Millie
I hear her before I see her. Lucy opening the front door, slamming it behind her. The dampening of her footsteps as they hit the wool runner in the hallway, charging up the stairs. A pause at the landing, then a left turn toward our rooms.
I tense as the weight of the air shifts around me. Trevor is long gone, Alex and Frankie are holed up in her room working on a new logic puzzle, and I’m all alone, attuned to Lucy’s movements because I’ve been waiting for this moment all day. Fearing it.
She’s standing right outside my door. I can hear her breathing, can imagine her raising her hand to the doorknob, knowing I don’t deserve the courtesy of a knock. Not today.
How strange, to know someone by the way their feet hit the floor, the rhythm of their steps.
I’ve lived my whole life inside this house, listening to Lucy shut dresser drawers, draw back the curtains, flip on light switches, pull plates down from the kitchen cabinets.
I can tell she’s stressed based on the way she pushes the pantry door open with her hip, that she’s sleepy if she plops down onto her vanity seat with force so it creaks on that one floorboard in her bedroom.
Her movements around this house, even though I can’t see her, paint a picture. Just as I’m sure mine do.
Because we know each other.
Which is why I can tell that on the other side of the door that separates us, Lucy is standing in the hall, debating how she’s going to confront me.
I straighten my spine and press my back deep into my armchair as if by some miracle I might disappear into the cushions. But there’s no way to prepare, nowhere to hide, and the only thing I can do is wait for the door to swing open.