I ran characteristically late to meet Catherine and Katrina, and so I took a car, though I hated sharing confined spaces with men; those were the days before you could request a woman driver. The cab ride did not take long, as I had suggested a cafe only a mile from where I lived. During our introductory phone call—a formality to make sure none of us was a scammer—I told the women about my narrow one-bedroom apartment and its excellent, natural light. It’s small, I’d said, turning myself in a circle, naked with bloated belly out and pretty, surveying the space as though to measure my own honesty and accuracy, less to be certain I was not misleading these women whose lives I might change and more to confirm for myself that reality was as I described it. My place isn’t much, I continued, but if you two ever wake up here, it gets the warmest light. Oh, Catherine had replied, we certainly plan to check it out. And I felt in her silence that Katrina agreed.

We planned to meet for non-alcoholic drinks at a twenty-four-hour diner to start, a boundary I established as a means of reassuring myself I was not entirely careless with my life. I was unsettled in the months following my parents’ incarceration. I had no sibling then and hardly a friend I hadn’t hurt. I turned to the apps for sex with greater frequency, telling women who pressed for more that I was having a hard time and could not commit, careful to remind them they were radiant, full of life, and that my opaque behavior was not their fault. The women who did not press gave me a sense of both relief and betrayal. The day I actually met Catherine and Katrina, I did some of what I had done on the day I canceled: I scrubbed grime from my blinds with a toothbrush. I hustled to the pharmacy and bought disinfectant wipes for the counter and the toilet rim. I loaded up on decongestants to save my mind. I brushed my teeth, which, in bad spells, I only did a few nights a week. I believed worthy women would detect the mire under my skin. My grime, a game I played with myself: Which women would I clean up for?

I canceled our first date too close to the meeting time—they called me after I texted. We have our scarves on, Catherine said, and though they’d only sent me photos of them in the summer, bikinis at both Revere and Race Point, I envisioned them in plaid scarves without problem. I managed to say I was sorry, so sorry, but offered no real excuse. The time got away from me, I said, thinking of the toothbrushes now coated in months’ worth of grime. Catherine tsked me and I thought I would be happy to hear that disappointment on a frequent occasion.

So when I ran late, again, on the day we rescheduled, I hustled. Snow had fallen overnight and I wondered if I might shatter a bone or two and how I might use their guilt in my favor. As the cab U-turned to pick me up, I snapped a photo of myself and sent it to Catherine and Katrina. I only had one phone number for them at that point: Catherine’s. The light was not nearly as good outside, all street lights and high beams, and the dark circles under my eyes revealed my instability. Perfect, they replied. We’re on our way, too. They did not send a picture but I trusted.

Moments later, they added, We’ll probably beat you. If we do, look for us outside. I put my phone into my pocket and zipped it. I wore a decidedly hideous coat that winter, one I had found at the local thrift shop. A mecca for hipsters as well as the actually poor in the Boston area where the clothes sat in a disorganized heap on the floor and customers weighed them at the checkout register. This very thick coat, which I tried on over the sweater and leggings I’d worn that fall afternoon, came to just under five dollars. In the car, I tugged at the zipper, up down up, and I thought of their names as one word, CatherineKatrina, then sounds, CKCKCKCKCKCK. My therapist might have called me manic, but she offered compassion-focused therapy for people she described as trauma survivors, so she didn’t provide me with the stability of such a label.

When I arrived at the cafe, hands and face red, it was evening, close to six pm, our scheduled meeting time. I scanned the outdoor seating for my mother, and then my father, and then my dead brother, though I knew none of them were there among the tables. Everything appeared as expected, including Catherine and Katrina sitting not twenty feet from me. There was an empty chair beside them and I hoped they’d had to drag it over themselves. Their photos understated their beauty, and I figured that was a pre-meditated decision; if they looked too especially lovely, a once-in-a-year kind of beauty, expectations might be too high. But if they looked extraordinarily ordinary in the self-selected photos, in real life, they would garner a level of frisson, even, relief. Or perhaps that was only my own rationale in sending out my face, breasts, pubic hair, and feet. My porous understanding of the self was prone to bleeding out. I have never asked them to clarify those early choices.

