“Who says you can’t teach a still somewhat youngish dog new tricks?” I asked Pigeon. Feeling full of myself, I wasn’t paying attention when I went to cut the fishing wire with the razor I’d been using and sliced across the fleshy part of my palm.

Blood spilled out—all over my hand and all over the couch. I wrapped the bottom of my T-shirt around the wound and ran into the kitchen. Thanks to the one time I had tried helping Tyler by cutting vegetables for dinner, I knew he kept a first aid kit in the cabinet above the stove.

I reached up for it and then put my hand in the sink so that blood wouldn’t keep spilling everywhere. At least I knew something about caring for cuts, as second graders seemed especially adept at getting them.

Washing the wound out, I opened the kit with my free hand and grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I poured it over my palm, gritting my jaw as it stung. Once I’d cleared out the blood, it seemed the cut wasn’t as deep as I’d thought it was. I used my teeth to help open the packaging for a large gauze bandage and put it on my palm.

I’d be fine.

But the couch . . . I ran back into the living room. Splotches of blood were standing out brightly against the light-gray fabric. How did I clean up blood?

I knew you could soak it in cold water to get rid of a bloodstain. But I couldn’t soak the couch in cold water. What was I going to do? What could I do? My heart jackhammered in my chest and I felt like I couldn’t think straight, until my brain finally came up with an idea. What about bleach? I’d used that before for blood.

Running to the laundry closet, I grabbed the bleach off the top shelf. I went back into the kitchen and snagged a white rag, rinsing it in cold water.

I went back to the couch and started scrubbing at the blood with the rag. Only that made it worse; there were now streaks of blood instead of just splotches. “No, no, no,” I muttered. I then opened the bleach, setting it down on the cushion, and poured a little bit of it onto the rag. This time I tried dabbing at the stain.

It seemed to be working until I realized the reason why. It was turning the fabric white. I had ruined the cushion.

What was I going to do? Maybe I could just flip the cushion over and no one would ever be the wiser. Although I knew I would feel guilty every time we sat here to watch TV. Maybe there was, like, a cushion-covering store and I could bring it in and have them put on new fabric. That couldn’t be that expensive, right?

I reached for the bleach, intending to put it away. Not knowing what I was going to tell Tyler. Because some part of me knew I had to tell him. I couldn’t keep being dishonest with him about little things like this. I wanted him to know everything about me.

But just as I got my hand on the bottle, Pigeon chose that moment to nudge my arm and everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The bleach bottle tipped forward; I gasped and tried to grab it, but it slipped through my fingers. The bleach splashed all over the back cushion, as well as the one I’d been trying to clean.

I righted the bottle and then I put my body between the spill and Pigeon. I didn’t know what bleach might do to dogs but I figured it couldn’t be good. I took both the cushion and the bleach to the patio and left them outside.

Pigeon seemed fine when I went to check her, but I was not a vet and didn’t know if she was okay. I brought her into my room in case there were fumes or something.

We sat on the bed and I thought about what had just happened. Although I couldn’t guess at how much that couch had cost, especially one chosen by an interior decorator, I knew it had to be on the expensive side. I didn’t have the money to buy a new one. I couldn’t call Violet again; she had enough of her own problems to deal with.

How could I replace it? I didn’t have anything saved up. I’d been paring down my expenses one by one, trying my best to stick to the budget Tyler had helped me create, but there was no way I had what I would need to pay for that couch. Maybe I could pay him off in installments?

Or maybe I could sell something of mine. But even if I combined everything I owned, it still wouldn’t be enough.

Except . . .

Even though it made me heartsick, I knew there was only one way. I went into my closet. First I changed my shirt, putting the bloody/bleached one into my trash. Then I grabbed my Birkin bag. I closed the closet door and sank onto the floor, holding it. I would have to sell the bag. I’d been so desperate to move beyond my past, to give up everything that had to do with my parents. Maybe this was some kind of cosmic reminder that I had to let it all go.

I wrapped my arms around my bag and I started to cry. Pigeon came over and licked my face, trying to cheer me up, but I couldn’t stop sobbing. If I’d believed in karma, I might have taken this as a punishment for not telling Tyler the truth about all the things in his house that I’d wrecked already.

He was going to kick me out. I was going to lose my apartment, Pigeon, and, most importantly, I was going to lose him.

Curling up into a ball, I kept crying. This was so stupid. It was so stupid to be this upset. Pigeon lay next to me, warming my body with hers. Which, for some reason, made me cry even harder. My chest started to ache, my lungs to burn, and my eyes became swollen and sore.

That was how Tyler found me.

“Hey, Madison? Why does it smell like bleach in here? And what happened to the couch?” His voice came closer and I felt him get down on the floor next to me. “Are you all right? What happened?”

“I’m a terrible person!” I lamented. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, too humiliated to even look at him.

His strong hand rubbed my back, trying to comfort me. “Why do you think you’re a terrible person?”

“Because I ruined your couch!”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” I wailed. “You don’t understand. I don’t know how to clean.”

“What?” He sounded so confused.

“You said you needed someone to move in and clean up. And I had never cleaned anything in my entire life. I messed up so many times! I made the dishwasher shoot out bubbles because I put dishwashing liquid soap in it and then I put your cast-iron pan in there and had to buy you a new one—”

“You did?”

“Yes! And I almost wrecked the vacuum I don’t know how many times and I cleaned the windows with Dawn and the bathroom mirror with all-purpose cleaner and I sucked a sock into the dryer and had to have a repairman fix it and then . . . then I forgot to close your closet door and Pigeon chewed up one of your shoes! I had to replace them and they were over a thousand dollars. The ones you thought were too tight.”

“I bought those shoes used at a consignment store right out of college and they’ve held up really well. But I don’t think they were worth a thousand dollars.”

I howled, “Now you tell me!”

“How did you pay for all that?”

“It’s why I’m broke. And my sister had to lend me the money for your shoes.”

He went silent and I knew he had to be regretting asking me to move in here. I was a liar and a destroyer of his nice things and he should have a roommate who wasn’t either of those.

I announced, “And now . . . I’m going to sell my Birkin bag so that I can replace your couch.”

“The bag your grandma gave you for graduation?”