When her younger sibling, Arturo, followed her to UT Austin two years later, I adopted him too. We took him to parties, made sure he studied for finals, even got him a fake ID. By now he’s the little brother I’ve never had.

So I understood how protective Carmen felt when Arturo got involved with his first serious girlfriend. I just can’t share her dismay about how it’s turning out.

“Hey, Vivienne.” Shay waddles down the stairs, her hands on the small of her back. Her Australian accent makes my name sound like Viv-yin. “Want a Coke?”

“Maybe in a minute, once I’m hot and sweaty,” I say. “Then I’ll be craving one.”

Shay laughs. “Just get them out of the fridge! I swear, the cans are taunting me.”

Shay’s doctor told her caffeine was a bad idea during her pregnancy.

Yeah, Arturo and Shay are young to become parents—only twenty-two years old, still undergraduates. But it’s as though they glow every time they look at each other. I don’t think they got engaged because she got pregnant; I assumed a wedding was inevitable from the first time I saw them together. Sometimes you just know. Whenever I see Arturo and Shay together, I smile.

Carmen, on the other hand, scowls.

After we work in the kitchen for a while, unpacking dishes, I glance sideways at Carmen. She’s staring out the window above the sink into the narrow backyard, where Shay and Arturo are giggling as they set up the charcoal grill. I say, “If you’re not careful, your face will freeze like that.”

She rolls her eyes at my dumb joke. “I’m just worried. That’s all. A baby . . . I mean, Arturo used to forget to feed our dog.”

I laugh. “He’s not a little kid anymore! And he’s got Shay to help him.”

“Vivienne, get real. They’re young. They don’t have a dime. Even with their part-time jobs, they can only barely afford to rent a place big enough for a nursery.” Carmen gestures around us.

The town house is modest, and I know Arturo and Shay already have to scrimp. That will only get tougher when the baby arrives in three months. Still—“Listen, if money solved every problem, my family would be the happiest in the world.”

“I’m not being materialistic. I’m being realistic. Marrying young, before he gets his degree—it scares me.”

“A lot of guys might drop out under that kind of pressure,” I admit. “But Arturo’s not ‘most guys.’ He’d never let anything stop him from taking care of Shay and the baby.”

Carmen presses her full lips together. “I like Shay—I’m trying to love her, as a sister—but I resent what she’s done to Arturo’s life.”

“She didn’t make the baby on her own, you know. Remember, it takes two to tango.”

“Oh, oh, gross. ‘Tango’ in that sentence means ‘have sex,’ and I know you didn’t suggest my baby brother actually had sex.” Carmen’s smiling now, which counts as a positive sign. “They got pregnant via . . . osmosis.”

“Definitely osmosis.”

From outside we hear Shay’s laughter, and we look outside to see Arturo dancing her around the backyard. Arturo is the male version of Carmen: compact, dark, attractive in a way that has as much to do with charisma as appearance. As for Shay, her bare feet are almost hidden by the high green grass as she spins around; her pixie cut is dyed to a shade of red that’s almost maroon. She isn’t easy to cast in the role of Evil Temptress. Instead she’s straight-up Alternative Chick from her horn-rimmed hipster glasses to the roses tattooed around one ankle.

Carmen says, “I’m trying harder with Shay these days.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

That wins me a glare. “I am. I even asked her to invite a few friends along to my party Friday night. You’re still coming, right?

“Are you nuts? Of course I’m coming to my best friend’s party.”

“Well.” Carmen’s expression turns guilty. “I should tell you I invited Geordie too.”

I take a deep breath. “That’s fine.”

She gives me a look.

“I swear.” Geordie and I promised we’d stay friends. After a whole summer away from each other, we ought to be able to hang out again. The party could be awkward as hell, especially if he drinks too much—but I can handle it.

“You agreed faster than I thought you would.” Carmen grabs the box cutter to get us started on our next round of unpacking. “Have you been missing him? Thinking about getting back together?”

“No.”

That isn’t entirely true. I miss Geordie, not as a lover but as a person. Plus I miss sex. I really, truly, definitely miss sex. Maybe the lovemaking with Geordie wasn’t the best, but at least it was something. Since the beginning of the summer I haven’t even had that.

Our lack of chemistry in the bedroom isn’t the reason Geordie and I split up, but it didn’t help. Even though the sex was okay, he hadn’t given me what I really want. What I need.

Once again I think of my rescuer—the tall, dark, dangerous man who’d had me at his mercy and walked away—

I shiver.

But Carmen doesn’t notice, and I start talking with her about school, the weather, whatever. I try to sweep away my dangerous thoughts along with the dust on the floor.

•   •   •

The rest of the week goes like any other for a doctoral student at the UT Austin School of Art. Tuesday, meeting with my advisor and then going to the undergrad art history class where I’m a “teaching assistant,” that is, the person who actually grades all the papers. Wednesday and Thursday, long hours at the School of Information downtown, where I’m doing some research on document preservation. Friday, some actual studio time with my prints—and I get a couple of really good prints of my favorite etching I’ve done so far this year, one of a man’s hands cradling a dove.

Why does this image speak so strongly to me? I’m not exactly sure, and in some ways I’d rather not know. Art is mysterious, sometimes; unconscious inspiration is often the most powerful. I need nothing more than the image itself: a man’s strong, large hands—rough, as if from years of labor or combat—cupped around the form of a dove, its bright eyes shining with both fear and life. The interpretation can come later, or not.

Once I’m done with my prints, I drive home to my little house, a tiny white one-bedroom place, small even among the modest, ramshackle homes just off First Street. Carmen says my place gives her claustrophobia, and Geordie always calls it “the dollhouse.” But I like my snug little hideaway. Built-in bookshelves line the bedroom walls, and a freestanding brick fireplace divides the kitchen and the living room. My dream home, basically.

Anyone who walked inside would know a few things about me right away. One, I’m a bibliophile—someone who collects everything from Jane Austen to John le Carré. Two, I’m a sensualist. Only someone in love with texture and color would buy a velvet couch on a grad-school budget, or drape richly woven throws over every other stick of furniture.

Three, I very much love a little girl named Libby, whose coloring-book pages decorate my refrigerator. One original drawing of hers I even framed and put on the wall. In each corner is the scrawled dedication: To Aunt Vivi.

No one could look around this room and guess that I don’t see Libby very often, much less why. That remains unknown, which is exactly how I want to keep it.

What to wear tonight? I don’t want to look too sexy, in case that makes Geordie think I want him back. But I don’t want to look frumpy either. Finally I decide nothing matters more than the heat. In Texas in August, temperatures are scorching even after dark, and bare skin is your best friend. I slide into a denim miniskirt and a black camisole, trusting my silver strappy sandals and dangly earrings to dress it up a bit. Then I swing by the convenience store to pick up a six-pack of beer and head to Carmen’s.

Her brick red bungalow is within walking distance of some of the great restaurants, clubs, and bars on Congress Street. I have to park my car more than a block away, because this party is one of Carmen’s rare blowouts; as I walk up, I see about ten people laughing and talking on her back patio. No doubt a pitcher of sangria is already making the rounds.