I walked by the wives and approached the glass door, hoping one or both of them would follow and slam me to the ground. In my daydream, I fell forward mouth open teeth out lips turned up defenseless—I never smiled when I could help it in those days but my fantasy self was finally getting what I wanted, the quick satisfaction of being chased and captured. My dream self slurped vaginal fluid from the pavement no oil no grime no dust only the good stuff and thanked the wives for soothing me with their sharp laughter. In my lived life I didn’t even turn my head.

Understand even then I wanted to be equal parts desired and far-flung.

 
 

A hostess and waitress looked at the same piece of laminated paper and frowned. I wanted to stand between them and help sort it out: Had she been assigned one too many tables before her shift ended? Or the opposite, had she been shafted and now look, her tips weren’t quite what she expected, and was that really fair? I wanted to kiss them both on the mouth.

From behind me, I heard Catherine say, Helen? She did not clear her throat nor reach out and touch my shoulder nor my back. In person, her voice suggested better potential for yelling; she possessed the sort of vocal fry that made men change radio stations and comforted women like myself. I wanted to step farther from her, force her to speak louder and louder. But I was afraid of her then, unsure she’d know how to play my games, and so I turned to face her.

I said, Yes? She tugged my coat at the wrist and led me a step to the side, making room for a couple passing through the door. Catherine said, You didn’t get my text?

I said, What? I wanted to ask her what she smelled and if her nostril hairs ever grew long enough to tug. Between our messages and their profile on the app, our roleplay interests overlapped neatly enough that I was terrified of disappointing them. Mother me meanly, I had texted. The two of them wrote back and informed me that I was using that word incorrectly. Which word they meant—mother or meanly—was never made clear to me. So excited by their correction, their attention as promised, I kept thinking, Be as mean as you promised you could be. With flesh Catherine in front of me, I was saying, What? I looked at her mouth—she was not smiling.

Catherine said, I sent you a text that we would wait for you outside. We saw you rush out of that car and when you blew by us, for a second, we weren’t sure it was actually you. Above her narrowed eyebrows, a whitehead bloomed. I appreciated that she did not cover it for me.

So intense was both Catherine’s calmness and my own shame that I could only apologize. Her hand still on the sleeve of my coat, she led me back to the table. I said, How did you recognize me? I hoped she might say they picked up on my terrible movement or bad blank aura.

You are exactly what you presented yourself as, she said. I turned my hand into a fist and pressed against her fingers clipped at my sleeve. She changed position to hold her wrist to my nose and instructed me to sniff. I did, embarrassed at my own eagerness, and when prompted, told her I smelled nothing.

Nothing, she said without looking at me. You’re sure?

Skin, I said. I mean, good? Great? If she hit me in the mouth my teeth could find a home in her skin. At least, I reasoned, until she knocked one loose.

She said, Good.

Katrina, bundled in a white coat with fur at its collar, held a mug in front of her chin as we approached. People seemed larger at their tables, seats pushed farther out, handbags and backpacks strewn about. I stepped carefully, watching for loose straps and umbrellas, while Catherine ambled ahead. I imagined tugging at the waistband of her jeans and ramming my hand into her underwear from behind. When she pulled a chair out for me I stopped short, stumbled over myself, and, with the wives watching me, sat and said, Thank you. Catherine did not acknowledge me with words, just a glance in my direction as she circled the table to sit beside her wife. Katrina lowered the mug, revealing a trio of red pimples. I imagined pressing pads of tea tree oil to the spots, observing, patiently, their journey to bulbs of white pus. Together, the three of us would burst them.

I could never bring myself to say a simple greeting in such situations. How does one say, Hi, there, when you have already seen one another’s nipples? And so, my first words to Katrina were, Is your collar real fur?

