We think we won. That night’s victory is a balm. The town’s rumor mill grinds slower. Phones stay pocketed. For a week it’s like someone has put a lid on our little scandal — people avoid us in the grocery store, but they avoid us with wary civility, not malice. Dominic is a ghost who shows up at dinner like nothing happened. Dad’s jaw is tight but the edges of the house feel less like glass ready to shatter.
And then, on a grey Tuesday, a new kind of hammer falls.
My phone vibrates. Caller ID: Unknown. The text that follows is short and surgical: You two look very comfy. I sold your photos. National site. Tonight.
The world stops.
Dominic reads it over my shoulder and I feel the blood leave his face. He moves, then, in the way soldiers move when the map falls away: quick, cold, fright
