“I also lead tours here, I have Americans in my group all the time. I’ve had people nearly recognize me. If the context wasn’t so bizarre, they’d see right through me even without the name.”

“Is it helping?” he asks. “Getting away?”

“As much as anything can help.”

“I understand.” He does and he doesn’t, of course. The isolating, maddening thing is that as much as he wants to, he never quite will. I don’t blame him, but I can’t say I don’t illogically resent it, and not just with him but also with everyone. Of course, of course I’m not that special in having been through a tragedy; my suffering isn’t at all unique, but the circumstances are. There are no support groups for people whose family members have Munchausen syndrome by proxy, there are no gala fund-raisers for research, no 10K runs. There’s no shared language of healing the way there is around other traumas. I’ve yet to find a single other refugee from this particular war.

Blair and I retreat into some small talk. I tell him about Cali, about Gemma and Edward with their upper-class drama and his magnificent house. Blair devours his bife de chorizo and goes into gratifying ecstasies over it. The waiters seem to find the speed at which Blair consumes his steak—not to mention an entire provoleta—marvelous. I tell him about my tango lessons. I don’t want him to think I’ve been doing nothing here; I want him to see that I’ve accomplished something.

“Look at you, twinkle toes! That’s an unexpected twist. Though I know you can do anything you throw yourself into. If you’d come down here and learned to be a brain surgeon, I wouldn’t be half surprised.”

“Gianluca is such a good teacher, he’s amazing.” I hear my own voice when I say his name and I’m a little embarrassed at the sound of it coming out of my mouth. It’s as though somehow the moment I mention him, Blair will know I’m sleeping with him.

“That guy from the plaza?” Blair scrunches his nose. “He looks like a sleazebag.”

I laugh. “Excuse me! You’ve never even met him, how can you tell?”

“Men can tell, trust me.”

I roll my eyes. “You just don’t understand tango, you heathen,” I say, trying to wave him off. But I feel the heat in my cheeks, wondering if he only saw us dancing or if he saw us kissing too. Not that it’s any of Blair’s business who I’m kissing, or dancing, or sleeping with.