‘God. What am I …’ He looked down at his clothes, then back at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he tried to make sense of it. ‘Nothing happened, besides …’ he said, leaving a blank, hanging there, taunting. ‘Nothing really happened. It was a stupid mistake, just an impulsive … Shit. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have ever let it happen.’

He’d wanted it, he’d fantasized about it, too. The realization would have made me schoolgirl happy, only it was sharp, double-edged. I loved Vera. He supposedly did, too.

‘Did you black out?’ I asked.

His face was pale, his forehead covered in sweat, but he shook his head. ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so? I just had a lot. Nothing happened. We kissed, and then somehow we got in here, and I – uh – well, we – must have taken your dress off, but I remember you snapping out of it and pushing me away, and then at some point, we both passed out.’

‘So you did black out,’ I said. ‘You don’t remember everything.’

‘Maybe just a little,’ he said, his face going red.

I looked at him. His sweater – even his shoes – were still on.

It was coming back in flashes – me, helping him lift my dress over my head and then seeing myself in the mirror over the dresser, remembering Vera, pushing him away. Then blackness again.

He was right. He had to be right.

Blood rushed in my ears, acid rose in my stomach – I ran to the bathroom and sank to my knees so hard it hurt, whipping the lid of the toilet up so it clanked against the tank. My vomit was brown and bitter. It came in three lurches, and I spit, trying to get it all out.

‘Are you okay?’

I stood, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye, my face burning with shame.

A crush, even a flirtation, was one thing. Betraying her was another.

‘You should go,’ I said softly. ‘Vera will probably be back soon.’

‘Of course,’ John said. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

I looked up, finding his eyes then, and he didn’t look away. For a second, in the haze of morning and the ripe smell of sweat, everything passed between us. Words unsaid. Feelings that couldn’t – shouldn’t – be expressed.

‘It will never happen again,’ John said solemnly. ‘Never.’

He turned, walked out of my cottage, pulling the door shut softly behind him, Dusty chasing him, not wanting him to go.

It was only after that I realized it – John hadn’t had to twist the dead bolt to get out.

My scalp prickled at what that must mean:

The whole night, the front door hadn’t been locked.