“I’m hanging out with Molly today,” she would shrug, when invited over. If we brushed against each other while we walked, she would shoot me a threatening glare, and at every party she spent more time talking to boys than she had before. Her hands on their arms, their shoulders. Her voice sweet and seductive. It drove a wedge between my lungs to watch her so casually throw herself into their arms with all the cunning shrew of a seductress, even if she never dared to kiss them. And she took to avoiding me on nights out, skillfully dodging me in nightclubs and houses when all I wanted was just to be close to her—close enough that I knew I needed no reason to worry or to fret. If things didn’t unfold the way they did I am certain we would have met our end, nonetheless, one way or another. Nothing that is built on deceit, on secrecy and pretense, is built to last.

We held on for as long as either of us could, I think. For a long time, I blamed only myself for what became of us—I was too pushy, too needy. I wanted more of her than she was willing to give. In hindsight, I came to realize that the peculiarities of where and when and how didn’t matter and that it was always doomed to be that way, another inescapable working of fate.

It was a Tuesday.

There was little reason for me to be in her house that afternoon. Hockey training was canceled because of the bad weather and Claire was off work. We were meant to order a takeaway that night, Claire and I as a half-hearted attempt at celebrating the end of my summer exams. I mulled over every distinct feature of that day time and again, pondering all the ways we could have saved it. Perhaps if we adhered to the plans made for that day things might have been different. Perhaps if I hadn’t lingered on a little while longer at her side, or if we noticed the time slipping by. But it doesn’t do to dwell on what might have been—what could have been. The truth of the matter was that we were simply too sloppy—too caught up in each other when we were truly alone to notice that the world around us didn’t cease to be simply because we were alone together. The truth of the matter is that it could have happened any day, any night. It could have been anyone that caught us.

I remember Connie mentioning offhandedly that afternoon that Emily was at a friend’s house, due back some time that evening. I remember, now, how easily that fact slipped both of our minds. We were in the kitchen and she was pressed up against the counter, her hands tangled in my hair, one of my hands in between her legs. The house was empty, of course—Mr. O’Reilly was in London, Mrs. O’Reilly simply ‘out.’ And halfway through fetching a glass of water downstairs our mouths had found each other, our insatiable lust giving way. Music was blaring in the kitchen—Fleetwood Mac—somewhere behind us, all around us. I kissed Connie’s neck and she pressed down hard against the palm of my hand, a shuddery breath escaping through her lips.