Emily’s jaw fell open. “Oh my God,” she said. “This is yours? This is part of your home? You live here?”

I smiled politely and nodded. I’d heard things like that before, from other people I’d brought onto the rooftop. When they first walked out the French doors, everything was a question.

“Damn, you’re richer than I thought,” she said, eyes round. “How come you never talk about this place? This is gorgeous. This must be a million-dollar view.”

I didn’t tell her that a penthouse in TriBeCa cost much more than that. This was why I dreaded bringing people here as much as I enjoyed it. It was nice to share my childhood home with people, and I was proud to show how beautifully and artistically my parents had furnished it, but reactions like Emily’s left me with nothing to say.

“I read on Wikipedia that Mariah Carey lives around here,” she remarked, her face turned away from me, her white hands gripping the balcony. The sky was a little hazy, but we could still see a panoramic view of the city and the Hudson. She looked over her shoulder at me, red hair blowing across her cheek. “You guys neighbors?”

Clearing my throat, I replied, “Don’t think so.” I didn’t even know Mariah Carey lived here. It’s not surprising, really, given the number of celebrities that spangle the area. My mother had been one of them, at least in literary circles. Her author friends had loved it when we hosted barbecues out here on the patio, talking late into the night under tiny colored lanterns. Those dinners were my favorite part of summers as a kid.

Emily’s face was dappled with the shade of a lemon tree potted in a half-barrel. She began walking toward me. “You know what? I’d love to lie here, in the sun,” she said, eyelids partly closed, “on a summer’s day,” taking off her cardigan, “reading a book,” smiling at me, “entirely naked.” She dropped the cardigan theatrically on the deck. Her tank top was very sheer.

I swallowed.

“I guess I wouldn’t be entirely alone though,” she said, nodding at the two tall buildings that overlooked mine, “but maybe,” her hand rested on the crook of my elbow and a coy glint flashed in her eyes, “I would do it anyway.”

When she smiled, I couldn’t deny that she was beautiful. Car horns honked in the streets below, and an airplane droned overhead, but I was silent. When Emily had told people she was visiting me over spring break, some of my buddies had congratulated me, as though I’d won a ribbon at a fair. I explained to them that we were getting together to work on a project for a literary arts class, and that she would be staying in a hotel down the street for the week, but they rolled their eyes. “She’s so hot,” Nathan had sighed. He’d admired her from afar since freshman year. “Some guys have all the luck.”

I looked at her now. Her eyes flicked behind me to the windows of the dining room. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and returned her attention to me. As I smiled faintly down at her, her posture changed slightly. It was the posture of wanting something. Her irises flicked back and forth almost imperceptibly; she was looking alternately in my left and right eyes. The want in the air became thicker and her thumb pressed faintly harder on my skin.

“Well,” she said, taking her hand from my arm when I didn’t say anything for some moments, “if you don’t have any objections, then, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She suddenly pulled her shirt over her head, exposing a lavender bra. She reached behind her to unclasp it but I touched her shoulder.

“Don’t,” was all I said.

“Don’t what?” She was beginning to get annoyed. It was clear to her that I admired her form, that my eyes had washed over her body without my command during the day, but I had also been indifferent to every arm touch and lip bite.

“What are you doing?” I finally asked. “Why did you come here?”

She shifted her weight to one side, hip jutting out in irritation. “To have a good time!” she said as if it were obvious. “With you. God, Ryan, it’s spring break. Look how gorgeous it is today!”

I looked to the horizon over the top of her head. “Just, please put your shirt back on.”

Her arms crossed in front of her stomach. She was beginning to feel self-conscious, I could tell, but she had set herself against my will and she wasn’t going to bend to it. “It’s really nice out,” she said, spreading another bright smile on her lips. “You don’t have to join me or anything. I don’t mean anything by it. I just want to get a little tan, that’s all.”

“Okay,” I said simply. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Let’s work on parsing those poems this afternoon sometime.”

In the kitchen, I washed some dishes and made a sandwich. I stood for a while in front of the open refrigerator, finally deciding on root beer. When I closed the door, Dad was standing not two feet from me. I jumped but he just laughed.

“Chill out, Ryan,” he said. “I just went out and got the Times. Who’s that lovely lady on the patio?”

I had been afraid this would happen. “Emily, my literary arts — ” I was about to say partner “ — classmate.”

He raised a thick eyebrow and handed me the arts section.

I uncapped the root beer. “Apparently she wants to tan for a while,” I explained evenly, like it was normal, and took a long swig.

“Well, please inform her that there is sunscreen in the guest bathroom cabinet,” he said, walking toward his study. “Her skin is so pale, it might burn easily.”

