“Cody, Cody, Cody.” He gives my name a test drive. “It’s a cowgirl name,” he drawls on. “Where you from, Cowgirl Cody?” - “Cowgirl country.” - His smile is slow, like he’s intentionally rationing it. “I’d like to visit Cowgirl country. Maybe I can come and you can take me for a ride.” He gives me a meaningful look, in case I haven’t caught the double entendre. - “You’d probably get bucked right off.” - Oh, he likes that. He thinks we’re flirting, the dickwad. “Would I, now?” - “Yeah. Horses can smell fear.” Something on his face falters for a second. Then: “What makes you think I’m scared?” - “City dicks always are.” - “How do you know I’m a city dick?” - “Well, we’re in a city. And you’re a dick, aren’t you?”

I don’t sign it and before I have a chance to overthink it, I’ve already pressed send. It takes all of thirty seconds for regret to set in, and I remember why I hate email. When you write a letter, like, say, to your father, you can scrawl pages and pages of all the things you think are so important, because you don’t know where he lives, and even if you did, there’d be all that time to find an envelope and a stamp and by that point, you would’ve ripped up the letter. But then one time, you track down an email address and you’re near a computer with Internet access so you don’t have that nice cushion and you type what you’re feeling and press send before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it. And then you wait, and wait, and wait, and nothing comes back, so all those things you thought were so important to say, really, they weren’t. They weren’t worth saying at all.

I see some people are crying. I made them cry. I’ve become toxic. Drink me and die.

“You can’t give homes to every stray out there.” She says this like people are constantly knocking down our door for a nice, dry, warm place to stay, when, in fact, we are the strays.

Is this how it is with lies? The first one comes hard, the second one easier, until they slip off your tongue easier than truths—maybe because they are easier than truths.

I turn back to look at him, and for a second I forget about everything. And then I remember that I can’t forget.

“Everyone goes there. Everyone has their days. Everyone imagines it. But you know why my pop says that suicide is a sin?” He points his thumb toward the house, where Jerry is now helping Sylvia with the rest of the dishes. - “Because it’s murder. Because only God can choose when it’s your time to go. Because stealing a life is stealing from God.” I parrot all the awful things people said about Meg. - Richard shakes his head. “No. Because it kills hope. That’s the sin. Anything that kills hope is a sin.”