Hal’s mother, a hulking landscape gardener, had always gotten along with Justine, but also suspected her of being a little tough for her son. The first evening after dinner, Sybil took out her computer to show off Hal’s big acting break in a long-running cop series. Hal tried to prevent this, but he didn’t try too hard, so he and Justine sat folded up together on the couch, his arm around her, and they all watched the episode, in which Hal played a weepy heroin addict. He had three highly emotional scenes—screaming scenes, crying scenes. Watching him, Justine could tell he wasn’t really feeling anything. He was just screwing up his face. It was fakery. She kept trying to tell herself it shouldn’t matter—that there was something wrong with her if it mattered so much. Yet, despite her wishes, she felt a shovel full of ash fall gently over her bright heart, extinguishing it. The next day, she took the train back to the city, sat down with Elliot, and poured a glass of wine. You’d think this whole clusterfuck would end here, but no.

Justine took the bus home to Connecticut to visit her father, a melancholic yet gregarious Frenchman, and her father’s Serbian girlfriend Behida. Justine’s mother had died when she was twelve, and Behida had been around for the past few years, which was a relief because her father had been inconsolable after the death of his wife. The minute Justine got home, she went upstairs to her old room and fell asleep on top of the bed. She woke to a spectral body of light glimmering on the pink ceiling. She looked out the window and there was dusk happening all across the lawn, golden rays strewn over the trees like great webs. She took her old Leica outside and started snapping. Eventually, a car drove up; she recognized her father’s friend Anouk exiting the car. Anouk waved at Justine, her bracelets jangling. Then this guy around Justine’s age got out of the car, too. He was all in black, tall, broad-shouldered, pallid. “This is Joseph,” said Anouk. “He’s writing the new screenplay with me.”