Everyone had gathered at our house after the service, the living room filled with relatives, friends, colleagues, and my father’s thesis students looking uncomfortable in jackets and ties. The caterers walked around discreetly with passed appetizers that everyone grabbed at, as though food was one thing that was still understandable. Everyone clutched their drinks a little too tightly and talked in small groups, in low tones. My mother circled the room, making sure that everyone had food and drinks, directing the catering staff, replenishing the napkins, not really stopping to speak to anyone. It was as though she was simply organizing an event that had nothing whatsoever to do with her. Charlie had disappeared halfway through the reception and returned an hour later, glassy-eyed. I had stood in the kitchen, off to the side. I’d nodded and agreed with relatives and family friends who approached and told me what a terrible loss it was, and thanked them when they told me that I was bearing up well. I was just waiting to wake up from this surreal dream that I’d somehow landed in. Nothing seemed to be making sense. It was like a bomb had just gone off in the kitchen, and instead of cleaning up the rubble, people were stepping around it and eating mini-quiche.

But eventually everyone had trickled out, the last pair of headlights swung around the cul-de-sac, my mother had locked the front door, and the three of us were alone. We’d all ended up in the family room. My mother was sitting in her armchair, but for some reason looking very small in it, like it might swallow her up. Charlie was sitting in the middle of the couch, hunched over his knees, ripping threads off the cuffs of his navy suit jacket. I was standing against the back wall, looking down at my black heels. The last time I’d worn them—to the winter formal in January—I’d been dancing.

“So,” my mother said, and Charlie and I both turned to look at her. We hadn’t talked about it yet. There had been things to organize—the service, the reception, the relatives, the caterers. But now there was nothing left to take care of. I’d been waiting for her to do something since it happened. I didn’t even know what—to talk to me about it, or give me a hug, or just look me in the eyes. What I really wanted was for her to take charge, like she always did, and somehow make this okay again. To show us how we were going to get through it.

She glanced at Charlie, then at me, before looking away and standing up. “I’m going to bed,” she said, rubbing her neck. “You two should probably get some sleep as well. We’ve all had a long day.” She left the room without looking back at us, and I heard her steps, unusually slow, going up the stairs.

I stared at the door she’d left through, feeling a little bit like I’d been punched. I’d been waiting for her to fix this. I’d never even considered the possibility that she might not. I had no idea what to do now. Was it because it had been my fault? Was that why she was doing this—as a punishment?

I felt my throat tighten and I looked down at the floor, which was blurring in and out of focus as my eyes filled with tears that felt hot. I blinked them back, hard. I had a feeling that if I let myself start crying, there was a very real possibility I would never stop. The need to cry was so strong that it scared me, and I pushed back against it as hard as I could. I looked over at my brother. The days when we’d known everything about each other had ended years ago, but maybe there was a chance we could talk about this and acknowledge the fact that it had actually happened.

“Fuck this,” Charlie said, taking off his jacket and dropping it on the couch. He stood, heading for the front door, already loosening his tie. “I’m going out.”

“Where?” I asked, hearing how strangled—how needy—my voice sounded.

“Out,” he said, unlocking the door and pulling it open. “I have no fucking idea where.” He slammed the door behind him, and I felt myself flinch, even though I’d known it was coming.

Not sure what else to do, I crossed to the door and locked it. Then I picked up Charlie’s jacket from the couch to fold it. I could feel panic rising up inside me, the kind of nerves I would get before I went onstage, but these were somehow worse, stronger, and I could feel my heart beginning to pound. I put the jacket down, then picked it up again and crumpled it in my hands, wishing I was strong enough to tear it in two. Seeing what I was doing, I dropped the jacket again.

I knew couldn’t stay there. I needed to go somewhere, and do something, that would push this away for a while. I headed up to my room to change, taking the stairs two at a time. I was also going out. But unlike Charlie, I knew exactly where.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Michael said, opening the door and smiling. This was his name for me, what he’d started calling me after our first makeout session. I always just called him Michael. He was from Oregon, an inch taller than me, and always smelled faintly of Irish Spring.

“Hey,” I said, putting a smile on my face. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider. I stepped into the room he shared with Hugo, a German exchange student who kept his side of the room immaculate. Michael’s side was always a mess, his bed piled high with clothes and books. But those could easily be moved.

“Is Hugo here?” I asked.

“No,” said Michael, shutting the door. “He’s at a study group.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Look, I know I’m probably going to say the wrong thing here. But I’m really sorry, Amy.”

I nodded, as though these words meant something, as if they hadn’t just bounced off me. “Thanks,” I said, walking over to him. “I really appreciate that.” I slid my arms around his neck and kissed him, lightly at first, then more intensely. He kissed me back, but then pulled away.

“Um,” he said. “Are you sure we should be … I mean, don’t you want to talk or something?”

“No,” I said. I was there to forget I wanted to talk, there so I would have something else to feel for a while. “It’s fine. I promise.” I kissed him again, just wanting to think about something else. Or not think about anything at all. And this was the perfect solution. I tugged at the bottom of his College of the West T-shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it on Hugo’s bed. And then, before I could change my mind or lose my nerve, I pulled my own tank top off.

“Wow,” Michael said, looking at me. “Um.” I struggled with my skirt’s zipper with fingers that were trembling slightly. But I got it undone and stepped out of it and stood facing him. “Really?” he asked, sounding incredulous.