The memory was so clear, so vivid, it wiped away all trace of their very first time together. Not that there was a whole lot to remember from the first time. She’d been honest with Bishop that it was more a feeling the day after and a vague, blurry awareness of what happened. Nothing guaranteed.

Last night was the true night she had lost her virginity.

After finishing in the shower, she gathered her clothes, throwing them into the laundry bin before heading to her own room, to change.

As she was pulling up a pair of sweatpants, her stomach chose that moment to growl.

She went straight to the kitchen, putting a pot of coffee on, and then looking through the fridge for anything to eat. One of the few recipes she did know how to cook, and only because Preacher told her, was pancakes.

Bishop arrived as she was frying them up.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said.

“Hey.”

When he tried to kiss her, she quickly dodged his touch and started to serve up pancakes. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, sure. Starving.”

“Good. I’m glad you brought your appetite.”

“Where’s my dad?”

“Why would you ask me where he is?”

“Because you’re home and I’m not? Why are you acting weird?” Bishop asked, frowning. “Where did you go last night?”

She looked at him. “I got a headache, drove home. How did you get home?”

“I used my bike.”

“Your keys are in the dish beside one the cabinet by the door.” She poured some warm syrup over his pancakes before taking a seat herself.

She didn’t want to look weird, but already she’d snapped at him.

Great, Robin, just great.

“What happened to you last night?” she asked. “I came back from the bathroom to see you’d gone.”

Bishop paused and took his time to chew his pancake. She wondered if he’d lie to her.

He kept on chewing, and she was almost anticipating the lie that would fall from his lips.

“I headed outside, you know, had a couple of smokes with the guys, that kind of thing.”

“Okay.” She wouldn’t ask him about what she saw and what she knew; there was really no point in asking him.

He’d either lie about it, or not say anything, or blame her in some way.

“What are you doing today?”

“I’m going to relax. Watch a couple of movies. I’m beat. You?”

“I’m going to work on my bike, unless you want to fool around? I’m up for that.”

She forced a smile to her lips. “I’m sure you are. Not today. I’ve got homework as well.”

“You’re always doing freaking homework.”

She let him have his mood.

That’s the guilt. When are you going to let him realize he’s the one that fucked up many times? He couldn’t keep it in his pants.