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I don’t know.

Ask me why I care. Ask me why I spend my nights beating off for a room full of strange men. Or why one man’s absence makes a difference.

Ask me if I’m okay, but in a way that makes it sound like you still want the answer.

I shrug. “Nothing.”

She picks the tablet up.

“Becca.”

She stops.

I have no plan for what comes next.

I rub both hands over my face. “This inheritance shit is messing with my head.”

“I know.”

“And the cam stuff.”

“I know.”

“And us.”

Her jaw moves slightly, like she’s bitten down on something.

“Yeah,” she says. “I know that too.”

No yelling. No big, ugly fight we can survive by apologizing after. Just the truth, flat and tired on the couch between us.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say.

She gives a small laugh without humor. “I don’t think you’ve known what you’re doing since May.”

“Fair.”

“Maybe even high school.”

“Harsh, but okay.”

“Sometimes it feels like you’re far away, even when you’re right here.”

I look down at my hands.

The show should have fixed that. Usually, even a mediocre show gives me somewhere to put all the static. Heat, attention, tokens, release. A stupid little machine that turns feeling bad into something with a payout.

Tonight, it just makes the static louder.

“I’m here now.”

The second I say it, I know it sounds weak.

She looks at me, and for a moment I can see how tired she is of helping me become someone worth waiting for.

I stand.

“I’m gonna get some air.”