The living room TV droned with some mindless sitcom rerun. Mom was laughing softly at the canned jokes, the remote balanced on her knee and her feet tucked warmly under a throw blanket. I sat beside her on the couch, my legs crossed tight, trying to look completely normal while every nerve in my body still hummed from last night. Paul had been in and out all evening—cleaning the grill on the balcony, organizing the outdoor furniture—acting as flawlessly casual as ever.

Then he appeared in the sliding doorway, lazily wiping his hands on a grease rag.

“Hey, Ivy, can you come help me for a sec? I need those...