Page 338

“I’m only doing what suits me this week.”

“How is that going?”

“I yelled at a maître d’, insulted a customer’s husband, ruined Bliss’s favorite musician, and ate pizza.”

“Which part are you proudest of?”

“The pizza.”

She smiles. “Then let’s begin there.”

On the final night of my experiment, Aura and Bliss come to my apartment with takeout. Bliss brings the wedding album again because she found additional photographs we apparently failed to appreciate with sufficient intensity.

We eat on the couch while she turns each page and provides commentary. Aura argues with her about which photograph should be enlarged. I tell them both that the picture they love makes Cade look constipated.

“He was emotional,” Bliss says.

“He was clenching.”

“He was trying not to cry.”

“He looks like he was trying not to shit.”

Aura takes the photograph from her. “Charm’s right.”

“I hate both of you.”

“No, you don’t,” I tell her.

Bliss looks at me, and the teasing in her expression softens. “You seem different.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“This isn’t treatment different.” She studies my face. “You’re sleeping.”

“I am.”

“You ate without rearranging everything on your plate,” Aura adds.

I look down. My takeout container is nearly empty. I remember choosing what I wanted from the menu, but I don’t remember calculating whether either of them ordered something smaller.

“I didn’t notice.”

Aura’s eyes fill, but she understands me well enough not to turn the moment into a celebration my illness will feel obligated to perform for.

“What did you figure out?” she asks.

“I’m not a narcissist.”

Bliss lowers her fork. “Was that under consideration?”

“For six weeks.”

“You could’ve asked us.”

“You would’ve said no.”

“Because you aren’t.”