She grinned. Her mouth was lopsided, bent toward the right. She said, Of course not, and fingered the collar. It’s from H&M, last season.

We’re vegan before six, Catherine said. We don’t buy animal products like that. She took a long sip from a cold beverage, rattled the ice around, and sipped it again. She wore no gloves. Her hands were red, admitting one vulnerability none of us could sidestep: we were freezing. No humbling exists like a New England winter. The wives glanced at each one another and back at me with set smiles.

You should try your coffee, Catherine said cheerfully and pushed the mug toward me. Though the coffee lapped around the edges, nothing spilled. I took the mug without touching her.

We asked for oat milk, Katrina said. They have a dairy option here, but we didn’t want to risk it.

Right, of course, I said. I managed to look at their pleased faces and say, Thank you. I meant it. Catherine and Katrina read to me as attentive, perhaps in their steadiness, perhaps in their clearly agreed-upon desire to focus more on me than on each one another, in an effort, I assumed, for us to feel like a tandem instead of a tricycle. These gestures—ordering coffee, considering potential dietary needs, though I myself had none—felt especially unfamiliar to me in the months after my parents committed their crime. Coverage in the local paper withheld the victim’s name, though her age, eighty-six, made it clear to all in our community that the woman left to rot was my father’s mother. If I came from such a stock, who was I if not a brim of evil to be moved away from with careful steps? I carried these shames whenever I met with couples, and whatever kindness they showed me was all the more pronounced because of this. I drank from the mug; the coffee burned my tongue and the top of my mouth. I winced and swallowed a second time.

No allergies, Catherine said. Cow’s milk? Coconut? I shook my head and she asked about peanuts latex sesame shellfish soy walnuts cashews almonds tomatoes and chestnuts. I kept shaking my head, feeling flattered, imagining them cooking for me already. When Catherine reached red meat mango dried fruit avocado and the pollen of birch trees I told them they’d have to try harder to kill me.

Gluten doesn’t even bother me, I said. I’m a tank.

We’re really glad you could make it, Katrina replied as though rehearsed. We were a little worried we scared you off, her wife added.

No, I said, pulling my face into pleasant. I really am sorry about the other day, when I bailed.

Remind me. You had a work thing come up, was it? Catherine spoke carefully, and I could sense she remembered quite clearly I had not given so specific of a reason.

More of a personal thing, I said. But it had nothing to do with you all. In truth, I had consumed a bottle of cough syrup and slept intermittently, content to continue avoiding the outside world after a day of working at home alone. The waitress from before fiddled with the dial of a mushroom heater maybe two feet from us.

What would you do, I said, if it tipped over? I directed this question toward Catherine, though both shook their head no.

Catherine said, You mean if it started a fire?

I said, Right. I was hopeful, awakened, and still cautious: they could be the sort of women who ran for the fire extinguisher, who pulled me out of the way, who rescued a baby.

They looked at each other. Don’t get excited, Catherine said. She nodded at the water jugs and glasses stacked on an empty table to her side, previously missed in my peripheral vision. Nothing living would burn.

I shifted to asking what they would do if I inhaled propane. If there’s a leak, I said.

The wives regarded each other. If you open it up, Katrina said to me, her face on Catherine’s. If you put your mouth right on the lip?

Right, I said. Yes. I was thinking, Come on come on come come on come on.

We’d save you, Catherine said slowly, eyes still on her wife, the first of us three to smile. After about thirty seconds. Sixty seconds of inhalation, give or take, could kill a person, but half of that could be plenty of fun.

You wouldn’t die, Katrina said. Is what she’s getting at.

I believed—still believe—I could see their heat. I felt a fresh assurance that these women might be wonderful enough to hold me beneath water or leave me in dim woods. Brattiness came naturally to me; I never behaved that way as a girl and I wanted the same women who abandoned me to repair me.

