“I was sixteen, Lawrence.” You weren’t reckless or irrational, I want to say. You were happy. We both were. “I was a girl.”

“You were of age. That’s the story. If that’s the story it doesn’t matter. Besides, he needs you to build a case, right?” Lawrence studies the wall as he speaks. His fingers play a silent piano on the conference room table. “Without you, he has nothing.”

Like I said, I know Lawrence, intimately; I know every line, every muscle, every freckle. I’ve traced the birthmark on his inner thigh with my tongue. So I know he’s calculating not just his next move but his fifth, tenth, fifteenth move down the line. Moves that may or may not bring us to the forever he promised me.

I can’t risk it. I’m too scared. “You’re right,” I say. I pull my concealer out of my bag. “Without me, Haggerty has nothing.” I shift my body closer.

Lawrence’s head swivels toward the door, as if remembering where we are.

“No one is out there,” I assure him, dabbing makeup on his skin. I press my lips to his hair. “You’re mine, Lawrence. My sweetheart. No one knows you the way I do. No one knows what you like. I’ll do anything you want. A sexy dance, another woman, two men—your call.” I lick his earlobe, suck it until he shivers. “I’ll drain your cock dry in one go.”

He moves away. “Cassie, come on.” But he’s suppressing a grin, an all-boy, sneaky, mischievous one. He’s hard as a rock.

Remember this, I tell myself. He’s a dirty dog you can train.

“We had a plan, Sweet Girl. Just a few more days.” Under the table, his hand strokes his crotch. Head back, eyelids fluttering, he’s lost. “After that, it’s you and me.” Then, as if to remind himself, he adds, “I promise.”

Remember, remember becomes a mantra, a necessary directive, my key to survival. I’m trying, I’m trying, but the past is elusive and the now is slippery. I’m not sure what’s true anymore. What rights do I have here? What is mine to demand?

Years ago, in the hospital, the therapist explained that my feelings for men, for Marcus, were confused and confusing. Somewhere along the way my wires got crossed then shorted out. I didn’t understand at sixteen, but now I think I do. All this time, I’ve been confusing pity with desire, gratitude with devotion, obligation with passion. But even if pity and gratitude are shitty reasons to hang on, they’re still reasons. They’re my reasons. Besides, why do I need reasons in the first place? Why does it matter? You can’t choose who you love. Love chooses you.