That afternoon Mark and I met in the garden with a book of plants and the pretext of transplanting a hydrangea. The sun was generous and made everything more indulgent. We sat on the low wall and our knees brushed. It’s funny how the small contours of someone else’s body can become landmarks: the slope of a thigh, the angle of a knee. I let my hand rest near his, not touching, because the proximity felt like a benediction.
He leaned toward me, voice softer than the breeze. “She’s watching,” he said.
“I know,” I whispered.
“It will get harder.” The sentence was not a question.
“I don’t care,” I said, which was both true and a lie. I didn’t care in the moment, in the burn of being close to him. But I cared—about Mom’s trust, about Lily’s perception, about the fragile lives we were balanc
