LAINE

He doesn’t do any of the usual stuff, like head through to the kitchen. He doesn’t head upstairs and take his jacket off and hang it up, or take my lunchbox and put it in the dishwasher. He doesn’t make himself a coffee get me juice, or ask me about my day.

When Daddy Nick closes the front door today, he takes my hair in his hand and pulls tight until I gasp, and then he kisses me, and his tongue is so rough and so fast, his thigh between mine as he pins me to the wall in the hallway.

I wonder if this is it. If he’ll...