“What?”
“My house is trying to be a movie.”
“Let it,” he said. “We’re only walking to a door.”
They walked. The cream cardigan caught the gold light. The varsity jacket, dark green and cream, looked like it belonged to a life in motion, which it did. Sarah’s pleated skirt moved against the sheer tights. Marcus’s white sneakers were clean against the brick. Neither of them hurried. Hurry would have looked like guilt, and they were not guilty of anything except liking each other in a country that still treated some liking as a debate.
On the step Sarah squeezed his hand. “If he’s stiff, it’s not you.”
“I know.”
“If he’s worse than stiff—”
“Then we go,” Marcus said. “I meant that.”
She believed him. She opened the door with her own key because it was still her house, and she wanted the evening to begin with that fact and not with a doorbell asking permission. The smell of dinner reached them. The hardwood took their footsteps.
“Mom? Dad?” she called, and the brightness was real, even if it was working.