Ophelia understood what I needed. I hated talking about the bad days, especially with people not in our world. I didn’t want to field their pity, their gentle suggestion that I “phase out of this lifestyle” or however they’d word it. Show me a lifestyle that feels good all the time, I wanted to shout. Prove to me that your lifestyle is insured against longing. Show me a pie chart, a breakdown of breakdowns, the data on anguish. Maybe then I’d consider going back to school. Maybe then I’d throw my Pleasers away (off a bridge, maybe?) and become a nurse or accountant, but only if someone could promise I’d never feel dirty. Until then, I had TV and blankets and rosemary oil to help with the bad days. I had good days when I felt divine and men cried in my arms. I had a duffel bag of singles hidden under the bed, an amount I couldn’t fathom. For however I felt about Charlie and the nature of our relationship, it was too late now. I was in it. Baby was born.