I hated that he had noticed her complexion. Forgetting the sandwich, I walked back out onto the patio. “Emily?”

Her head popped up from behind the orchids, where she was stretched out on a futon in only a bra and a skirt. “Yeah?”

“I can take you back to your hotel now. Let’s talk about the poems over ice cream — my treat,” I added, hoping it would convince her.

“Ry–un,” she groaned. “I just got here. Can I have a sip of your beer?”

“It’s root beer,” I said, walking over to her.

“I don’t care, I’m a little parched.” She took a sip, then another. “Mmm. I can just stay here while you’re out. I promise to just stay on the deck. Would your dad mind?”

“You saw my dad?”

“Yeah, he came out and we chatted for a little bit. He’s a pretty funny guy,” she said. She suddenly realized what I was thinking. “Sorry I had to be shirtless in front of him,” she added. “But I mean, it’s the same as wearing a bikini top, right?” She laughed and took another sip before handing the bottle back to me.

“Emily, please, I have to go.” I hoped it sounded gracious but firm, the tone my mom had used with me when I refused to go to bed as a child.

“Jackass,” she sighed as though it weren’t a mean thing to say. She pulled her top back on and followed me to the elevator.

Over dinner, Dad talked about the film festival that would be happening next week. Some of the films would be screened down the street from our building.

“I talked to Jesse today about maybe getting a group together to do a project,” he said between bites of salmon. “With the end goal of entering it in some film festivals, of course. Maybe not TriBeCa, but some good ones nonetheless. I mean, we know a lot of people, we’ve got a lot of talent at our disposal. And a lot of money.”

I finished my wine and wiped my mouth, saying nothing.

“Son, would you be interested in helping out with the script?” he said with a hopeful smile on his face. Upon my continued silence, he carried on. “We could use a writer like you. You know these festival people like really enigmatic films. No resolution. Kind of Kafka-esque. And it would be a great opportunity for you, too, as a writer.”

“I’d rather find my own work,” I finally answered. “And I’d like to work in publishing, not Hollywood.”

He gave a snort. “Writing a script and getting it made is the ultimate kind of publishing,” he told me. “Don’t pretend to be all pretentious about things. If anything, an independent film should be right up your alley. I’d do it for you, you know. Get things in order, get the right people working on it. It’s not wrong for a father to take advantage of his own connections to kick-start his son’s career. It’s expected. Your classmates’ parents have lined up jobs for their kids. Why shouldn’t I?”

I couldn’t answer him honestly. “Dad, I’m going downtown for a while,” I said instead. “I’ll think about it and let you know. I’ll be back around ten or eleven.”

He looked down at his plate and sighed, then glanced back at me. “Say hi to her for me,” he murmured.

“I’m not...” I didn’t bother to explain. I left my dishes and grabbed my messenger bag, wanting desperately to be out of the apartment.

I stepped into Fission Café and was immediately greeted by Charlotte from behind the counter. “Ryan! You’re back for spring break?”

Glad she was there, I replied, “Yeah. How’ve you been? How’s business?”

She began making my usual order and nodded toward the tables, where a good number of people were sitting, reading or talking or listening to the guitarist in the corner. “Business is great! We got a review in a couple of tourist books, and the festival folks are starting to get into town. Harrison Ford came in a few days ago. It was surreal. He ordered a chai latte, for the record.” She used her upper arm to brush a piece of hair out of her eyes and poured espresso into my cup. “How’s school been?”

I shrugged. “It’s been a weird semester,” I answered honestly.

“Weird because your mom moved out while you were in school?” she said quietly, handing me my drink. “She came in to tell me the day before she left.”

“No, that was expected, and it was more of a relief,” I answered. “School was bizarre, academically and socially. Most of my friends are graduating this semester, you know, and I still have another one to go, so...” I shrugged. “Two fifty?” I got three bills out of my wallet.

She clicked her tongue. “My treat tonight, mister,” she declared. “You’re my most loyal customer.”

“Charlotte, no way,” I said. “Come on, let me pay.” She refused to take my bills, but it would have felt impolite to stuff them back into my wallet, so I dropped them into the tip jar. She smiled at me like I was an adorable child. “I’ll be here for the rest of the week,” I said, “so I’ll probably pop in a few more times.”

“Try to come tomorrow,” she advised, starting to wash some dishes. “We’ve got a great jazz duo lined up.”

I nodded and found an open table in the back, where I read some Maupassant short stories for a couple of hours over three refills, finally feeling like I was home.

