Victor’s hand brushed my lower back exactly once during dinner.
It was for the photograph—his mother’s phone raised, the whole table smiling. The second the shutter clicked, his palm was gone. He shifted his chair an inch farther from mine and started talking about zoning permits with his uncle. Under the table, Cole’s knee pressed against the outside of my thigh and stayed there. Every time I reached for my water, the movement made more of them leak out of me, warm and slow, soaking into the thin panties I’d put back on because walking to the table without them had felt impossible. Robert sat at the head of the table. His eyes found mine over the rim of his glass whenever Victor looked away. Once, when I stood to help clear a plate, his hand settled on the curve of my hip under the prete