I know what she means, I said, and we were all smiling then. Catherine cracked her wrists, a pleasant crinkle. I thought of my mother’s pops and crackles; she taught my brother and me to release our bodies when we were still small enough to trust her. How funny she understood we ached even then.

I took another drink of the coffee before slipping a Dayquil from my pocket and placing it on my tongue. I drank it down hot hot hot. Catherine asked if I was contagious and I felt a thrill, a warmth, and offered my standard line: Just one of those colds. I imagined her offering to examine my throat and wondered how much of her face I could fit inside my jaw. Little, I figured, as my mouth is unusually narrow for an adult.

Catherine tapped her red fingers against her mug. Family? I remember you said you’re from this area, aren’t you? Her voice rang confident and cordial. No sign of the intimacy I thought we’d just established. She, I recalled, was from Connecticut, and Katrina, from coastal Maine.

No, I said, thinking of my parents in separate state correctional facilities. I checked inmate listings a few times a week. I was not yet at the point of obsession where I checked them daily. If my mother and father found me, my good self, my self that was sometimes described as sweet, if a bit taciturn, a bit strange, would turn catatonic. I could not control for every checkmate. I told the women, My family is from Massachusetts, but they don’t come into the city. In light of the New Year, in light of mania, in light of hope, I named the town, a stretch of rocky coast with not one chain restaurant down its entire strip. I thought they would never remember it.

I miss my mother, Katrina said. I felt grateful for the shift in focus and surprised at her emotional astuteness. Ever since my dad passed, she continued, my mom’s been so lonely. She’s basically wasting away up there, all abandoned.

I told her I was sorry. Catherine kissed her forehead for a long moment and I did not look away, knowing I would want to remember and return to these seconds. Yes, Catherine loves Katrina. Yes, Katrina accepts Catherine’s care. Yes, I bore witness to unity. I drank my coffee to its dregs and kept the cup in my hands. I shivered.

We lied, Katrina said.

I said, What?

Catherine faced her wife and said, You lied, actually.

I said, What?

It’s not oat milk, Katrina said. It’s almond.

I considered smashing my empty cup against my forehead. I can’t tell, I said and looked at the wives. Their game was not yet clear to me, and why would it have been? I have only ever been the same girl who wanted her brain to be broken.

A waiter interrupted my stare, looking sheepish. He carried a wide white plate with a single pancake. I’m so sorry for the wait, he said. We’re having a bit of a rush tonight.

Not a problem, Catherine answered for Katrina, who beamed at the food in front of her. The pancake oozed chocolate. In the center, a pile of melting whipped cream and two cherries.

When he turned, I asked, Do you add syrup to your pancakes?

Pancake, Catherine corrected. I felt a pleasant sickness at finally receiving the sort of attention I craved with all couples before them: specific and mean. Her mind, I reasoned, could be nowhere but on me if she was able to notice a dropped plural. I thanked her and she tilted her face forward, eyebrows up, gray eyes bright.

Every table had a dish of very short sticks of very real butter. The maple syrup was contained in a short and thick jug. I passed the toppings to Katrina and said, Use both.

Katrina took a knife to the butter first. I always butter my carbs, she said, her laugh easy. Catherine confirmed this self-assessment with a nod. I was happy to watch them; obsession was a comfort, not a warning bell.

Katrina patted a neat line onto her pancake. That’s not much butter, I said. I mean, for someone who loves it.

A silent communication transpired between the wives then, some sentiment expressed only through eye contact, and I recognized them as a couple with their own language. I understood then that Catherine and Katrina were equals at their core, unlike so many couples I had met before, who gave an air of constant dominance and submission. When the wives turned to face me, they did so in unison. I wanted to rupture the unity and to join it.

Your profile said you can take a little while to warm-up, Katrina said, replacing the butter knife to the center of the table. And that’s fine, because Catherine is the same way.

I’m soft once I’m comfortable, Catherine said. And you’re the same, she said without looking at me. Or are you never?

