For four years I’d been attempting to accept David’s paradoxes, his self-contractions, and his darkness—the whole rich Wallace bouquet. I loved David, and I wanted him to be better than he was. I’d try to remind myself that no one is ever clear in moral terms, and so who, really, was I to judge? I was a wayward creature myself—I was haughty (and would grow haughtier still), I had a nasty temper, I was too enticed by material luxuries (David, snooping through my closet: “You’ve heard of Marx, I presume?”). I was obstinate, solitary, and self-protective, and I could be dismissive of those who did not live up to my own standard of perfection. I knew I was cold. I knew I was inscrutable. I was not a great friend. I waited an unconscionably long time to return David’s call when he left a message saying that his grandfather had died. These sins were just the beginning. I didn’t have clean hands, either.