t know how to make Lena and Maxine understand, but I’m less afraid of telling them than I am of Oliver. They have no Frances-shaped rose-colored glasses to be torn off. They see me for who I am, for better or for worse. I’m less afraid they’ll cut themselves on the jagged parts of me.

“It’s a long train ride. We have time,” Maxine replies.

“Will you tell us the whole of it?” Lena asks.

“Please, Frances,” Oliver echoes.