I had the strong urge to piss my leggings. All of our quick caffeine. I wondered what the women would do. Catherine might gasp, embarrassed at her association with me, wondering what the patrons around us would think. Katrina I imagined screaming. The table might tilt but would not topple, as it was secured to the ground with locks. I held my bladder. I said, Am I never soft? I reminded myself to ask how often they pissed on each other in the shower.

No, Catherine said steadily. Are you never comfortable?

I am rarely comfortable, I said. Why else do you think I am chasing such an arrangement? The last word hung easy, as it always did.

She rattled her cup. The ice would take a long time to melt and become easier to swallow. So, she said, you’re hoping to find a well-adjusted couple to help you feel better?

In more honesty, more New Year’s gleam, I admitted I was looking for women to be kind to me by being mean, and to have sex with me, as well as breakfast. I said, I don’t mention the good light to everyone, or for no reason. They looked triumphant. I was honest, but I was also testing them and myself. I made a game of seeing how little I could share and still keep a couple’s interest, studying how much they projected onto me, their new little blank slate, and how much they cared when I inevitably disappeared. Of course, the wives could be playing their own game too.

I’m so happy we’re sitting outside, Katrina said. I just wish we had more light.

Winters don’t make it easy, here, I said. To test Catherine’s patience, I added, You two haven’t considered Florida?

Catherine’s laugh was a lull, Katrina’s, a chortle. We actually bought our place in August, Catherine said. So we’re getting comfortable here. She eyed me and added, And I’m not that old, either, to head to Florida already. I remembered Katrina was a year or two younger than myself and Catherine, a good bit older but nothing shameful.

For now, Katrina said, and I watched her look at Catherine expectantly, as though reminding her of a line forgotten during a school play. They’d gone over this delicate language, I knew. What to share and what to withhold. Perhaps they were keeping my profile in mind. I specified I was looking for stable couples, no out-of-town types. No one whose wife or partner was away half the year, or every other weekend, either. I felt if I could have one happiness in my choosing, it should be an entire bliss. Should be, should.

I tried to mimic Catherine’s ease when I repeated, For now?

Catherine has some opportunities that might take us out of town, Katrina said carefully. But we don’t know for sure yet.

It’s unlikely, Catherine said. I mean, an honor, you know, but chances of it actually panning out are slim.

I couldn’t shake the women I’d met in spite of my guidelines. One government librarian whose wife was an orthopedic surgeon at Mass General. Another whose live-in girlfriend was a public attorney for the incarcerated. Both couples offered one partner who was more attentive and available than the other, an imbalance I disliked. The couple I did not meet because the busy wife was a girl I’d grown up with and briefly dated in the past: Amy. The woman who knew about my tired parents and my dead brother. She messaged me that we didn’t have to go back to the past, didn’t have to get heavy, but I blocked their account. I didn’t want anyone who knew my history to watch me disappear into myself. Less than two years later, I heard from the wives.

Catherine kissed Katrina’s forehead again, eyes open and up, as though assessing her joy against the size of thick evening clouds, and I thanked them for telling me. I even added that this complication did not have to be a problem. I asked, Where would it take you?

Vermont, Katrina answered with Catherine’s lips again going to her hairline. A source of comfort for the both of them, I guessed. I said it was not terribly far. I thought of the Amtrak and the buses and the app I used for rental cars to visit my grandmother.

And not terribly close, Catherine added.

And you, I said to Katrina. You would work remotely, or what?

I’d have to quit, technically, and see if I got hired back when we got home, she said. We’d be away three or four months, at most.

When I asked where she worked they answered simultaneously; Catherine said, Retail, while Katrina said, I sell shoes. They laughed again, Catherine’s jaw only minimally widened and Katrina’s mouth a slim oval, and after forming and closing the roundness of her mouth a few times Katrina said, I work at a sports clothing store on Newbury Street. I named one, and was wrong, then tried again, and they nodded together.

It’s not much, Katrina said, but at least I can choose my schedule. She looked around, beyond me, as though checking to see if her store manager was lingering about. I shared that I worked weekends sometimes too. I felt my familiar, special delight in not elaborating on what my side job was. And, too, I wanted to test, test, test.

