Further

The backyard smelled like charcoal and sunscreen. Kids squealed in the inflatable pool, someone’s bluetooth speaker played throwback hits, and paper plates sagged with grilled meat and potato salad. Emily stood by the cooler with a red cup in her hand, pretending to sip, pretending to breathe normally.

Mickey had arrived late, sun-kissed and smug, in a cutoff tee that showed just enough muscle to make her thighs clench beneath her sundress. He called her “Em,” tousled her hair like a big kid, and gave her a one-armed hug she could barely return without shaking.

“God, you look great,” he’d said. “Summer’s treating you good.”

He didn’t know. Not really.

He didn’t recognize the way she twitched when his arm brushed her back. The way she stared at his hands when he popped open a soda. The way her gaze dropped every time he laughed.

Oblivious.

Utterly, beautifully oblivious.

Later, over burgers, he flopped into the patio chair beside her and sighed like a sitcom character.

“Dating apps are a dumpster fire,” he said, digging into a pile of fries. “Everyone’s fake or insane.”

Emily smiled carefully. “Bad luck?”

“No,” he said, mouth half-full. “I mean yeah. But also... I kinda ruined myself.”

“Oh?”

“There’s this one woman. Older. Not by much. MILF vibes for days.” He looked up, dreamy. “We hooked up Friday. And now I can’t stop thinking about her. Like, obsessed-level. She’s unreal.”

Emily blinked.

Then laughed.

Too loud.

Too sharp.

Mickey blinked. “Uh. That funny?”

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Just—fries went down wrong.” She coughed. “Excuse me.”

She left her plate behind. Locked herself in the upstairs bathroom. Sat on the closed toilet and stared at her knees.

He’s obsessed with you.

But he didn’t know. He couldn’t know. He’d fucked his aunt in the dark and walked away smiling, thinking she was some nameless woman from a party. Now he was falling for the idea of her.

And she was falling apart trying to hold both pieces of herself together.

That night, long after Chloe was asleep and Jason had passed out in front of the TV, Emily crept into the laundry room. Closed the door. Slid the prepaid phone from its hiding spot.

Her fingers hovered over the microphone icon.

She pressed it.

At first, nothing. Just her breath. Then, quietly, her hand dipped beneath her nightshirt. She rubbed slow circles, barely breathing. Then gasped—soft, high, aching. Moaned. Whispered.

“Nnnh… f-fuck, baby… deeper…”

Thirty seconds. No name.

She sent it.

Less than a minute later, her screen lit up.

Audio file.

She swallowed. Plugged in her headphones. Pressed play.

It was him.

Breathing hard. Jerking off—she could hear the slick rhythm, the skin-on-skin slap of it. His voice thick.

“Mmm… fuck, Natalie… oh God, just like that…”

He came loud. Guttural. Groaned her fake name like it meant something.

She pressed replay.

Again.

And again.

Her hand never stopped moving.

She didn’t hear Chloe crying until the baby’s voice cracked sharp from the monitor in the other room. By the time she got there, Chloe was wailing.

Emily stood frozen in the doorway, chest heaving, phone still in hand.

Her daughter’s face was red and wet, arms reaching.

She didn’t remember putting the phone down. Didn’t remember picking the baby up. Her heart pounded as if she’d been running. Her thighs were damp. Her panties soaked.

That night, she lay in bed with the monitor by her side, the burner phone under her pillow, and her reality fraying at the seams.

She wasn’t just playing pretend anymore.

She was slipping into the role.
And it was slipping into her.