Now, at twenty-two, she knows better. The affair has been going on for a year now, the secret drinking twice that long. Some mornings she opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling, and for a second forgets the tangle of lies that she has spun around herself like a cocoon. Dylan stirs beside her. He has always been a light sleeper. He tells her that she grinds her teeth and sometimes talks in her sleep. She worries she will say something that will damn her; other times she thinks it would be a relief to let the cocoon fall away and see what creature now dwells inside.
She is always tired, as though the other life she lives is heavy, something she carries with her always. Guilt is exhausting, she has discovered. The memory of what she has done with Will makes her feel sick and weary. So she
