Dallas stops stirring the pasta and looks at her, his brows furrowed. Pretend, maybe. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks. “Is it something to do with school?” He walks over and wraps his arms around her, pulling her into him. “Is there some kind of weird rock thing you’re having trouble with?”

He always refers to her work as “weird rock things.” It’s a joke between them, something they share that no one else does. Tanya considers telling him about Finn and Ross’s visit. Maybe telling him her own secrets will inspire him to tell her his.

“Depositional placer accumulations,” she says instead. “I’m not getting the results I was hoping for. It’s screwing with my data. I might have to reconsider my entire hypothesis.” Another joke from so long ago she can’t remember why it’s funny anymore.

Dallas growls and bites her ear. His beard smells like spaghetti sauce. He is never going to write a play for her. But she will never leave him. She will never leave him.

NINETEEN

2003

Nicki wakes up, head throbbing, and runs to the bathroom to vomit. Good fucking god, what have I done? she thinks, hands shaking, head pressed against the toilet seat, feeling as though a thousand-pound weight has dropped from the sky and onto her back, keeping her pinned there. She can still taste the tequila coating the insides of her mouth, can still smell the tinny, stale-beer smell of the bar, and can definitely still hear Dallas snoring in the next room. It isn’t even a dawning of sick recognition that hits her then, just a slow resigned sigh, like of course that’s Dallas snoring in the next room, who else would it be? And here she is, kneeling on the bathroom floor of some seedy motel and throwing up like she’s in fucking high school, for Christ’s sake.