The Becoming of Noah Shaw

Mara rounds on me. “She lied—”

“Don’t we all?”

The second I saw her, I needed to know her. Which, I suppose, meant letting her know me.

The first time I heard her, I never wanted to listen to anyone else.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

She hitches up onto the bed, her fraying denimed legs dangling from crossed knees. “You know I know you like to watch.”

I reach her. Uncross those legs. “I do.”

“So”—her voice juicy with malice—“watch.”

I lean in to kiss her, and she pulls her head away and gently pushes me back. “Nope. From there.”

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, how could I ever love anyone else?