Jefferson came over for dinner three times the following week.
Then he stayed over on a Friday night. Then a Saturday. Then Karen gave him a spare set of keys, and he never really left again.
It happened fast. Too fast, maybe. But Karen was forty-three, and she'd been alone for so long that she'd forgotten what it felt like to have someone beside her in bed. Someone who told her "good night" and "good morning" and "you're beautiful" and all the things no one had ever said to her.
Jefferson moved in without moving in. His things appeared little by little—a razor in the bathroom, a jacket on the coat rack, a camera on the living room table, vinyl records in a box beside the stereo. He never officially moved in. He was just there. All the time. Naturally.
And Staicie got used to it.
In the morning, Jefferson made breakfast. Not just toast—a real breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Coffee for Karen. Hot chocolate for Staicie.
"You know I don't eat in the morning," Staicie said on the first day.
"You eat now," Jefferson said as he set the plate in front of her.
She ate. Everything. And the next day too. And the day after that.
In the evening, Jefferson cooked. Or ordered in. Or took Karen and Staicie to a restaurant. He always paid. Not to impress them—it was just natural to him. He made good money. His photographs were displayed in galleries. Magazines sought him out. He wasn't rich like Matthieu—not a black sedan, not a custom-tailored suit, not CEO printed on his business card. But he was comfortable. And generous.
Staicie liked having him in the house. It was new. She'd never had a male figure at home. No father. No stepfather. No uncle. Just Karen and her, always. And now there was Jefferson, fixing the kitchen faucet, mowing the lawn on Sundays, watching movies with them on the couch in the evening.
It was nice.
It was normal.
It was dangerous.
The first sign was the tickling.
One Sunday afternoon. Karen had gone grocery shopping. Jefferson and Staicie were watching TV in the living room. A stupid movie. They made fun of the actors. Jefferson made a comment. Staicie laughed. Jefferson tickled her.
It was innocent. A big-brother gesture. A cool stepfather. A guy who got along well with his girlfriend's daughter.
Staicie squirmed on the couch. Laughed. Tried to push him away. Her hands caught Jefferson's wrists. Their faces ended up eight inches apart.
They looked at each other.
One second. Two seconds. Three.
Jefferson let go. Backed away. Coughed.
"Okay. This movie sucks. Want something to drink?"
"Yeah. A Coke."
He went into the kitchen. Staicie stayed on the couch. Her heart was beating. Not much. Just a little. Just enough for her to notice.
She said nothing.
The tickling came back. The next day. The day after that. Every time Karen wasn't in the room. It had become a game. Their game. Jefferson tickled her, Staicie struggled, they laughed, and for one second—just one—their bodies were close. Too close.
Then one of them backed away. Always.
"You two get along so well," Karen said one evening as she watched them bicker in front of the TV.
She was sitting in the armchair, a wineglass in hand. A smile on her lips. Happy. So happy she didn't see anything.
"Your daughter started it," Jefferson said.
"He started it," Staicie said.
Karen laughed.
"You're worse than little kids."
Yes. That's what they were. Kids playing a game whose rules they didn't know yet.
Staicie started paying attention to what she wore in the morning. Not for high school—for breakfast. Shorts that were a little shorter. A tank top with a slightly lower neckline. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing calculated. Just... an effort. An effort she couldn't explain to herself.
Jefferson watched her come down the stairs. Every morning. He never said anything. But he watched.
"You look beautiful this morning," he said one Thursday.
Karen hadn't come downstairs yet.
"Thanks," Staicie said.
Their eyes met across the table. The hot chocolate steamed between them. A strand of Jefferson's hair fell over his hazel eyes. He didn't push it back.
Staicie drank her hot chocolate. Got up. Picked up her bag.
"Have a good day, Jeff."
"Have a good day, Stace."
Stace. He called her Stace. No one called her Stace. Even Cyndi called her Staicie.
She got into her car—not Matthieu's convertible; that one was at the bottom of the ocean. Karen's old Toyota, repaired, dented, perfect. She started the engine. Looked at the house in the rearview mirror.
Jefferson was at the kitchen window. Watching her leave.
She drove away.
At high school, Tyler Morrison asked her to go to the movies.
"No, thanks."
"Why?"
"Because no."
Tyler walked away, offended. Cyndi raised an eyebrow.
"You could at least be nice."
"I am nice. I said thanks."
"Staicie. Tyler is the cutest guy in high school. He's nice. He's funny. He got his braces off."
"Good for him."
"What's wrong with you?"
Nothing. Everything was fine. Staicie just didn't want to go to the movies with an eighteen-year-old guy who wore hoodies and smelled like Axe body spray.
She wanted hot chocolate in the morning. A rebellious strand of hair falling over hazel eyes. A deep voice calling her Stace.
She wanted Jefferson.
And she knew it.
That evening, she came home. Jefferson was in the living room. Alone. Karen was working late.
"Hey, Stace."
"Hey, Jeff."
She set down her bag. Sat beside him on the couch. Not at the other end. Beside him. Their shoulders touched.
"What time is Karen coming home?"
"Ten. Meeting."
"Want to order pizza?"
"Already ordered. Pepperoni for you. Four-cheese for me."
"You know my favorite pizza."
"I know everything about you."
He said it while watching TV. As if it were nothing. As if it were normal.
Staicie felt the shiver. The one in her chest. The one that mattered.
They ate the pizza. Watched a movie. Their feet touched beneath the blanket. Neither of them moved.
At nine thirty, Staicie went upstairs to bed.
"Good night, Jeff."
"Good night, Stace."
She stopped on the stairs. Turned around. He was watching her. The strand of hair. The hazel eyes. The smile.
"Jeff?"
"Yeah?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Smiled.
"Nothing. Good night."
She went upstairs. Closed her bedroom door. Leaned against the wood. Closed her eyes.
Her heart was beating.
Not a little.
A lot.