She nods, grabbing her phone, already lost in whatever is on there—Paige?—as I leave her room. I catch my reflection in her mirror as I leave and see a girl, anxious and worried. I run a hand over my hair and shake off the feeling that a door is closing on me.

On my way out, I pass Lottie’s parents, who are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine and talking about something in low voices. Her mom, Mrs. Sherman—or, when we’re not at school, Rhonda—waves to me. Her short messy hair is sticking up all over, and her shirt is unbuttoned at the top. This is what it looks like when you unwind after teaching at a high school all day, I guess. None of the other kids get to see this version of her, and I like that. Except Lottie, of course. But I know Rhonda personally; they only know who they see in the classroom. She’s my homeroom teacher. Maybe most kids wouldn’t want their best friend’s mom as their teacher, but she’s more like my favorite aunt, or like a mom I sometimes wish my mom was like.

“You leaving, kid?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, looking at them both. Usually they invite me for dinner at this point, but there is an awkward moment when no one says anything and then Rhonda pushes her chair out and says, “I’ll walk you out.” She’s never “walked me out” before, and this weird formality seems like one more person just trying to get rid of me, like she doesn’t want to risk me overstaying my welcome.

Jacob smiles vaguely. “Bye, Stevie,” he says, his voice quiet. “Sorry, we’re just …” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but shrugs, and rubs his face.

I’ve never seen them like this; they are usually pretty cheerful and happy, at least for the most part. I mean, they’re not perfect. I’ve known them my whole life, so I’ve seen them grouchy and irritable with me and Lottie and each other. Sometimes Rhonda hangs out in the garage by herself late at night, the smell of weed and the sounds of Van Morrison wafting through the vents. Jacob says she has an artist’s temperament, which I guess means she sometimes gets really down and needs to hang out alone. Occasionally she goes on weekend “retreats,” whatever that means. But she always comes back smiling and refreshed, her old chipper self. As a couple, they are happier than most people I know. They laugh, they spend time all together as a family, they seem to actually enjoy each other.

But right now, there’s something in the air between them. Jacob gets up and leaves the kitchen. Rhonda watches him go, then looks back at me with a tight smile.