We race through the boring part: How are you? I don’t know, how are you? I miss you. I know. Are you dating anyone? None of your business.

Then he slows down. “What’s so important?”

“You know.” I pause. “Home. Only worse with Billy.” I never liked talking to Marcus about my family. For me, he was an escape from their all-consuming, ever-demanding love, from feeling like an insider and outsider at the same time. “Let’s talk about you, though. Your most recent text mentioned a first kiss.”

“Did I? I don’t remember. Was it good?”

“Meh,” I say, and we both laugh.

I knew Marcus for a long time before I really saw him. For years, he was another guy, someone’s husband, on the periphery. My feelings turned, of all places, in the celebration room, where Eleanor was hosting a black-tie event. The house was filled with men in tuxedos, and I was fifteen and feeling impossibly adult in a strapless dress and spiked heels. My hair was blown out, my lipstick cherry-red and sexy. Standing by the mantel, Marcus was dangling a drink between his fingers, and studying me with an amused expression. He was dark and rugged. Familiar but unthreatening.

“You look handsome.” I shivered at my boldness.

“You mean, for an old man?”

“You’re not old. Don’t say that.”

“I’m old enough to be your dad, Cassie.” His tone was firm, but playful, too.

It was after midnight, and everyone was drunk. No one noticed the way his eyes lingered on my breasts, his hand brushing mine as he topped off his whiskey. Later, he claimed he didn’t touch me on purpose, but when his fingertip trailed along my forearm, the jolt triggered some dormant need, and I was rocked off my feet. From then on, Marcus never stopped touching me. He could be two inches away or a mile across town, and I could feel his fingers trailing down my body, across my breasts, below my stomach and deep into the cavern between my legs.

A week later, Marcus was waiting outside school after classes. He didn’t call out to me, just waited until I spotted his face in the crowd. It was exciting to see him. It made me giddy, like he was a celebrity dropping into my boring world. He was wearing jeans and a windbreaker. “It’s fun to be in play clothes in the middle of the day,” he said. “Are you surprised to see me?”

“Who says ‘play clothes’ anymore?” I retorted, then cringed. Why couldn’t I just be nice?

“Old men,” he replied. “You didn’t answer my question.”