“Do you want to leave?” Rebecca asks me.

And I say no. I’m happy here. I don’t want to leave.

But still, it’s awkward when Stephanie comes into the den, and I know that means Justin’s somewhere in the house. It’s awkward when I hear him yelling in the kitchen, asking someone where the booze is being hidden.

“Steve will keep him in there,” Stephanie promises me.

But Steve can’t keep him in there, not when there isn’t any booze. Justin comes jumping out into the den, and there it is: me and him, in the same room.

The look on his face when he sees me is awful. Like he’s been tricked. Like I’m the trap.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” he says. He must be three or four beers closer to drunk already. I can tell. He turns to Stephanie. “You knew she’d be here, didn’t you? Why the fuck didn’t you warn me?”

Now Steve’s on the scene, telling Justin to calm down.

“Shit!” Justin says, knocking the nearest cup to the floor. It doesn’t really have the effect he wants. It’s plastic. And full of Sprite.

I’m standing there, and it’s as if I’ve stepped away from myself for a second. I am watching this from a distance. Calmly, I am wondering what he’s going to do next. Yell at me? Spit at me? Throw another cup? Burst into tears?

Instead, he looks at Steve and says, with more feeling than he’d want me to hear, “This sucks.” Then he bolts from the room, out the front door.

Steve moves to follow, but I surprise everyone in the room—including myself—by saying, “No. I’ve got this.”

Steve looks at me curiously. “Are you sure? I have his keys.”

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him. Then, seeing the look on Rebecca’s face, I say it to her, too. “Really. I’ll be right back.”

It’s not hard to find him. I can actually see the glow of his cigarette across the street in the water supply area. It figures he’d head straight to the NO TRESPASSING signs.

I let him take a few drags before I get there.

“I’m coming in,” I warn. Then I skirt around a tree, and end up right in front of him.

I can’t help it. The first thing out of my mouth is, “You look like shit.”

Which means the first thing out of his mouth is, “Well, you made me feel like shit, so that kinda makes sense.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

“Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

“Why, Rhiannon? Why?”

This is worse than the Fuck you. Much worse.

Because now his body is transparent. I see right inside, right to who he is. And he is so upset. So wronged. So surprised.

All along, I’ve wanted to see how much he cared. And now I get to see it. Now, when it’s over.

“How long, Rhiannon? How long were you screwing some other guy? How long were you lying to me?”

“I never screwed him.”

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better. The best kind of slut is one who won’t put out!”

I’ve humiliated him. I’ve been so busy being humiliated that I haven’t realized how badly I’ve humiliated him.

“I am so, so sorry,” I say.

I should be crying. But what I feel is different from sorrow. It’s horror.

“It’s okay if you hate me,” I say.

He laughs. “I don’t need your permission to hate you. Jesus! Listen to yourself!”

I wish I could blame A. I wish I could say it’s A’s fault. But all A did was show me who Justin wasn’t. And instead of dealing with that, I ran away. I pretended. And then I was caught.

“I don’t just hate you, Rhiannon,” Justin says. “I hate you more than I ever thought it was possible to hate anyone. Do you know what’s worse than being destroyed? It’s being destroyed by someone who was never worth it. If you want me to let you off the hook—if you want me to tell you that I’m okay with everything—well, all I have to say to that is that I hope you stay on this hook for as long as you fucking live. I hope you feel it every time you kiss that guy. I hope you feel it every time you think about kissing anyone. I hope it keeps you awake at night. I hope you never sleep again. I hate you that much. So go back to that lame-ass party and drink soda and get out of my face.”

“No,” I say, faltering. “No—we need to talk. I need to tell you—”

“Fine. New plan. I am going to go back there, get Steve and my keys, and drive the hell away. You can stay here. I hereby give you custody of this shitty reservation. Do not follow me, and please do not talk to me ever again.”

He flicks his cigarette to the ground and walks away. I jump forward—not to follow him, but to make sure the cigarette doesn’t set everything on fire.

What have I done what have I done what have I done?

Even as I’m thinking this on repeat, I’m also thinking it’s a little too late to be asking this question.

I want to wake up tomorrow in another body, another life. But I don’t really want that. What I’m realizing is that for all the time I’ve spent with A, for all the time I’ve thought about A and A’s life, I missed the most important part: Do no damage. Somehow A can manage it in the course of a day, but I couldn’t manage that in the course of a real, continuous life.