They got good at lying.
That's the most terrifying thing about an affair: how easily you learn to deceive. In the beginning, Jefferson stammered when Karen asked where he'd been all afternoon. In the beginning, Staicie blushed whenever her mother found them together in the kitchen.
After two weeks, it was over. No more stammering. No more blushing. No more guilty looks. They'd learned. Like actors rehearsing a play until the lines came naturally.
In front of Karen, Jefferson was the perfect boyfriend. Attentive. Tender. In love. He brought her coffee in bed. Massaged her shoulders after work. Took her to a restaurant on Saturday nights. Told her "I love you" while looking her in the eyes.
And he meant it. That was the worst part. Jefferson loved Karen. Sincerely. Deeply. He loved her strength, her gentleness, her exhaustion as a single mother who never complained. He loved the way she laughed—a loud, uncontrollable laugh that made her knock over her glass every time.
He loved Karen.
And he desired Staicie.
The two things coexisted inside him like two vital organs. He couldn't give up one without killing the other. So he kept both. And he lied.
Staicie, though, didn't lie. She left things out. It's different. Lying means saying something false. Leaving something out means not saying something true. Staicie never said anything false to her mother. She simply didn't tell her everything.
"Did you have a good day, sweetheart?"
"Yes, Mom."
It was true. She'd had an excellent day. At Jefferson's studio. On the leather couch. But Karen didn't need to know that.
The hardest part was the three-person dinners.
Karen at one end of the table. Jefferson at the other. Staicie between them. Like a family. Like a real, normal family with pasta and salad and a conversation about everyone's day.
Under the table, Jefferson's foot touched Staicie's.
Above the table, Jefferson looked at Karen.
Staicie ate her pasta. Smiled. Answered her mother's questions. Told her about her day at high school—the real part of her day, the part before the studio.
"Did practice go well?"
"Great. We have a new routine for Friday's game."
"Jefferson's coming to watch you, right, Jeff?"
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
He looked at Staicie. For a quarter of a second. A look Karen couldn't see because she was getting up to clear the table.
Staicie held his gaze. For a quarter of a second. Then she lowered her eyes to her plate.
The game.
Always the game.
Jefferson became protective. Excessively protective. When Staicie went out with Cyndi at night, he wanted to know where she was going, who she was with, and what time she'd be home. When a guy from high school texted her, Jefferson looked over her shoulder.
"Who's that?"
"Tyler. A guy from school."
"What does he want?"
"He's asking me to go to the movies."
"Are you going to go?"
"No."
"Good."
Karen found it adorable. "He's protective of you. It's sweet. That's the role of a stepfather."
It wasn't the role of a stepfather. It was jealousy. Pure. Raw. Jefferson was jealous of an eighteen-year-old kid in a hoodie and sneakers. And Staicie loved it.
She loved seeing him jealous. She loved watching him lose control. She loved the proof that he cared about her—not like a stepfather, not like a friend, but like a man afraid of losing his woman.
Except she wasn't his woman. She was his woman's daughter.
Cyndi noticed something.
Not the affair. Cyndi would never have imagined that. But she noticed that Staicie had changed. That she smiled more. That she was distracted in class. That she checked her phone every five minutes.
"You're seeing someone," Cyndi said.
It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Staicie. I've known you since middle school. You're seeing someone."
"I'm not seeing anyone."
"Who is it? Tyler? The new senior in B? The basketball coach?"
"No one, Cyndi. Leave me alone."
Cyndi backed off. But she didn't forget. Cyndi never forgot anything.
One Saturday, Jefferson offered to photograph Karen and Staicie together. "A mother-daughter portrait. To hang above the fireplace."
Karen was thrilled. They got ready. Makeup. Hair. Dresses. Karen in navy blue. Staicie in white.
Jefferson set up his equipment in the living room. Lights. Backdrop. Reflector. He was professional. Focused. Precise.
"Karen, turn your head to the left. Staicie, move closer to your mother. There. Smile."
Click. Click. Click.
"Beautiful. Both of you."
Then Karen went to change clothes. And Jefferson was alone with Staicie.
"Stay," he said.
"Why?"
"I want to photograph you. Alone."
"You said it was dangerous."
"I don't care."
He photographed her. Standing in front of the window. The evening light on her face. The white dress. Her blond hair. She didn't smile. She looked at him. That was all. And it was the most beautiful photo he'd ever taken.
"Jeff?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you love Mom?"
Silence. The sound of the shutter stopped.
"Yes."
"And me?"
He lowered the camera. Looked at her. Without the lens between them. Without a filter. Without protection.
"You, it's different."
"Different how?"
"Different in the way something I can't explain and shouldn't feel is different."
Staicie stepped closer. Placed her hand on the camera. Lowered it all the way.
"Then don't explain it."
Karen came back downstairs. They were six feet apart. Jefferson was putting away his equipment. Staicie was looking at her phone.
"Are the photos beautiful?" Karen asked.
"Gorgeous," Jefferson said. "Just like the two of you."
Karen smiled. Kissed Jefferson. Staicie went upstairs to her room.
She closed the door. Sat on her bed. Stared at the ceiling.
She didn't feel guilty. That was the most frightening part. She should have. She should have felt horrible, monstrous, unforgivable. It was her mother. Her own mother. The woman who had raised her alone, protected her, loved her, defended her against Matthieu and the whole world.
And Staicie was stealing her man.
But the guilt never came. Instead, there was something else. A warm, electric, addictive feeling. The feeling of being chosen. Desired. Preferred. Jefferson had Karen—beautiful, mature, loving—and he wanted her. Staicie. Eighteen years old. The daughter.
It was wrong.
And it was exhilarating.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Jefferson. Sent from downstairs. From the couch where he was sitting next to Karen.
"The photo of you in the white dress. You're breathtaking."
Staicie smiled. Typed her reply.
"Never show it to anyone."
"Never. It's mine."
"I'm yours."
Three dots. Jefferson was typing. Stopping. Typing. Stopping.
Then: "Good night, Stace."
She set down her phone. Closed her eyes.
Downstairs, Karen was laughing at something Jefferson had said. Her loud, uncontrollable, happy laugh.
Staicie put in her earbuds. Turned up the volume. And fell asleep.