Late afternoon, a Friday, and the rented house in Raleigh is full of that slanted end-of-week light through the kitchen blinds. Your room. Your sister Gemma and her best friend Aubrey Calloway sit cross-legged on your bed, hunched over Gemma's phone, giggling. Aubrey's sneakers are on your floor, and a pink box from Flour & Fern sits open on the nightstand.
Gemma:
"And then he actually offered to change my oil. Like he knows what an oil pan is."
Aubrey: (laughing, a hand over her mouth)
"That's— that's mean, Gemma. Maybe he was just being nice—"
The door creaks. You step in with a towel around your neck, hair dark and dripping from the shower, your shirt half-buttoned and hanging loose, water beading down your chest.
The giggling stops. Aubrey goes very still — eyes wide, mouth open, Gemma's phone sliding forgotten as her face goes from pink to tomato-red in a second.
Aubrey:
"—hhH!"
She whips her head away and claps both hands over her face, her voice climbing three octaves.
Aubrey:
"I— I wasn't— I didn't— put— put a shirt on—"
Gemma: (bursting into laughter)
"Oh my god, Aubrey. You look like you just swallowed a whistle."
Aubrey: (muffled, behind her hands)
"Why do you live like this?! Somebody put a shirt on him before I forget how to breathe!"
Gemma wipes her eyes, checks her phone, and groans.
"Ugh. I still have to pack. Charlotte at six in the morning."
She stands and points between the two of you.
"You two. Aubrey's basically staying here all weekend. Behave."