“I can sure pick ‘em, huh?”

“I can’t believe he did that to you. I’m so pissed.”

“Nah, don’t be. It’s just how men are. Psychological warfare, you know? They want us till they don’t. If we don’t please them enough they get bored, move on.”

I shook my head at her. That wasn’t how it was. Not always. Look at me. When Darius came into my life he had nothing to gain but a burned woman and a child who wasn’t his. That’s when I noticed the weird swollen, red spot on her arm, right below her wrist. It looked like something had dug into her skin and made her bleed. When she saw me looking she pulled her sleeve down and looked away.

“You’re my friend,” I said, moving my eyes to her face. “I’ll make you a bed in the den for tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.” She tried to protest, but I waved her excuses away. “We can watch movies and eat things that are bad for us.”

“So same as always,” she said.

“I can have Darius take Mercy to his parents’ and spend the night there.”

“No, don’t do that,” Fig said, quickly. “I like when they’re around. You can’t kick him out of his own house.”

“All right,” I said, cautiously. “Can I tell Darius what happened, or do you want me to keep it a secret?”

She walked over to the liquor cabinet and started moving bottles around.

“Whatever, it happened. I don’t have anything to hide.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, and for a brief moment I got the impression that she wanted me to tell Darius.

We spent the next few hours talking about George, who had apparently been meeting up with girls he met on one of those swipe it or keep it phone apps.

“Did he tell you that or did you find out another way?”

Fig’s cheeks colored and she looked away. “I was snooping,” she admitted. “He started liking and commenting on all of this girl’s pictures on Instagram, so I did some detective work and then confronted him.”

“And did he admit to it?”

“Yes … no … sort of in a roundabout way.”

She was so good at not answering questions. She redirected everything, deflected. I watched her closely, wishing Darius would get home so he could help me. She did that thing where her eyes tried to find a hiding place: bounce, skirt, roam, widen, bounce.

It was Darius’s day to pick Mercy up from school. I heard her squeals before the front door opened, and Fig smiled for the first time that day. I couldn’t help smiling with her. Children had that magic, their innocence lightened dark situations. When Darius saw Fig sitting on the sofa, he stopped abruptly. Mercy ran right over to her, and Fig pulled her in her lap. I made eyes at him while she was distracted, and he nodded discreetly.

“Hey,” he said. “I’ll get dinner started while you two chat.” I nodded at him gratefully, and he winked.

Fig was already awake when I put the coffee on the next morning. I could hear the clacking computer keys and the muffled sound of music coming from her headphones. When the coffee was done, I took her a mug.

“Thanks,” she said. “Where’s your husband?”

“He should be up soon. How are you feeling?”

“Like sticking my head in an oven.” She grinned.

“Okay, Sylvia Plath.”

She pulled up her sleeve and showed me a tattoo I’d never noticed before. I had to tilt my head sideways to read it.

“I want.”

“Yes, she has a line in The Bell Jar—I am, I am. I am. Well, the thing that always pulled me through every situation was how much I had left to experience. I want to travel, I want to taste foods I’ve never tasted, I want to kiss beautiful men, and I want to buy beautiful clothes. I want to live because I still want things.”

I smiled faintly, thinking of all the times Darius had commented on Fig wanting my life.

“Hey, come with us to the park,” I said. “It’s beautiful outside.” To illustrate my point, I ripped the curtain aside, letting sunlight stream into the living room. Fig flinched away, pretending that the light was burning her.

“You can’t burn a bitch so early in the morning.” As she crawled away her shirt lifted. I could count the knobs on her spine. How much weight had she lost? I tried to remember what she looked like when she first moved in.

“But, first breakfast,” I said, stepping toward the kitchen. With lots of butter, bacon, and sour cream. Mercy came barreling down the hall in her pajamas and I set her to work washing the fruit.

She hesitated, but only for a moment before nodding happily.

I used to take Mercy to the train park when Darius worked late. A little place at the base of a hill with trees all around it. Mercy Moo was too little to play on the monkey bars or to climb onto the brightly colored structures like the other children. One day. For now, we liked to roll down the hill amongst the weeds and soft grass. And there was a glorious sand pit she could spend hours in—mostly eating the sand or rubbing it in her eyes and then screaming. It was our sacred place, Mercy’s and mine. We’d found closer parks since, but the train park was our favorite. It was the first time I was taking Darius there, and I was excited for him to see it. In retrospect I’m not sure what I wanted from him that day. A love for the park he had no history with? A reaction? Maybe I thought we’d all bond there together, in which case I never should have taken Fig.