We were at Peaches Gentleman’s Club, between shows.
“It’s Candace, not Cassie,” she said to me across the velvet booth.
The empty stage was awash in dim blue light. The dancers were mingling, making tips. Darrin was sober and the striking blonde girl nearly in his lap was wearing Chanel, an elegant little white dress covered with swirling, demure flower petals.
“What?” said Darrin, looking up from his phone at Candace.
I was silent, taken aback the second time that week by what felt like a series of related puzzle pieces. Candace (whom I’d sworn had previously gone by Cassie) was no longer stripping at the club, but had moved in with Darrin. They were a couple. I tried not to obsess over Tad, his declaration that he was going to stay with me a while, the terror and joy that elicited. O
