“Hey,” Josie said. She hadn’t been able to sleep last night, and neither had Mary. Josie’s bedroom was below Mary’s, and Josie had heard the upstairs floorboards creaking every half hour, the TV turned on, then off, the groan of the stairs and the refrigerator door opening.

“Look,” Mary said. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“No,” Josie said. “I’m sorry. I …” She stumbled and tried to find something to say, but Mary waved dismissively.

“You’re young. Hormones. Whatever. At least you have good taste.”

Josie tried a smile, and Mary nodded. “I’ll be fine. Maybe Dr. Bob is still available.”

Josie laughed, then paused. “Thank you.”

“Go out the back door. I’ll deal with the little locksmith.”

Josie smiled. “Next weekend I’ll take you both for waffles.”

“And pancakes.”

“And French toast,” Josie said. She made her way to the back door and Mary called after her.

“You’ll be back in time to take the kids to school Monday morning, right?”

“Of course.”

“And croissants!” she yelled.

“And croissants,” Josie said, and wheeled her bike to the street.

When she arrived at Devesh’s, he was sitting on the front porch reading the paper.

“Well, I told her,” Josie said.

“And?”

“This morning she seemed okay.”

“And last night?”

“Let’s talk about it later,” she said, and pulled him to her.

He kissed her, then paused. “Do you have to go home tonight?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Good; we’re going to play this evening.”

It was what she had been waiting for, what she’d held her breath for every time he ran his hand down her back, every time he unbuttoned her jeans. Now she said the word in her mind and felt her cheeks burn, and then that dizzying intoxication, what a first surge of the needle must feel like to a heroin addict, an instant of wild anticipation and then the rush. “Okay,” she said.

That night they went to dinner and perhaps because she was tired or perhaps because she was slightly afraid of what would follow, she was irritable. She ordered a full dinner and then ate only bread and butter, complained that the restaurant was too hot, that the waiter was inattentive, that she had a headache. On the way home, she maneuvered her hand into his. He pressed it tightly and then let go, running his fingers up her arm and to the back of her neck. He squeezed gently but firmly, and she felt her body go awkward, her legs too long and her tongue too big. The blood pumped loud in her ears and she let him lead her. She was scared, and yet charged, unsure of what to do or even how one foot was supposed to place itself in front of the other.