The first time I slept over, we were sober and did not make love. But in the morning, there was warm skin under the covers, then coffee, then trust.
It was like standing in the middle of an open field on a clear night, trying to hide from the stars. He must have already known what I had done, just like the stars would have seen me all along as I fruitlessly darted and ducked behind fences and bales of hay – and now all I could really do was to march straight up to him and openly reveal my transgression against his loyal love.
I took my favourite book to school once. Twelve years later I haven’t let my bag out of my sight.