The church was white and too bright, and I knew his hands before I knew his face.
Mom had put me in a dress the color of champagne and told me to smile. I had showered twice that morning. It had not mattered. Three weeks and I could still feel the hotel if I sat wrong, the low mean memory of a toy and a man who had told me not to clean up. I had taken the vibrator out in the cab. I had not thrown it away. It was in my clutch, dead and filthy, like proof.
Graham turned at the altar.
Same watch. Same mouth. Sleeves turned once under the suit. He looked at the doors, found me on Mom’s arm, and did not blink. The recognition moved through his face and then left it. Polite. A stepfather meeting his bride’s daughter. Only his eyes stayed on the hem of my dress a second too long, the way they
