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Her expression softens, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“My whole life is a performance. Onstage, obviously. Interviews. Fans. But I do it with my family too. Even with Drew sometimes.” I stare at the ceiling. “There’s always a version of me that knows what to say. How to make someone laugh. How to make them like me. How to stop them looking too closely.”

Her thumb moves over the lowest star.

“I’ve been doing it for so long that I don’t always know when I’ve switched it on.”

“You don’t do it all the time.”

“How would I know?”

“Because I can tell.”

I look down at her.

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

She says it without hesitation.

“And what if there isn’t much underneath it?” I ask. “What if the version without all the bullshit doesn’t work?”

Her fingers resume their path over the tattoo.

One. Two. Three.

“There’s a real you underneath,” she says. “I’ve met him.”

“Have you?”

“A few times.”

“And?”

She considers it with exaggerated seriousness.

“He’s actually quite nice.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Sweet, even.”

“Take it back.”

“Nothing like the arrogant asshole covering him up.”

I laugh, and she smiles against my chest.

I pull her closer until there’s no space left between us.

“You’re mean after sex.”

“You like me mean.”

“Unfortunately.”

Bea settles against me again, her hand resting over the three stars.