The Summer I Kissed My Mother's Husband

Last July, I met a man at the coast. No last names. No promises. Just seven days that made me forget every rule I'd ever followed. We said goodbye on a Sunday morning. I told myself it was enough. Six months later, my mother called. "I'm getting married. Come home and meet him." I opened the door. He was standing in her kitchen. "Wren, this is Eli. Your new stepfather." He shook my hand. His palm still fit mine. Every family dinner is a performance. Every hallway brush is a landmine. "We can't," he said at two in the morning. He was right. We couldn't. We did anyway. My mother smiles and plans the wedding. She asks me to help choose flowers. She doesn't notice anything. Or maybe she notices everything.