The idea came from Karen.
“We should go to the beach this weekend. All three of us. Like a family.”
Like a family. The words hurt. Not Karen—to Jefferson. He was in the kitchen, squeezing oranges, and the words hit him like a slap. Like a family. Because that was what they were supposed to be. A family. Not a triangle. Not a lie. A family.
“Good idea,” he said.
“Staicie? The beach on Saturday?”
Staicie was sitting at the counter, her bowl of cereal in front of her. She looked at Jefferson. For a quarter of a second. He didn't look at her.
“Cool,” Staicie said.
Saturday morning. Sun. Blue sky. Not a cloud in sight. The kind of perfect day that made you want to believe everything was okay.
Karen drove. Jefferson sat beside her. Staicie was in the back. Music. Windows down. Hair blowing in the wind. Karen sang off-key to Fleetwood Mac. Jefferson laughed. From the back seat, Staicie watched the back of Jefferson's neck.
The beach was crowded. They found a spot near the rocks. Karen spread out the towel, set up the beach umbrella, and put down the cooler. Methodical. Organized. As always.
“I’m going to tan,” Karen announced as she lay down. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. Magazine. “Go have fun.”
Jefferson and Staicie exchanged a glance.
“Want to go swimming?” Jefferson suggested.
“Let’s go swimming,” Staicie said.
They walked toward the water. Side by side. Not too close. The proper distance between a stepfather and his girlfriend's daughter. The distance people around them would find normal.
The water was cold. Staicie cried out. Jefferson laughed. He splashed her. She splashed him back. He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her. She struggled. Laughed. Screamed.
From a distance, on her towel, Karen looked up from her magazine. Smiled. Put her sunglasses back on. Returned to her reading.
They were adorable.
In the water, Jefferson held Staicie against him. His hands on her waist. Her back against his chest. The water reached their chests. No one could see what was happening beneath the surface.
“Jeff, stop.”
“Stop what?”
“That.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Your hands.”
“What hands?”
She turned in his arms. Facing him. Their faces only inches apart. Salt water on their lips. Sunlight in their eyes.
“We’re in public,” Staicie whispered.
“I know.”
“My mom is fifty yards away.”
“I know.”
“Then let me go.”
He didn't let her go. She didn't pull away.
They stayed like that. In the water. Facing each other. The waves pushed them together. Then pulled them apart. Then pushed them together again.
“You’re beautiful,” Jefferson said.
“Shut up.”
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Jeff. Shut up.”
But she was smiling. And so was he. And for a moment—for one single moment—they forgot. They forgot Karen on her towel. They forgot the crowded beach. They forgot they were a secret. They were just a man and a woman in the water, and the sun was shining, and everything was perfect.
Jefferson leaned in. Pressed his lips to Staicie’s forehead. A light kiss. Tender. The kind of kiss a stepfather could give his girlfriend's daughter.
Except his mouth moved lower. From her forehead to her temple. From her temple to her cheek. From her cheek to the corner of her lips.
Staicie closed her eyes.
“Jeff…”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
He pulled back. But not quickly enough.
On the beach, Karen had set down her magazine. She had taken off her sunglasses. She was watching the water. Watching Jefferson and Staicie.
She had seen.
Not everything. Not the kiss moving lower. Not the hands beneath the water. But something. A closeness. An intimacy. Something that had nothing to do with a stepfather and stepdaughter teasing each other in the waves.
Something that looked like love.
Karen put her sunglasses back on. Slowly. Picked up her magazine again. But she wasn't reading anymore. The words danced before her eyes. Her hands trembled.
No. She was imagining things. It was Jefferson. Her Jefferson. The man who told her “I love you” every night. The man who brought her coffee in bed. The man who had brought light back into this house.
And it was Staicie. Her daughter. Her baby. The little girl she had carried, fed, raised, and protected.
No. Impossible. She was imagining things.
Jefferson and Staicie came out of the water. Out of breath. Smiling. They dropped onto their towels on either side of Karen.
“The water is amazing,” Jefferson said.
“You should come in, Mom.”
Karen looked at them. One. Then the other. Searching for something in their eyes. A sign. Proof. Confirmation of what she thought she had seen.
Nothing. Two innocent faces. Two normal smiles.
“No, I’m fine here,” Karen said. “You two looked like you were having fun.”
“Jeff threw me in the water,” Staicie said.
“She deserved it,” Jefferson said.
Karen smiled. But the smile didn't reach her eyes.
The rest of the day was normal. Sandwiches. Ice cream. A walk on the pier. Jefferson took photos. Karen and Staicie posed together. Mother and daughter. Arm in arm. Smiling.
On the drive home, Karen didn't sing.
That evening, after dinner, Staicie went up to her room. Karen and Jefferson stayed in the living room. Karen sat in the armchair. Jefferson was on the couch. The TV was off.
“Everything okay?” Jefferson asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? You’ve been quiet since the beach.”
“I’m tired. The sun.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
“Jeff?”
“Yes?”
Karen looked at him. For a long time. Her eyes searched for something. The truth, maybe. Or permission not to look for it.
“You like Staicie, right?”
“Of course. She’s your daughter.”
“You two are close.”
“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to get along with her?”
“Yes. That’s what I wanted.”
Silence.
“Karen. What’s wrong?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Shook her head.
“Nothing. I’m tired. Should we go to bed?”
They went upstairs. Went to bed. Karen turned onto her side. Jefferson turned onto his. They didn't touch.
In the dark, Karen stared at the wall. Eyes wide open.
She hadn't seen anything.
She had seen everything.
She still didn't know which of the two was true.