The first things I see are the red numbers of my bedside clock: 3:23 a.m. I’m acutely aware of a warm body against my back. I pull the blanket close to my face.

Billy wraps a hand around the back of my neck, assuring me of his presence. I’ve always been scared easily.

“What are you doing in here, Billy?” I remember the way Nathaniel looked at me right before he left, a combination of disgust and incomprehension, as he walked out the door.

“Reminiscing.” He smells clean, and from the dampness of his skin, I can tell he hasn’t been out of the shower long.

“Tell me about Rose.”

“She’s an ex-girlfriend.” I don’t believe him, but I let it go, for now. He’s called her by name. That means she’s important to him. Billy never talks about the details of his personal or business life. Everyone is a “businessman” or “businesswoman” when dealing with his work, and everyone is a “friend” when dealing with his social life. But this woman has a name.

“Do you talk about me while you’re with her? You’re still with her. You say her name too softly.” Billy doesn’t say anything. I sit up. “Are you going to see her tomorrow when you leave?” The statement pricks my eyes. “You can’t leave me now Billy. I’ll have no one!” I kiss his neck and jaw repeatedly. I’m not going to let him leave me here, with nothing but my mother’s inheritance and an empty house again.

The next morning, as I’m cooking breakfast, Billy comes downstairs with a suitcase and a single word: “Pack.” Part of me wonders why he doesn’t sound particularly happy about this prospect, but it doesn’t bother me. I ask him where we’re going and it takes him a minute to answer. “Everywhere.”

We start in Hollywood, the first in a long line of pretty, touristy spots, where the girls were ephemeral and every boy reminds me of Nathaniel. I guess the homeless look is in all across the country. We lay our heads in the Chateau Marmont, and while he’s away on business, I spend time in the lobby, with its burnt orange carpet and high wood-lined ceilings, writing missives in my journal:

“Day one: Hollywood. I already don’t like this place—it smells of rape, honey, and desperation. The hotel reeks of decadence and debauchery. Though I’m sure the sheets are clean, I can feel it on me when I sleep. Watched a show at the Troubadour—took some ecstasy given to me by a boy in the front row. Once Billy realized I was high, we left immediately. He wasn’t happy. Every hair on my body was electrified. Back at the hotel, every time he touched me, I’d beg him for more, which he obliged, for an unknown reason, though his face screamed guilt.”

“Who’s Rose?” I ask again at LAX.

“An ex—”

“Don’t lie to me.” I hug him intensely, letting my bag fall to the floor. He’s very smartly dressed in a dark grey Hugo Boss suit, teal shirt and matching grey tie. I slide my hands into his jacket to knead his back. The thought of this woman tears me apart, and every moment he avoids the question, knots are made that can’t be undone.

“A woman I know.”

“A woman you love.” I say in his ear. “A woman you love and don’t want to let go.” Our conversation is interrupted when it’s time to board an airline I’ve never heard of, as I would do many times in the coming days: British Airways, Lufthansa, KLM and Virgin Airways.

Hollywood was just a taste. We went everywhere, for brief, but concise measures of time. I see flashes of Tokyo and Hong Kong with their congested streets. Billy knows enough of the language in each city to sit us at dinner tables and check us into our hotels: The Grand Hyatt in Tokyo, Abode in Glasgow, The Clarence in Dublin, The Q & B in Athens—the hotel list goes on and on, each one with luxury beds and room service. I’m a placated princess, carrying an extra suitcase, bought for all of the things I was acquiring. It seems Billy can do anything. I watch him with jealousy and wonder, as he talks with shopkeepers who measure me for dresses I’ll never wear and shoes I’ll never take off. In Milan, after we leave the Spadari, I smell thick, burnt cuisine, as Billy guides my hand, chain-smoking in the streets.

“Day whatever. Milan. Spent most of my time in the hotel. Felt a little guilty, but my brother was out on business for most of the day. Can’t go anywhere without him. This hotel has wonderful little patios outside each room, and the walls are the color of Tylenol PM’s. I’ve never seen such white sheets. He bought me some amazing shoes—boots that lace to just over the knee, but they’re made of soft enough leather they bend with your legs. The strings are black ribbon, and there isn’t even a tag insid; the owners let you know the price. I sleep in them.”

That night, I’m awakened when he leaves the bed. I hear the distinct sound of his phone, and a few seconds later, he is speaking in French to someone I couldn’t possibly know. A business deal this late? I’m almost asleep again, when I hear the words “je t’aime,” as if he’s soothing a baby kitten. I don’t know the language, but I know what that phrase means.

He’s talking to her. He said “I love you” in the same soft tone he used to say her name. Who is she, and how did she capture my brother? His travels have wounded me far deeper than simply removing him from my needy eye; they have put him in the path of this woman, this French woman who’s taken what’s mine. I will have him again, I will retrieve him. I know where we’re headed, regardless of what the seven page itinerary on the bedside table says.

I don’t sleep again for the rest of the night. When Billy comes to bed he whispers my name and waits a few seconds. I hold my breath until he settles in for sleep.