I go by my own house on the way back.

It’s early, and Ciro is at work anyway. I’ve become efficient at suppressing bleak thoughts. I do it automatically now, start thinking about something beautiful, a quick segue into flamingo lilies and hibiscus.

I shower while I concentrate. Hibiscus. Hibiscus. Flamingo lilies. But then my mind strays to sweet, poor Silk. Again, I compare our pasts, our presents. I compare our appearances.

I do what I’ve done lately, remind myself that she’s in San Francisco. She did get a contract with Harmony Femme. She’s gone, away from us. Now, all I have to deal with is his job.

My finals, Mom being about to get released from the safe, private treatment center Ciro insisted on. It’s not all negative. Objectively, I know that. But it makes it hard to concentrate on hibiscus and flamingo lilies.

“What’s wrong, Savannah?”

“Oh nothing. Just something in my throat.”

“B.S. What is it? I don’t want you sad.”

“Hey, everyone needs downtime from happy.”

“It’s my work again, isn’t it?”

I shook my head. We weren’t going to have this conversation again. I knew what I went into when I became his girlfriend this time. At some point in the future, I’d have full control of even my most fragile moments. Just, for now he sent me into a tailspin even by coming home late from work.

“Do you like gumbo? I never asked you.” My voice trembled, but I reined it in toward the end.

“Yeah.” His eyes didn’t leave my face, so I turned and strode into the kitchen.

“Good, because I bought shrimp and Applewood bacon. I took the liberty of giving Mrs. Brandt the night off. Hope that’s okay?”

“Of course it is.”

“Get prepared to be wowed, Mr. Silveira.”

Tonight is different. It’ll be a good night as long as I can rinse my thoughts in the shower. Ana and Aaron will be there. Frieda and Charlotte both work, and Sam has the early shift at the theater, but Ciro still invited all my friends.

“It’s time,” he told me. “Frieda seems slightly less pissed at me these days. Maybe if I wine and dine all of your friends at once?”

“They’ll come way after dinner, though,” I reminded him.

“Which is why we’ll have tapas.”

I arrive at the bunker at six. As I key myself onto his property, that old sensation of doomsday prickles my nerves. It’s one I haven’t felt in a while.

I scan the driveway and the space behind the guest house. No extra cars, and the front door is closed. I fight the urge to peek inside his garage to see if he’s back... or if there are unfamiliar cars in there. Like shiny red convertibles.

Pull yourself together.

This is my day. Of all days, my boyfriend would not jeopardize my happiness today. It was my first final exam at college level. He knows I’d want to celebrate or need a cheering up. He loves me. I know this.

The front door is locked. Good. Good sign. I beep in the code and enter quietly. Princess doesn’t react when I start on the stairs. Where’s her single-bark greeting?

I’m silent, climb step after step. Over the doggie gate. Ciro’s shoes are here, socks on top, by the banister. The same black ones he wore this morning.

Moans sieve out from the upstairs guestroom. Her guestroom. Deep, silky moans that go straight my abdomen. They’re my baby’s. With someone. The sound is perfect, intimate—

The agony spears me in one, swift, black stab.

Has he ever been this euphoric with me?

I crumble. I run. I rage. I cry. I do it in my head.

I move on, past the bathroom. Toward the guestroom. The door is closed. I don’t remember the color of the sheets in there. I hope they’re not red.

Tears sprout. Fall. I’m silent. I won’t break down, and I won’t flee. You learn from past crises, you know, even as your heart bleeds out. Each disaster makes it easier. Each crisis makes you think clearer—finally, finally I know Status Quo is an illusion.

My fingers stretch over the door, pressing against it as my cheek meets the panel. My baby, my love whispers, “Oh god, you feel so good—

“Ah you’re so tight—

His words become undistinguishable, disappearing in groans of intense pleasure, and I shut my eyes as tears bathe me. I—

listen to his breathing grow heavier

my exorcism and me listen

I soak up the pain so I will never forget that

porn stars can’t be boyfriends

porn stars are emotionally stumped

porn stars betray those who love them

I draw mucus down my nose and throat. He was a good actor, my boyfriend. So good at making me believe he could love back.

“I’m coming. Oh yeah, swallow, sugar. Take the whole load.” His groan is so loud I flinch. I’m not leaving. This is the last time, and I’m not afraid anymore.

He quiets. I hold my breath, listening as I move my hand to the doorknob. I jump back when he starts up again, and—and I hear the girl.

I let out a sob—she sobs too, in ecstasy. “Fuck me. Fuck me harder.”

His strangled groan tells me he’s doing what she asks of him, and that voice—

“God, you’re so big. So good”—I know that voice. I’ve heard her words before when she whimpers, “I don’t know what to do!”