Two years ago, in the last days of a flatlining relationship, my boyfriend, Bobby, and I were crashing with a pal of his in Altamonte Springs, Florida. Bobby and Max — whose names I’ve changed, like most of the others in this story, along with some identifying details — had grown up together and played on the same elite soccer team. Max’s apartment was in a village like many in America, with a cast of characters leaning out of old cars and teenagers playing trap music from the little balconies around the deserted pool. The apartment was pretty dirty, its sink…