Everything inside me goes still and for a second all I can hear is the question Scarlett did not exactly ask but is waiting for me to answer. My number. Tiny wants my number…if it’s okay with me. My pulse thuds in my ears.
“I don’t know,” I say, because it is the only honest answer I can give when my heart is suddenly beating too hard. “I mean, I don’t really… I’ve never…” I trail off and look down, embarrassed by how young I sound. Nineteen should feel older than this. It should feel like I know how to answer a simple question without getting tangled in my own nerves.
Scarlett does not laugh at me. She does not make me feel silly, and somehow that makes my throat tighter. “You don’t have to decide right now,” she says. “And you don’t have to say yes just because I asked. Tiny’s a good man, but that doesn’t mean you owe him access to you.”
I look up at her then because the words hit me in a place I am not used to anyone touching. Access to you. I have never thought of myself that way, like my time and attention and phone number are things I can allow or not allow. At home, Dad decides what is appropriate. At church, people ask him about me before they ask me. Even Daniel smiles at me like my answer is less important than Dad’s approval. “He won’t be mad if I say no?”
Scarlett’s expression shifts into something firmer. “No. He’d be disappointed, not mad.”
The tightness in my chest loosens a little. “I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all you need to do.” She straightens and lifts the chart against her chest. “And, Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
Her voice drops, not sad exactly, but careful. “You’re allowed to think about what you want before you think about what everyone else expects from you.”
I don't answer because I can't. I just watch her walk back down the hall while her words keep circling around in my head, showing up again every time I try to think about something else. I finish the rest of my shift with my phone tucked into the front pocket of my cardigan. Every time I reach for a patient's chart or answer the phone, I'm aware it's there. Every time I schedule another appointment or hand someone a clipboard, my minddrifts back to Tiny asking…if it’d be okay. The possibility feels terrifying and electric at the same time.
By the time I pull into the driveway, my feet ache from standing behind the front desk all day, and all I want is to kick off my shoes and crawl into bed. Instead, I sit in the car with my hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at the house.
Nothing looks different.
The porch light is already on even though the sun hasn't completely gone down, and the living room lamp glows through the front window. Mom's car is in the driveway, and Dad's truck is parked beside it even though he's usually home later on Thursdays.
I don't know why that bothers me.
It just does.
I grab my bag and head inside.
The second I step through the front door, I know I wasn't imagining it.
The house is too clean.
Mom keeps everything spotless anyway, but this isn't normal clean. The throw pillows are lined up perfectly across the couch. The coffee table is empty except for the decorative bowl she only puts out when people are coming over. Even the dining room table is already set with the cream tablecloth and the nice dishes we only use on holidays or when Dad wants to impress somebody.
Mom appears in the kitchen doorway, drying her hands on a towel. She smiles when she sees me, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Hey, sweetheart. You're home."
"I am."
She glances toward the living room before looking back at me.
"Why don't you go upstairs and change before dinner?"
I look past her toward the dining room.
"Are we having company?"
Her fingers tighten around the towel.
"Your father invited the Harrises over."
My stomach sinks.
Of course he did.
