The air in our parents’ bedroom is still and heavy, smelling of their fabric softener and something else, something secret. I am on my knees, the plush carpet soft against my skin, a stack of well-worn magazines fanned out on the floor before me. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the pulse between my legs. I’ve heard her door open down the hall. I’ve heard the soft pad of her feet. I don’t look...