Lots of overtime? Catherine asked. Katrina looked at Catherine instead of at me and so I withheld.

Not quite, I said. I put the mug to my mouth and tongued it again, still empty. I said, It’s really more of a volunteer gig.

The women watched me longer, then kissed. I learned my first punishment for withdrawing from them and asked Katrina if she liked selling shoes. I wondered if Catherine was strong enough to lift me, decided she wasn’t, but still imagined her holding me up by the armpits, like I’d seen parents do with children at the park. Katrina would lie faceup on the floor and lick the underside of my feet, eyes open and tongue long, Catherine’s orders, upsetting us both and pleasing her wife.

I like helping people, Katrina said. Being useful. She closed her eyes and said, I bet we’re in the running with a lot of others. Aren’t we? Her voice revealed an insecurity that excited me.

I surprised myself at my clarity, my ability to say what I felt without pre-arrangement. I said, Not really, no.

Catherine watched Katrina chew, then faced me, making quick work of examining the both of us, perhaps to show me what she would be capable of handling later, should the situation call for it. She said, I would have thought a lot of people would have messaged you.

You’re rare, Katrina said. A unicorn.

Especially because you don’t want men, Catherine said. Isn’t that right, no men?

That’s right, I said. No men. Eager to flip the attention from me, I asked if they had sought a third before. I added a cough, wondering which answer would offer me comfort.

The wives took my question in stride. We have, Catherine said, but not quite like this. When I realized Catherine and Katrina had ignored my cough, I added another. Still dry, still from the cap of my lungs.

Katrina said, We’ve met a few women at parties. We tried one kink event, but it ended up being mostly gay men. She said, Are you sick?

Yes, Catherine said. On antibiotics, is it? That’s why we didn’t meet for a drink.

No, I said, thrilled once more by their attentiveness. Just a tickle.

The wives appeared nonplussed. And of course, your listing, Catherine said. The women from before were not quite so involved. Katrina nodded, as though their thoughts permeated from the same center. The meetings, the calls.

I rolled the rim of the mug against my bottom lip. I said, I know I ask for a lot.

It’s a good way of weeding people out, Katrina said brightly. Catherine kissed her temple. I imagined separating her hair from its scalp. I felt slighted by their intimacy and could not help but ask, Does she get an A, professor? Catherine laughed but a sharpness in her glare served its purpose; she did not want to be teased, I understood, and yet these tests were entirely normal for me, entirely necessary. Katrina looked thrilled at this back-and-forth and said, Everything we do is always changing everything.

Catherine and I repeated in unison, Everything?

Yes, everything, Katrina said. Crossing the street at one block instead of another. Or answering a call instead of listening to the voicemail a few minutes later. Opening a shift instead of closing. These decisions are small, sometimes automatic, but they really do spiral out.

Do they? I could not resist. Catherine mmed in support of her wife but appeared amused.

Katrina’s excitement sped with our attention. Think about it, she directed, and I confess, I did. We’re all working, right? Busy, trying to get whatever task it is done. And there’s personal pressure, and then there’s capitalism, of course, and money, and hours. And if we didn’t work that day, well, we might lose the job entirely, or get a bad review, and lose it down the road. Okay, we know that. But imagine if we— here she looked at Catherine, though I of course knew that I was not yet part of a we—, had both worked today, or even, late yesterday, and we decided well, we’re a bit tired, and after all you— here they both looked at me, as I was of course the separate you— had canceled once before, even though we’d both arranged our work around that meeting, so, imagine if we had said, maybe even sensibly, well, I need to work, and so, that’s that.

You wouldn’t have met me, I said. I pressed my napkin to my mouth and jerked my shoulders forward, as though swallowing a lick of stomach brine. I understood the first boundary: Don’t shrug off their attention; don’t waste their time.

