JONATHAN'S POVI spent three days trying to talk myself out of what I had seen, constructing increasingly elaborate explanations for a hand resting on an arm, a closeness that could, if I squinted hard enough at the memory, be explained away as nothing more than two friends comforting each other during a difficult stretch for this family.I replayed the image constantly, at my desk during meetings I barely absorbed, lying awake beside a wife I no longer knew how to look at without suspicion coloring every ordinary interaction. Each time I replayed it, I found some new detail to doubt, the angle of the light, the brevity of the moment, the possibility that grief over Lucas's strange, distracted behavior lately had made me see intimacy where only friendship actually existed.It did not work particularly well. Every explanation I built collapsed the moment I actually looked at Anna across the dinner table, at the careful way she avoided lingering too long in conversation with Lucas whene
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