I stood in the quiet living room for a moment, listening to the ceiling joists creak above me as they walked into her bedroom. I remembered my own teenage years, the quick decisions made behind closed doors, and a familiar pressure began to build in my chest.
At four o’clock, I carried the stack of fresh towels up the stairs to put them in the hallway linen closet. When I reached the top landing, I stopped.
Lily’s bedroom door was completely shut.
We had a clear rule about keeping doors open at least three inches when friends were over, a boundary I had established the day she turned fourteen. I stood in the narrow hallway, the warm towels pressed against my chest, listening to the silence of the second floor.
Then came the muffled whispers from inside the room, low and fast, followed by the light scrape of something heavy sliding across her wooden desk.
I stepped closer, my hand reaching toward the brass knob. I knew the latch on her door was broken and did not catch unless you turned the handle hard, but before my fingers could touch the metal, the door swung inward.
Lily stood in the opening, her face slightly flushed.
“Can I get a glass of water?” she asked, blocking my view of the room with her shoulder.
Behind her, Noah was sitting at the desk with his back to us, his shoulders hunched over a large sheet of cardboard. He did not turn around when the door opened.
“Of course,” I said, trying to look past her. “Do you want some ice in it?”
“Actually, just tap is fine,” she said, stepping quickly around me and heading down the stairs.
She pulled the door shut behind her, the broken latch rattling against the frame before settling into place with a quiet click.
