I try to convince myself that it won’t be bad. That nothing will happen. That I’ll just sit at the long dining table, picking at boxed salad, trading inane pleasantries with a man who once made me so aroused that I could think of nothing but him for weeks. And he did it with nothing but his hands, his tongue and a growl that still makes me shake.
So why is my mom making Kent sound like an infirm old man? But I guess illness can do that to you. It saps your energy, and turns a formerly healthy adult into skin and bones. But already I can feel myself slipping—imagination skipping ahead to Kent, in glowing health, in the study, Kent in the kitchen, Kent standing at the end of the hall in expensive clothes, always watching, always waiting.
With that, I begin to pack my things mechanically: jeans, t-shirts, my favorite fuzzy pajamas. I throw the guidebook in on top, even though there’s no way I’m going anywhere this semester. I zip the suitcase with unnecessary force, then drop to the edge of the bed, staring at my hands in my lap.
For a while, I just sit. I try not to think about what it will feel like to see my stepfather again, to hear my name in that deep,lazy voice. To watch his face for cracks—weakness, anger, desire—anything I can read, anything to prove that last Thanksgiving wasn’t just some hallucination.
I tell myself it will be fine. He’s sick, for Christ’s sake.
But between my legs, the ache is still there, throbbing and raw. I slide a hand under the waistband of my sweatpants, just to check, and the cotton comes away sticky and hot. My pulse drums in my clit. I want to call Kayleigh, to confess, to get the words out, but there are some things you can’t even tell your best friend.
So I just sit and let the feeling burn through me, waiting for morning, for the drive home, for whatever happens next.
2
MY MOM SPRINGS AN UNWELCOME SURPRISE
MARY KATE
The drive to the mansion is a slow suffocation. Every mile between the college and the Lakes District ratchets my pulse higher, until I can feel my own blood in my wrists. I take the scenic route, past the skeletal trees and the gray scab of ice on the ponds, circling Lake of the Isles twice to kill time. My head is a mess, and unconsciously, I shake it like that’ll help clear up the roiling boil of thoughts.
The mansion appears through the windshield like a hallucination. Four stories of limestone and glass, perched above the frozen creek, flanked by a sweep of manicured hedges and naked rosebushes bristling with old thorns. I roll to a stop at the curb, engine humming in the cold, and just sit. The manor is silent, lights off except for the faint gold glow leaking from the library window.
I carry my bags up the walk. The chill air is so thin and dry that it burns inside my nose. My hands, already numb, fumble for the key that’s always tucked in the flowerpot. The lock sticks, as if the door is trying to hold me outside.
Inside, the silence has teeth. No echo of TV from the den, no clatter from the kitchen, no Jeannine clacking around in high heels, commanding the cleaning service. Just the creak of my boots on Italian tile, the faint smell of lemon polish, and the distant hush of the heating system. There are still faint scratches on the doorframe from where Kent’s old dog, Basil, used to paw for attention, but the pooch’s been dead for years.
I drag my bags into the foyer, letting the wheels rattle over the grout lines. The art on the walls is still the same: a cold watercolor of the Amalfi coast, a moody oil portrait of a woman with a broken nose and piercing blue eyes. There’s an absurd amount of space, as if the house is built for a family of twenty. The emptiness breathes around me, making every movement a performance for an invisible audience.
I call out, “Mom?”
No answer. Just the click of my own voice ricocheting through the front rooms. I check the time—only four-thirty. Jeannine said she’d be here after five. She had some kind of luncheon to attend, although why those things end so late, I have no idea.
I drag my suitcase to the grand staircase. The steps are wide enough to land a plane on, each one trimmed in dark cherry wood and thick, soundless carpet. I feel ridiculous, a college girl in a battered sweatshirt and leggings, hauling a Target suitcase up a luxurious staircase.
At the top, I pass by Kent’s office—door closed, totally silent. He’s not home, but there’s a subtle shift in the air here, as if the molecules themselves are under stricter supervision. I move faster, shoes muffled by the carpet runner, until I reach the third-floor landing and the hallway I used to call home.
My room is exactly as I left it when I moved out for college. Pastel blue walls, the corkboard still pinned with AP exam schedules and a wrinkled Taylor Swift poster, the shelf above the window lined with a military parade of cheerleading trophies and three years’ worth of Show Choir ribbons. My old twin bed is dwarfed by a headboard upholstered in cream velvet, the comforter pulled tight and perfect as a hotel suite. The desk holds a single bottle of perfume (Juicy Couture, half-empty) and a stack of SAT prep books.
I set my suitcase down and look at myself in the mirror. The girl in the reflection is an older version of the teen this room was built for: a half-inch taller, blonde hair grown out in luscious waves, hips and bust that don’t fit the memory of my cheerleader body. The old pink desk lamp is still shaped like a daisy, and it throws a petal-shaped shadow across my cheekbones.
I stand for a while, unzipping my suitcase but not unpacking it, letting the new version of myself leak into the static air of my old life. The feeling is so dissonant it makes my teeth ache.
After a minute, I start refolding my sweaters and stacking them in the closet, which still smells faintly of last spring’s dryer sheets. The action is pointless—nobody will see them—but I do it anyway, arranging the knits by color, then by thickness, then by how likely I am to wear them in the coming week. With each pass, the stack becomes more orderly, and my breathing slows.
Once, I pause, holding a tattered copy of the Rick Steves guidebook to my chest, thumbing the creased cover as if it might still open a portal. I picture Kent standing in the library, reading over a patient chart or scrolling through Italian phrases on his phone, dark and handsome, with a gleam in those blue eyes. The image makes my mouth go dry.
The silence of the house isn’t peaceful though; it’s the kind of silence that swallows up all attempts at noise. Even with the heating running, even with the ticking of the hallway clock, every sound I make is immediately absorbed, leaving nothing behind.
After I finish arranging the closet, I sit at the edge of the bed. The mattress is unfamiliar, plush yet firm, the opposite of my broken-down mattress at the apartment. I slide the Rick Steves guidebook under my pillow, as if it’s a forbidden diary, and open my laptop to check on a class discussion board. The Wi-Fi here is faster than god, but I can’t focus on the screen.
Instead, my eyes drift to the window, where the sun is already disappearing, leaving only a bluish-lavender haze and the faint grid of security lights across the yard. Somewhere out there is the garden where Jeannine once made me pose for family Christmas photos, Kent’s hand on my shoulder, his wedding ring a bright punctuation mark.
I imagine him now, at the hospital, lecturing a room full of residents or working some double-blind trial in the bowels of the research wing. I can’t picture him sick. He’s not the type who goes soft, even in private. But I can picture him angry, or worse, bored— prowling the empty house, hunting for something to break or seduce.
A shiver runs through me, not entirely unpleasant.
I try to distract myself by going to the bathroom and splashing cold water on my face. The en suite is a showroom, all marble and gleaming silver fixtures, with a drawer full of hotel-sized perfumes and expensive soaps. I towel off and catch my reflection again. My eyes look huge, almost swallowing my entire face. I force a smile, then give up.
