Staicie Blum was eighteen, and life had gone back to normal.
It was a strange word, “normal,” when you'd survived a married man, a stalker, a car at the bottom of the ocean, and a cliff in the middle of the night. But it was the right word. Normal. Like before. As if nothing had happened.
The alarm went off at six thirty. Staicie turned it off, stayed under the covers for five minutes, then got up. Shower. Blowout. Mascara. Lip gloss. High-waisted jeans. Crop top. White sneakers. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Stairs. Kitchen.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
Karen was already there. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other, her hair hastily tied back. Forty-three years old. Still beautiful. Still tired.
“Morning, Mom.”
“Are you going to eat something?”
“No time.”
“Staicie.”
“Toast. Just one piece.”
Karen smiled. It was their ritual. Every morning. As long as Staicie could remember. The same exchange, the same words, the same toast Staicie ate in three bites while standing at the counter.
Life was normal.
At high school, Staicie was captain of the cheerleaders. Senior year. Her final year. She knew everyone, and everyone knew her. The guys watched her walk down the halls. She didn't look at them. Not because she was arrogant—because she was bored. They were eighteen. They talked about video games and beer parties. They wore oversized sweatshirts and backward caps. They were kids.
Staicie didn't want kids.
“Tyler Morrison is looking at you again,” Cyndi said as she sat down beside her in the cafeteria.
“Good for him.”
“He's cute.”
“He has braces.”
“He's getting them off in two months.”
“Remind me in two months.”
Cyndi laughed. Eighteen years old. Brunette. Direct. Loyal. Her best friend since middle school. The one who knew everything—Matthew, the threats, the cliff, Megan. The one who had never judged her.
“How's Megan?” Staicie asked.
“Better. She's gone back to college. She sees her therapist twice a week. She smiles sometimes.”
“Good.”
“She asks about you.”
“Tell her I'm fine.”
“Are you fine?”
Staicie bit into her apple. Chewed. Swallowed.
“I'm fine.”
And it was true. For the first time in a long time, it was true. No more nightmares. No more flinching when the phone rang. No more glances over her shoulder while walking down the street. Matthew Denisot had disappeared. Vanished. As if he'd never existed.
Sometimes, at night, Staicie thought about him. Not with love. Not with hate. With a kind of cold curiosity, the way you look at a scar and wonder how you could have hurt yourself so stupidly.
She'd been sixteen. He'd been thirty-two. She'd believed his lies. The divorce. The gifts. The “I love yous” whispered in restaurants too expensive for a high-school girl.
Now she was eighteen, and she knew.
Men lie. Gifts are traps. And “I love you” means nothing when it comes from a mouth that says the same thing to his wife at night.
Cheerleading practice was at four. Football field. Music blasting. Routine. Jumps. Pyramids. Splits. Million-watt smiles.
Staicie was in the center. As always. Blonde. Tanned. An athlete's body. When she danced, people stopped to watch. Not only because she was beautiful—but because she was alive. Every movement was precise, powerful, joyful. She danced like someone who'd almost lost everything and savored every second.
After practice, Cyndi and Staicie went to get smoothies at the mall. They talked about everything and nothing. Classes. Prom. Tyler Morrison and his braces. The new routine. The latest episode of their show.
Normal stuff.
Eighteen-year-old-girl stuff.
Staicie got home at seven. The house smelled like tomato sauce. Karen was cooking. Soft music played in the kitchen. Candles were set on the table.
“Are you expecting someone?” Staicie asked, setting down her bag.
Karen turned around. She was wearing lipstick. And a dress. A real dress. Not jeans and a T-shirt like usual.
“I met someone.”
Staicie stopped.
“What?”
“A man. His name is Jefferson. Jefferson Cole. He's a photographer. I met him at the cultural center's exhibition last Saturday.”
“Last Saturday? It's been a week, and you're only telling me now?”
“I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That I really liked him.”
Karen smiled. A real smile. Not the tired smile of a single mother who handled everything on her own. A woman's smile. A smile Staicie had never seen on her before.
“He's coming over for dinner tonight.”
“Tonight? Mom, my hair is a mess, I'm wearing leggings, and—”
“You look beautiful. Go change if you want. He'll be here in an hour.”
Staicie went upstairs to her room. She looked at herself in the mirror. Smiled despite herself. Her mother had a date. Her mother had put on lipstick and lit candles. Her mother was happy.
It was good.
It was normal.
The doorbell rang at exactly eight. Staicie heard Karen open the door. Voices. Laughter. A man's laugh, deep and warm.
Staicie went down the stairs.
He was in the entryway. Tall. Brunette. A rebellious lock of hair fell over his hazel eyes. Charming smile. Leather jacket over a white T-shirt. Dark jeans. Boots. He held a bouquet of peonies in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
Thirty-five. Maybe a little older. The age when men stop being boys.
He looked up toward the stairs. Saw Staicie. Smiled.
“You must be Staicie. Your mother has told me a lot about you.”
His voice was soft. His eyes were soft. Everything about him was soft.
“Hi,” Staicie said.
She came down the last few steps. Shook his hand. His palm was warm. Firm. He looked her in the eyes—not like the guys at high school, who looked at her legs or her chest. In the eyes.
“Jefferson Cole. Nice to meet you.”
“Staicie Blum. Nice to meet you.”
Karen watched them. Happy. Proud. Her daughter and her man in the same room, and everything was fine.
Dinner was perfect. Jefferson was funny. Cultured. Attentive. He asked Staicie questions about high school, the cheerleaders, and her plans. He listened to her answers. He laughed at her jokes. He complimented Karen's cooking without overdoing it.
He wasn't like Matthew.
Matthew was a costume. A role. A routine. The same gestures, the same words, the same script for every girl.
Jefferson was real.
“What do you photograph?” Staicie asked.
“People. Faces. What happens between two expressions—the moment someone stops posing and becomes themselves again. That's when a photo becomes real.”
“That's beautiful.”
“It's my job.”
He smiled. The lock of hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it back with an absentminded gesture.
Staicie felt something. Something tiny. A shiver. Not in her stomach—higher up. In her chest. Where it mattered.
She looked away.
Karen placed her hand over Jefferson's. He laced his fingers through hers. Naturally. Tenderly.
“I'm glad you two get along,” Karen said.
“Me too,” Jefferson said.
“Me too,” Staicie said.
And it was true.
For now.