fragments of music and rain and tangled hands, and heat, and if Alice didn’t feel like death, she’d probably play the whole thing over in her head, not to relive the good, but to assess the damage. Trace over everything she said and did, trying to decide if she’d made a fool of herself, what her classmates would think. Play out the scene with the girl in her bed—Lottie—until the pleasure of it soured, replaced by shame over the sounds she made, the sheer, mortifying abandon of being that other, reckless Alice. But embarrassment requires energy and she has none, and it doesn’t matter if she
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