My room was bright, on the south side of the house, the windows facing toward the bay. There was a king-sized bed with a white duvet cover and pale blue pillows. The headboard was taller than me, simple with a textured gray fabric cover. At the foot of the bed was a wicker chest.

“You’ve got your own bathroom and walk-in closet. Just make yourself at home.”

“How many rooms are there in the house?”

“There are eight bedrooms and eleven bathrooms.”

“You have eleven bathrooms?”

“I know. Go figure. I think whoever built this leviathan might have had a problem with incontinence.

“I’ll show you around after dinner. If you want to put your things away, I’ll get dinner out of the oven.”

“Thank you. I won’t be long.”

After he left, I sat on the bed. I felt different than I had in New York. It wasn’t just the privacy or setting. It was that I no longer felt the need to hide myself from him.

What I said to him about not knowing me was true. But the opposite was just as true. Other than the abuse he had shared, I knew little of the hardships he had faced as a child. The truth was, I knew more about him through his books than I did in real life. I was curious to see just how much the writer and the man aligned.