“Where is my bra?” I whisper-yell, panic swarming through me.

Cooper rolls around in his bed, using his pillow to muffle his laugh.

Two seconds ago, the front door slammed shut, meaning his parents were home, and we were in his bed… naked.

I stumble around his dark bedroom in nothing but my panties, searching for my clothes while he tries to calm himself down enough to switch on the lamp for me.

“How long were we…?”

“Were we what?” he asks.

I find my bra, slip it on while my face heats with embarrassment.

“You can’t even say it, can you?”

“Doing… it.”

“Having sex?!” he shouts.

“Cooper! They’re going to hear you!”

He laughs again. “The sex part, probably about twenty minutes…” He smirks, his eyes drinking me in. “The foreplay, though, that lasted about an hour.”

I slip on his t-shirt and get back into bed, doing my best to make my hair look presentable. Meanwhile, he’s still naked, a smug smile across his smug, post-sex face. “They’re home early, right?”

He shrugs and flops back on his pillow, the slight light from the lamp casting a shadow across his brow. “Cooper!” I shove him.

“What?” he asks lazily.

“Get dressed!”

He pats my head. “They’re not coming up here. Don’t worry.”

I whisper, “How do you know?”

“Because they’re too wasted to even remember I’m home.”

More doors open and shut downstairs, heels clank, footsteps thump. Another slam of a door. “Next time you want to act like a whore do it at home, Vivian!” Lance yells.

My jaw drops, my eyes wide and on Cooper.

“See?” he says. “Wasted. They always do this. Go to some function, drink too much, come home, argue.”

I hear his mother’s voice for the first time. “I was just talking to him! You embarrassed me in front of all my friends!” she yells.

“I embarrassed you?!” Lance booms. “My associates and business partners were there! How does that make me look? Having my wife—”

“All I did was talk—”

A chair scrapes. Glass breaks.

“Shut up!” Lance shouts. “Just shut the fuck up!”

I grasp Cooper’s arm, my breaths short, my pulse pounding in my ears.

“Come on,” he whispers, getting out of bed and slipping on his boxers. He removes the covers off his bed and takes my hand. Then he leads me to his walk-in closet the size of my living room and sits on the floor, tugging my hand for me to join him. I sit in front of him, my legs crossed, mimicking his position. He takes the ends of the blanket and wraps it around both of us. “I used to do this when I was a kid,” he says, his voice low, his forehead touching mine. “I used to be afraid, too, but then it happened so many times it became my version of normal. It’ll stop soon,” he says, kissing my cheek. “I promise.”

It stops then and there, the new silence deafening. We get back into Cooper’s bed, and a moment later, he’s fast asleep, his breaths even. I stare at his face, at the distant calm on his features, and I wonder how it’s possible he can sleep after what we just heard. It became my version of normal, he told me. I find myself frowning, an overwhelming sadness creeping in my chest, images of a smaller version of Cooper sitting alone in his closet, hands to his ears to avoid the anger around him. I kiss his lips, and his breaths falter, but he doesn’t wake. Then I spend the next hour tossing and turning, trying to find the peace he so easily found. The house is eerily silent, and my mouth is dry, my throat thirsty. I get out of bed, slip on my pants, and make my way downstairs and toward the kitchen. The tiled floors are cold against my feet, the rooms are dark, the curtains drawn. I walk with my hands out, hoping not to bump into anything, or anyone, on my way to the kitchen. A sliver of light shines from beneath the kitchen door, and I stop in my tracks, place my ear against it. I listen for sounds, proof that someone’s in there. When I hear nothing, I open the door and freeze in my spot, my gasp loud.

A woman, blonde and beautiful, one that stands proud next to Lance Kennedy in the pictures on the walls, sits at the kitchen counter, an ice pack to her left eye, dried blood on the corner of her lip. She glances up, shocked. “I didn’t know…” she whispers.

A shiver runs up my spine. “I’m… um… I’m Cooper’s.”

She smiles, sits straighter. “You must be Lois.”

I step closer. “Are you okay, Mrs. Kennedy?”

She shakes her head and removes the ice pack, revealing the onset of bruising. “I had a little too much to drink and stumbled, walked into the doorframe.”

“Oh.” I clasp my hands tighter. “I just came down to get a glass of water.” I move closer again, careful, not wanting to startle her. My mind and my heart want to believe her, but my gut tells me it’s a lie. She didn’t walk into a doorframe. She walked into her husband’s hand. I ignore my need for water and ask, “Do you need help?” I motion to her face. “Cleaning that up?”

“No.” She shakes her head again, freeing strands of hair from her once-perfect bun. “I’m fine.”

No, Mrs. Kennedy. You’re not fine at all.

“Do you have a first-aid kit?”

She seems to concede, drops the ice pack on the counter. “Under the sink in the guest bathroom.”

I find the kit and quickly make my way back to her. Then I sit in the stool next to her, wait for her to face me before getting the supplies. My hands shake as I dab at her lip with a wet cotton swab, removing the dried blood and the dark red lipstick now smudged at the edges, seeping into the wrinkles around her lips. In her day, she would’ve been so beautiful. Right now, she looks tired, not just from age, but from life.

“Cooper’s told me so much about you,” she says, her voice low, as if she doesn’t want to disturb the sleeping beast.

I pause, look into her eyes. Her concern mirrors mine. I won’t tell, Mrs. Kennedy. “I hope they were all good things,” I say.

“Oh, they were,” she replies, her eyes bright. She’s acting like we’re meeting for lunch, not sitting in her kitchen late at night, her son’s girlfriend cleaning up the cuts and bruises caused by her husband.

I play her game, pretend the same. “I’m glad.”

She forces a smile. “After what happened last semester with that girl… he was so depressed, so dark, and ever since he met you, it’s like he sees the sun again. Feels the heat and the joy it brings. You make him happy, Lois.”

I find the cut on her lip, apply some ointment. Then I clear my throat, look down at her shaking hands. “He makes me happy, too.”

I get up to grab us both glasses of water and hand her some aspirins from the first-aid kit. She holds them in her hands, somehow still smiling. “Lance told me you’re Brian Sanders’ daughter?”

After a nod, I ask, “How does Mr. Kennedy know my dad?”

“He doesn’t know your dad so much as he knows Tom Preston.”

“Oh?”

“They’ve got history, so to speak.”