Chapter 4: Fractured Reflections

Sunday, June 23, 11:56 p.m.

I stand at the sink long after the back door clicks shut, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen like a gunshot. The glass of water sits untouched, condensation pooling on the counter. My hands won’t stop shaking. I grip the edge of the granite, knuckles white, trying to anchor myself to something solid. But nothing feels solid anymore. Not the floor under my bare feet. Not the robe cinched tight around my waist. Not the walls of this house I’ve lived in for twelve years.

Shane’s voice loops in my head: Sweet dreams, Debbie. The way he said my name, low and deliberate, like he was tasting it. The brush of his body against mine, deliberate, teasing. The heat of him. God, the heat. I can still feel it on my hip, a brand through the silk. My skin prickles, nipples tight against the fabric. I’m wet. Again. Still. The ache between my legs hasn’t faded since the dream, since watching him with Holly, since the slap.

The slap. My palm stings at the memory. I’d hit him. Hard. And he’d smirked. Rubbed his jaw like it turned him on. Kinda hot. Who says that? Who is this kid?

I force myself to move. Turn off the light. Rinse the glass, though I never drank from it. The house is too quiet now, the TV off, Holly asleep on the pullout. I creep past the family room, don’t look at the couch. Can’t. The air still smells like them, sex and sweat and something reckless. I climb the stairs slowly, each step a reminder of where I’d stood, frozen, watching my daughter get fucked like a porn star by her boyfriend. My stepdaughter. My baby.

Her room is empty, bed made, Western brochure on the nightstand. I close the door softly, like she might hear from downstairs. My bedroom feels foreign. The fan whirs, same as always, but the sheets are cold when I slide in. I lock the door behind me, back against it, robe clutched to my chest. Slide down to the floor. The carpet is rough under my thighs. I bury my face in my hands.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The dream flashes: his hands on my hips, pulling me back, the slap of skin. I’m gonna cum. And then Shane’s voice, real, in the family room, saying the same words while staring right at me. While buried in Holly. While I stood there, soaked and shaking, unable to look away. I’d liked it. His control. The way he manhandled her. The way he looked at me like he knew every filthy thought in my head.

I crawl into bed, pull the covers over me like a child hiding from monsters. But the monster’s in my head. In my body. My hand slips between my legs before I can stop it. I’m slick, swollen, desperate. I circle my clit slowly, biting my lip to stay quiet. Imagine it’s him. Not the faceless dream guy. Shane. His hands. His cock. The way he’d smirk while I begged. I come fast, hips bucking, a choked sob escaping. The release is sharp, hollow. I curl into a ball, tears hot on my cheeks.

George’s side of the bed is cold. Always is. He left this morning, suitcase packed, kiss on my cheek like an afterthought. Berlin. Two weeks. I’d waved from the driveway, smiled like everything was fine. It hasn’t been fine in years. The sex stopped first, then the talking, then the pretending. We’re roommates who share a mortgage and a kid who isn’t his. Holly was six when he came into our lives, all pigtails and missing teeth. He was good to her. Stable. But stability doesn’t keep you warm at night.