Jan. Week 3: Wednesday Evening...Leah doesn't lie well (Suspicion: +5)

“Long day,” she said, reaching for a plausible-but-not-too-detailed excuse. “We had a department meeting, and then I had to chase down a bunch of missing homework. Honestly, I’m just fried. Didn’t even get to eat lunch.” She **** a wan laugh, hoping the false note would pass for fatigue instead of duplicity.

Jonathan hovered, hands on his hips, chewing the inside of his cheek. The man could out-stare a sphinx, and he did so now. Maybe he was searching her face for tells. Maybe he was just tired. Either way, Leah felt her skin prickle, the residue of her earlier degradation prickling beneath her work blazer, marching up her neck. She pressed the glass to her lips and took a long drink, as if water might wash the guilt from her tongue.

“Okay,” Jonathan said at last, drawing out the syllable. “That makes sense, I guess. Sorry you had such a rough day.” He pursed his lips, pretending to accept the story—or maybe really trying to. “I was just worried, you know. It’s not like you to stay so late after school without saying something. I even texted.”

Leah’s phone, of course, was still on silent from the porn shoot. She’d forgotten entirely. She conjured a sheepish look, one that she’d perfected in college for missed deadlines and hungover mornings.

“Sorry, babe. I left my phone on silent from testing, and I barely even noticed. I’m the worst.”

They stood there in silence for a moment; for Leah, the pause seemed to last an hour. She could feel Jonathan’s need to be reassured, to have all the little inconsistencies rendered back into the smooth, reliable logic of their relationship. She hated herself for not being able to provide that. She’d always prided herself on being honest—at least, she had before the **** and the porn and the daily charade of normalcy that now ruled her life.

“I’m gonna get started on snacks for Game Night,” Jonathan finally offered, voice falsely chipper.

Leah saw her chance, seizing it with the desperation of a drowning woman.

“Good idea,” she said, “I think I may jump in the shower before everyone gets here. I feel… gross. Just want to rinse off the day.”

Leah darted down the hall, closing the bathroom door with a decisive click. She immediately locked it, stripped in record time, and cranked the shower to full blast—a scalding, cleansing roar that nearly masked the sound of her ragged, anxious breathing. She let the hot water beat down on her, washing away the sticky remnants of Mr. Baker, the lingering shame, the sense of living someone else’s life. She watched the frosted glass bead with condensation, imagined it as a forcefield against the outside world.

For ten glorious minutes, Leah Williams was just a woman in a shower, not a porn star or a teacher or a liar or a pawn. She stood beneath the water, head bowed, and let the mask slip away for as long as she could.