It happened on a Thursday night.
Karen had gone to sleep early. Exhausted. After an endless day at work and one glass of wine too many, she'd collapsed onto the bed at nine, fully dressed, without even taking off her shoes. Jefferson had removed her pumps, pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, and turned off the light.
Then he went back downstairs.
Staicie was in the kitchen. Standing in front of the open fridge. Pajama shorts. A white tank top. Bare feet on the cold tile. She was looking for something to snack on. Or pretending to look.
"Karen's asleep," Jefferson said as he entered the kitchen.
"I know. I heard her snoring from my room."
"She doesn't snore."
"She does. Like a tractor."
Jefferson laughed. He leaned against the counter. Crossed his arms. Looked at her.
Staicie closed the fridge. Turned around. They were six feet apart. The kitchen was dimly lit—just the light above the sink. Soft shadows. Silence.
"You're not sleeping?" Jefferson asked.
"I'm not tired."
"Me neither."
Silence. The kind of silence that weighs on you. That waits for something.
"Want to watch something?" Staicie suggested.
"Okay."
They settled onto the couch. Blanket. TV. Some random movie. Something with explosions and stupid dialogue. They weren't really watching.
Staicie was cold. Or she said she was cold. She moved closer to Jefferson. Rested her head on his shoulder. Naturally. Like a girl resting her head on her mom's boyfriend's shoulder because she was cold and it was normal.
It wasn't normal.
Jefferson didn't move. His breathing changed. Barely. One shorter, tenser breath.
"Jeff?"
"Hmm?"
"You smell good."
He didn't answer. His hand was resting on the couch between them. Staicie placed hers beside it. Their pinkies touched.
Neither of them moved their hand away.
The movie continued. Explosions. Screams. Things that didn't matter at all.
"Stace."
"Yeah?"
"We shouldn't."
"Shouldn't what?"
He turned his head. She lifted hers. Their faces were four inches apart. Two. Just over an inch.
"This," Jefferson whispered.
And he kissed her.
Or she kissed him. Or they kissed each other at the same time. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it happened. Right there. On the living room couch. With Karen asleep upstairs. With the movie continuing into the void. With the blanket sliding to the floor.
The kiss lasted a long time. Too long to be a mistake. Too long to be able to say "it was nothing" the next day.
When they pulled apart, Jefferson's eyes were closed. He opened them. Looked at Staicie. Fear in his hazel eyes. Guilt. Desire. All at once.
"We can't do this," he said.
"We just did."
"Staicie. She's your mother. Karen. My girlfriend. Your mother."
"I know who she is."
"Then you know this is—"
"Wrong? Yes. I know."
Silence. The movie had stopped. The screen was black. The house was quiet. Above them, Karen was asleep.
"It won't happen again," Jefferson said.
"Okay."
"Never."
"Okay."
He got up. Went upstairs. Entered Karen's bedroom. Closed the door.
Staicie stayed on the couch. Alone. In the dark. Her lips still warm. Her heart still racing.
She smiled.
Because she knew it would happen again.
It happened again the next day.
Karen had gone to work. Jefferson was supposed to go to the studio. He didn't. Staicie was supposed to go to high school. She didn't.
They met in the kitchen. As if by chance. As if neither of them had planned to stay home. As if it were an accident.
"You're not at high school," Jefferson said.
"You're not at the studio."
Silence. A look. The strand of hair over his hazel eyes.
"Jeff."
"Stace."
This time, there was no "we shouldn't." No guilt. No speeches. He crossed the kitchen in two steps, took her face in his hands, and kissed her like a man who had stopped fighting.
They went upstairs to Staicie's bedroom. Not Karen's. Never Karen's. Staicie's room, with its posters on the walls and her pom-poms on the chair and her twin bed that was too small for two but would have to do.
The door closed.
And everything changed.
Afterward, they lay there, pressed together in the too-small bed. Jefferson stroked Staicie's hair. Her head rested on his chest. She could hear his heart beating.
"We're monsters," Jefferson said.
"No."
"Yes. Me especially."
"Why you especially?"
"Because I'm thirty-five. Because you're eighteen. Because your mother loves me and I sleep in her bed every night."
"Except tonight."
"Except tonight."
Silence. Morning light came through the curtains. Outside, the world went on. The neighbors left for work. Birds sang. Everything was normal.
Nothing was normal.
"What do we do?" Staicie asked.
"I don't know."
"Are you going to tell Mom?"
"No."
"Are you going to break up with me?"
"I'm not with you."
"You're in my bed."
Jefferson closed his eyes. Sighed. The strand of hair fell onto his forehead. Staicie brushed it back with her fingertips.
"I'm with Karen," he said. "Officially. Publicly. She's the one I love."
"But I'm the one you want."
He didn't answer. Because it was true. And the truth, sometimes, is the worst thing you can say.
"We keep going," Staicie said. "In secret. No one will know."
"Staicie—"
"No one. Not Mom. Not Cyndi. No one."
"This is crazy."
"This is what I want."
Jefferson looked at her. For a long time. Then he kissed her. On the forehead. Gently. Like a man who knew he was losing himself and decided to get lost anyway.
"Okay," he whispered.
And that's how the double life began.
Jefferson Cole, thirty-five, a photographer, was in a relationship with Karen Blum, forty-three, a single mother.
And having a secret affair with Staicie Blum, eighteen, his daughter.
In the eyes of the world, he was the cool stepfather. The nice guy who got along with his girlfriend's teenage daughter. The guy who joked at dinner and fixed the faucet on Sundays.
Behind closed doors, it was something else.
On the nights Karen slept deeply, Jefferson went downstairs to the living room. Staicie was waiting for him there. Or it was the other way around. They no longer knew who started it. It no longer mattered.
On afternoons when Karen worked, Staicie skipped class and went to Jefferson's studio. The industrial loft. The large black-and-white prints. The worn leather couch. They had two hours. Sometimes three. Never enough.
"You never photograph me," Staicie said one afternoon, lying on the studio couch.
"If I photograph you, there'll be evidence."
"So what?"
"So Karen will find the photos."
"Hide them."
"You can't hide anything forever, Stace."
She sat up. Looked at him. Smiled. That smile that drove him crazy. The smile of a girl who knew exactly what she was doing.
"Photograph me."
He photographed her.
He hid the photos in a locked folder on his computer. Password. Double password. Like a criminal hiding evidence.
That's exactly what he was.