When I got home, the door was unlocked. The apartment was dark except for the hallway lights, and my father was laughing in his study. I knew what I would find before I reached the doorway.

“Emily,” was all I said.

They turned to look at me, Emily only in her panties and my father with his hand on his tripod, finger on the shutter button. He took a professional tone with me.

“We’ll be done shortly,” he said. “Miss Sollers asked me to — ”

“Emily, put your clothes on and meet me on the patio,” I said, my hands shaking. “Dad, get out. Go to bed.”

He rolled his eyes and started to leave, then reached back for the camera. “Leave it,” I snapped.

“Ryan,” he muttered into my ear in the doorway, “you’re staying at your mother’s for the rest of the week. How dare you interrupt my work. When will you stop being so fucking disdainful.”

He brushed past me and walked in the direction of his bedroom, calling out over his shoulder, “This pays your full tuition, son.”

I turned back toward Emily, who had pulled on her tank top without a bra. Her face was tense and any defiance she’d had earlier was melting into shame. She was pathetic, sitting on the carpet, pulling her pants on, and I could feel nothing but irritation and disgust.

She met me on the patio. I was leaning on the balcony, watching the cars fifteen stories below me, feeling vertiginous. “Ryan?” she said timidly.

“Emily,” I said. What was there to say? “I wish you hadn’t come by tonight.”

“I came looking for you,” she said, her voice strained. “I brought the papers to go through but your dad said you were gone, and then he said he’d just pulled out some tiramisu, so we sat and talked and waited for you and...” She quickly wiped a tear away. She was beautiful even with her face collapsed like this.

“I’ll delete those photos,” I said evenly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

She swallowed and looked out at the city lights, quiet for a few minutes. Then she asked, “Your dad — that’s his job?”

“He directs... films,” I replied. I hated the word I should have said. “I usually don’t stay with him, but I wanted to see some old friends in the city.”

She gave a small shiver and pulled her thin scarf tighter around her neck. “I came over a little bit drunk, too,” she said after a pause. She turned to me. “He didn’t touch me, you know, Ryan. I don’t want you to think—”

“I know he didn’t.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t.”

She started crying again. I softened, put my arm around her shoulders and guided her back inside. I popped the memory card out of the camera, and then we walked her to her hotel. She had retreated into herself, become timid and limp. She even looked smaller in stature.

“Walk me to my room?” she murmured at the front doors. I nodded. We went inside and she led me to her room and opened the door, expecting me to go in first. I sensed she wanted to talk for a little bit.

I sat at the desk, and she sat on the bed.

“I feel...” She couldn’t speak.

“Em,” I said gently, using the nickname her girlfriends called her, “you’re not stupid. You’re not gullible. This is his job. You’re the hundredth smart girl he’s convinced, and certainly not the first of my friends.” I paused, looking intently at her face. She bit her lip and looked at her feet.

“I should have just left.”

“He does this for a living, persuading girls to undress for him, saying it’s art. Most of the time, they’re professionals, but he likes to... find new talent. He finds girls who have unfulfilled dreams, and he convinces them that they will be loved.”

She leaned against the headboard. Purple crescents cradled her eyes. “This pays for your education?”

I nodded slowly.

“Ryan, why didn’t you tell me before? If I’d known—”

“You really think I would have told you my dad directs porn? That his exploitation of women’s bodies pays for the gorgeous apartment? I don’t tell anyone that.”

She sighed. “If I’d known what he does, I wouldn’t have stayed there without you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She ran a hand through her perfect hair and looked at me again. The air felt full again and I knew what she would say before she said it. “You know why I came here, right? Why I wanted to work with you on this project?”

“You... really like Gwendolyn Brooks?”

“I wanted to be with you,” she said. “I’ve been so obvious about it. You know why I’m here, why I’ve been here. But you—”

I shook my head to quiet her and put my palm to her smooth cheek. Her face was surprisingly warm. Her lips parted slightly.

“Emily,” I said gently, “I like you, but you’re not my type.”

“I know.” She knew. My hand dropped from her cheek. “Your dad told me,” she said. “When we started talking tonight. I didn’t think he meant it, I... Well, I wish I were your type,” she admitted sadly. “I like you a lot, Ryan.” She pulled her sweater tighter and cleared her throat. “So I’ll — see you tomorrow?”

I nodded, understanding her strong desire to just be alone. “Sure. I’ll take you to my favorite café. There’ll be jazz playing.”

“Okay,” she said, and stood up to walk me to the door.

I followed, rummaged in my pocket and drew out the memory card. I handed it to her silently. She stared at it. Finally she took it from me, smiled softly, and closed the door.