5
Raina.
There’s a kind of lie you learn to wear like perfume. Not too thick. Just enough to make people lean in, smile politely, and pretend not to smell the fire underneath.
That’s the lie I wore to Caleb’s mother’s birthday party.
The dress helped. It was pale yellow, had thin straps, and a soft cotton that clung in the right places without looking like I tried too hard. My hair was pulled up, loose tendrils falling down my neck. My lipstick was light.
I walked into the backyard like I hadn’t f****d his uncle twice in one week, like I hadn’t whispered Dominic’s name with my legs shaking and my back pressed to cold window glass just days ago.
I smiled at the right people, hugged the right cousins, ate a cucumber sandwich I didn’t want, all the while pretending I was just another e