At that Catherine said she would get the check. I moved to get my wallet, zippered into the good pocket of my coat, and Catherine, as I expected she might, said, No, no, you can get it the next time. I smiled and opened my mouth to thank her and she reached one hand out, fingers cupped as though to hug my neck, and I leaned into her. I was thinking, Here? Could I be so lucky. But she only flicked my jugular and said I had a crumb. I didn’t, of course; I hadn’t eaten a bite, but I thought I’d passed a kind of test by moving toward her instead of away.

With Catherine gone, the table went silent, and I wondered if Katrina might go for my neck or ribs or get down beneath the table and put her head between my legs. Instead, she pointed out that I’d had my drink without asking a thing about it. You drank it right down, she said. We could have put anything in it.

Sure, I said. Poison?

We don’t love you, Katrina said. Not yet. Her chin stuck out in a determined way before she said it, and I would later learn this motion was a tic of hers to appear certain and mature.

I laughed but was thinking about how to earn their love, how to get poisoned, how to get sick. These wants were not new, but I was thrilled not to initiate, to avoid the humiliating process of explaining my desires. Women would tell me, sure, I’m game to try it, or, well, have you done this before, don’t lie, or, I’ll put Poison Control on speed dial, ha ha, and I could always tell they were debating if I was really beautiful enough to be worth this sort of risk and the answer was always no in the end. To test Katrina, I told her about my camming.

I said, When I was in college, I supported myself and my parents. Helping them pay their phone bills, stuff like that.

Katrina leaned toward me, doubled over her skinny belly, amused. My sophomore year, I continued, surprising and scaring myself, the friend of a classmate I was dating told me she made money selling photos of her feet on this website. I checked it out. Not bad, basically what you’d expect. Instead of the photos, I went for live streams. Just my feet, nothing too hard or too terrible. A few nights a week, sometimes while my girlfriend and I watched TV in her dorm room. I tried to keep myself from smiling, as I did not want Katrina to think I was opening up a joke about her job. Though miserable in my circumstances, those nights watching baking competitions in our sweatpants while I made some money were actually quite good. Bliss where you accept it, and all that.

Katrina said, You were camming, you mean? I heard curiosity and a glimmer of something new: interest, or desire. I thought of her wife, who I imagined was the sort of woman who would pay for her pornography and consider it redistributing her wealth. I released a cough without covering my face. Katrina did not pull back. I told her she had been contaminated and she smiled.

I said yes. Making money from camming is more competitive now, I think. I don’t know, I haven’t tried since law school. I continued on with the story of my life and said, I have a private social media account where I stream my feet for women. No money, no monthly payments, no sign-ups. I chat with some women. Once in a while, I’ll meet one or two or three. I tell some dates and when they log in to watch they alert me over text, usually with a nude, and I’ll drop them a special hello into the general stream: hello, doctor, hello, is the library quiet, hello, hi, A, hey, you, what’s the political scandal of the day. Women love shout-outs because it makes them feel exclusive, memorable. I loved giving them because it made me feel in control. I never show my face or tell my name. I wanted to ask if she was shocked, repulsed, delighted, or all three, but stopped when I felt her wife’s hand on my shoulder.

Come to dinner when we invite you. With a kiss to my forehead, she muttered to bring my feet. And then, her face like a fox’s, she said, I got you something special. She placed a brown box in front of me and later, alone in my apartment, I would open it to find one pancake. Staring up at me, chocolate chips formed eyes and a round mouth, screaming, screaming. In pleasure or fear, I could not tell. I hoped Catherine made a special request, that she gave detailed instructions to the cashier, perhaps, even that she sent one pancake back and requested the face to be redone. Not too happy, she might have said. And not so obviously afraid. After eating I refused to brush my teeth, letting the sugar sit in me as long as I could keep it, a little control of my own to balance what I sensed I was about to give up.

 
 
 

Excerpted from A Good Happy Girl, copyright © 2024 by Marissa Higgins. Reprinted by permission of Catapult.