The First Lie

Morning sunlight leaked through the blinds like truth slipping under a locked door.

I stared at the ceiling, unmoving.

Every breath I took reminded me of what had happened the night before, the warmth of her body in the water, the way her lips trembled against mine, the sound she made when I touched her face. Her eyes had closed, but I saw everything.

My body still ached with the memory.

And guilt.

Heavy. Quiet. Familiar.

It wasn’t just that she was older. Or that she was my best friend’s mother. It was the way she hadn’t looked surprised, like she had always known it would happen. Like she had been waiting.

I sat up slowly, unsure if it had been a dream. The kind you wanted to both relive and forget.

But then I noticed something on the nightstand.

A single white towel.

Folded. Still damp.

I hadn’t left one there.

I didn’t know what disturbed me more, that she had entered my room while I slept, or that I wanted her to do it again.

Downstairs, Jason was pouring cereal into two bowls, his phone tucked between his shoulder and ear.

“I’m serious, man. We need a striker who actually shows up to practice.”

Pause.

“No, I’m not saying Ethan sucks. Chill. He just got here.”

He turned and nodded at me. “Yo. Grab a spoon.”

I moved to the counter, the kitchen suddenly feeling too narrow.

“Yeah, I’ll text you later,” Jason said, tossing his phone aside.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, digging into his cereal.

“Yeah,” I lied.

His eyes narrowed. “You look like death.”

“Didn’t sleep much.”

“You have nightmares?”

I flinched. “What?”

Jason shrugged. “Mom said you were tossing and turning all night. She said she heard you.”

I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth.

“She heard me?”

Jason didn’t seem to notice my reaction. “Yeah, her room’s across the hall. She’s a light sleeper.”

Across the hall. That meant she…

She had lied.

She hadn’t heard me.

She had seen me.

Touched me.

Kissed me.

My mouth went dry. I sipped my coffee just to buy time.

Jason stretched, yawning. “Anyway, Mom’s got her book club or spa thing this morning, so we’ve got the place to ourselves. Wanna help me set up the net in the backyard later?”

“Sure.”

I forced a smile. The second lie of the day.

By noon, Mrs. Rowen still hadn’t come down.

I tried not to think about it, but my eyes kept flicking toward the stairs, waiting. Listening. Wondering if last night had changed something in her.

In us.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I pretended to need water and wandered past her door.

Closed.

Silent.

But then, faintly, I heard music. Classical. Something soft, with strings. A violin maybe. It was so quiet I had to press my ear to the door to hear it.

And then I heard her voice.

Low. Talking to someone.

“No, I didn’t ask him that. He’s just a boy... Yes. I know what I’m doing.”

My stomach twisted.

She was on the phone. Talking about me.

I stepped back quickly, heart pounding, and nearly collided with Jason on the stairs.

He gave me a look.

“What are you doing?”

I scrambled for a reason. “Uh... thought I heard her call.”

He frowned. “She’s probably in one of her moods. Some days she doesn’t talk to anyone. Like, ghost mode.”

“Right.”

He passed me, heading for the fridge. “Don’t take it personally. She’s... complicated.”

That was one word for it.

By evening, the weather turned. Rain smeared across the windows, soft and rhythmic.

Jason was upstairs gaming with his headset on, swearing at the screen in bursts.

I stayed in the kitchen, pretending to read.

When I finally saw her again, it was almost cinematic.

She entered barefoot, her hair wet from a recent shower, skin flushed from heat or effort. She wore a simple dark sweater and jeans, but she may as well have walked in wearing fire.

Her eyes flicked to me. Held.

She moved with the same elegance she always did, like the ground made space for her.

“Ethan.”

She said my name like a secret.

I stood. “Mrs. Rowen…”

Her hand lifted, silencing me.

“Not now,” she said quietly. “He’s home.”

My chest tightened. “Did last night, was that real?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached past me for a glass, her fingers brushing mine. That same deliberate touch.

“You have questions,” she murmured. “That’s normal.”

“You kissed me.”

“So did you.”

“Why?”

A pause.

Then she looked at me, really looked.

“Because I wanted to remember what it felt like to be wanted.”

The confession hit me in the chest like a hammer.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” she continued, her voice soft and edged with something old. “Most boys your age look. But they don’t stay. They don’t linger. You do.”

I swallowed hard. “I can’t stop.”

A small, sad smile tugged at her mouth. “I know.”

For a second, I thought she’d reach for me again. Instead, she turned and walked out of the kitchen.

The air felt hollow when she left.

That night, I dreamed of drowning.

Only I wasn’t afraid.

I let the water take me. I opened my mouth to the flood. And in the depths, I saw her, arms outstretched, eyes glowing in the dark.

When I woke, there was a note under my door.

Just two words.

“Tomorrow. Midnight.”

I didn’t sleep the next night.

Every tick of the clock echoed in my chest. Every floorboard creak made me jolt.

At 11:45 p.m., I crept out of bed.

The hallway was dark. Silent. Jason’s door was shut tight. I tiptoed past.

Her door was ajar.

I pushed it open and stepped inside.

She sat at the vanity, brushing her hair. Candlelight flickered against the mirror. She met my eyes in the reflection.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I had to.”

She nodded. “Lock the door.”

I did.

“Sit.”

I sat at the edge of her bed, barely breathing.

She stood, turned to me, and walked slowly forward.

Her hand reached for mine. Cold at first. Then warm.

“I want you to understand something,” she said, voice shaking. “This isn’t love. Not yet. Maybe never. But it’s real. It’s real in a way I haven’t allowed in years.”

“Then why stop?”

“Because I still care what happens to you.”

I didn’t understand. “I’m not a kid.”

“No,” she said, kneeling in front of me. “But you still have so much to lose.”

Her fingers trailed over my knee. A pause. An invitation.

I leaned forward, brushing her hair back.

“I don’t want safe,” I whispered. “I want this.”

She closed her eyes. “You have no idea what that means.”

“I’m learning.”

We didn’t rush.

There was no frenzy. No desperation.

Just hands, learning each other. Breath against skin. Slow, deliberate discovery.

She kissed my shoulder. I traced the line of her collarbone. Every touch was a conversation. Every sigh, a page turned.

She led, and I followed.

But sometimes, I led too.

And she let me.

Later, we lay tangled in silence, the candlelight long gone. My arm around her waist. Her head resting near my chest.

She spoke first.

“I had a son.”

The words froze the air.

“He would’ve been your age,” she said quietly. “Maybe older. He died when he was six.”

I didn’t know what to say. I tightened my arm around her.

“I shut down after that,” she continued. “My husband left a year later. Jason doesn’t remember much. I buried everything.”

“And now?”

She looked up at me. “Now, you woke it all up again.”

I kissed her forehead.

Not out of desire.

Out of mourning.

The next morning, Jason cornered me.

“You okay, man?”

I blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re acting weird. Like... quiet weird.”

“I’m just tired.”

He frowned. “Mom said she made you tea last night. That you were up late.”

I stiffened.

“She said you couldn’t sleep. That true?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I guess.”

He clapped me on the back. “Don’t let her freak you out. She has that effect. You know, the whole mysterious widow vibe.”

I forced a laugh. “Right.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“She likes you, though. I can tell.”

I looked up sharply.

Jason grinned. “Not like that. Just... she talks to you more than she talks to anyone else.”

“Yeah.”

“Be careful, though.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

His expression darkened, just for a second.

“Because people who’ve lost everything,” he said, “have a way of pulling others into the fire with them.”

And then he left.