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By midnight, I am drunk enough to stop trying to sound intelligent to myself.

I open the voice-recorder app on my phone, press the red button, and set it on the rug.

“All right, Charm,” I say. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The question hangs inside my empty apartment.

My first instinct is to explain Charlie, my parents, and the conditioning every professional has already identified. I stop myself.

“First answer only,” I instruct. “No polishing. Why did you accuse Ryan of using you?”

“Because I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“That he would leave.”

“He already told you he might leave.”

“I didn’t believe him.”

“Why?”

“Because he loves me.”

I take another drink. “That’s selfish as fuck, don’t you think?”

“Bien pinche egoísta, ¿no crees?” I correct myself because apparently drunken self-interrogation requires bilingual accuracy.

The vodka burns down my throat.

“Did Ryan betray you with Temple?”

“No.”

“Did he lie?”

“No.”

“Did he owe you celibacy after leaving?”

“No.”

“Were you angry with Temple?”

I consider the question. “No.”

“Then why did you punish him?”

The answer comes before I can make it prettier.

“Because if he did something wrong, I didn’t have to feel powerless.”

I stop with the glass halfway to my mouth.

There it is—No, wait. I refuse to let one dramatic realization solve me after seven weeks of expensive failure.

“Are you a narcissist?” I ask.