I don’t respond. Not aloud.
She has no idea. Best she doesn’t.
We step out onto the porch. The early summer morning is cool in a way that won’t last. The air is crisp with the hint of heat coiled beneath it, waiting for noon to strike. Dew clings to the grass. The sky is pale, almost white, the kind that promises a clean day. A safe one. Predictable.
Lily bounces on the balls of her feet, energy finally catching up with her. Her backpack thumps against her side as she jogs down thedrive, shoes kicking gravel loose. She does a little hop at the end — she always does — like she’s greeting the world instead of just a school bus.
The bus rounds the corner with a mechanical growl, then brakes with a long hiss, stirring dust and the smell of warm diesel. Lily climbs the steps, turns back immediately, and presses her face to the window to find me.
She waves like she thinks I might not wave back.
I raise a hand.
Hold it there until the bus pulls away, gets smaller, then disappears around the bend in the trees.
The quiet that follows is immediate.
And too sharp.
Too complete.
I exhale, slowly. Trying to let the morning settle back into place.
Then a sound — faint at first, insistent. A phone ringing. Not mine.
Coming from next door.
It cuts through the stillness like a blade, high and relentless, shattering the pleasant monotony I rely on. A reminder that someone else is here now. Someone unpredictable, disruptive, loud, even when they’re not trying to be.
The sound drills straight into the center of the quiet morning, refusing to be ignored.
I step closer to the edge of the porch, frowning. The phone keeps ringing. The shrill is unrelenting, and I finally catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
The door of the house next door swings open.
She bursts out like she’s been shot from a cannon. Pink hair blazes in the morning sun, brighter than any natural light should allow, tangled and messy, tufts sticking every which way, like she wrestled with her own pillow and lost. The oversized knit jumper swallows her small frame, sleeves past her wrists, hem brushing against thighs that are bare, unshielded from the gravel and dust. She squints against the sun, hand raised to shield her eyes, like daylight itself is an assault she’s barely willing to endure.
I take a step closer, almost involuntarily, but it’s not any of that that pins my gaze.
It’s her legs.
Bare. Tanned. Inked.
The tattoo winds from her ankle in a flourish of florals, twisting upward under the hem of the jumper, disappearing out of sight, and I can’t help but notice, not fully by choice, the way it hints at something hidden.
My mind lingers, stubborn, reluctant. Wonder how far it goes, what else she’s covering, and why the thought irritates me.
She’s barefoot, and the porch gravel bites at her skin. She’s half-running, half-stumbling down the steps, scrambling toward her car, arms flailing a little with the momentum. The car door slams, then swings open. She dives into the passenger seat, shoving aside a jumble of bags, finally finding the phone.
She answers it, her voice rough from sleep, low and irritable but undeniably alive.
Then she looks up.
Her eyes find me.
A flicker of surprise, maybe embarrassment, or perhaps just the faint recognition that someone was watching her. Her gaze holds for the fraction of a second that feels longer, and she lifts a hand in a small, cautious wave.
I don’t wave back.
