We stopped pretending the accident had been accidental.
The hours after that first full surrender blurred into a sequence of small, stolen agreements: keep it secret, keep it tight, don’t be reckless. We were adults and liars by choice, and the choice tasted like wine and copper on my tongue.
That Sunday afternoon, the house smelled of lemon oil and laundry. Mom had gone for an art opening with a friend—something she’d been excited about for weeks—and Lily had invited a couple of classmates over to study for finals. The driveway was empty when Mark pulled up, and I watched him from the kitchen window like a moth watching a flame. He moved with a purposeful calm that had always been magnetic; today it made my pulse trip over itself.
He came inside carrying a paper bag heavy with provisio
