Felix and Stephen carried Ayanna’s luggage downstairs for her.

“This feels like a bad idea,” Stephen said, “but I respect it.”

“Text me if you need anything. Any day, any time. Even if it’s just to talk,” Felix said.

“I told Jane the only way she could get you to stay is if she faked some contractions,” Stephen said. He pulled a vape pen out of his pocket. Smoked from it, handed it to Felix. Ayanna paused, watching the two of them. Stephen was clearly considering doing a fake contraction of his own, Felix watching and preparing both to laugh and to tell him one was enough. Here they were, standing around, being a little stupid on purpose, making her laugh, and that was one of the small, good homes she’d had for years.

She hugged them both and said she loved them. “You more than him,” Ayanna said to Felix. He grabbed her again and pressed her into his chest, let her breathe in the pine scent of his deodorant. Ayanna took her time, hoping Jane would come around and not punish her. She didn’t want to leave on those terms. And then Jane was there, hugging Ayanna’s back and saying nothing. The taxi pulled up. Ayanna hugged all three again. She hoped the feel and pressure of her arms was enough to say everything she wanted. Sitting in the backseat and pulling away, Ayanna turned toward the back window, but they were already gone.

27

Ayanna tried to do the math on how much of her life she had spent thinking about the doors. Spacing out on public transportation or in cars, lying awake at 3 a.m. with the feeling of being hyperaware of her heart and breaths, posting anonymously on a forum with other people who grew up in faiths based on the door, and sometimes in therapy while looking at her hands or the paint on the walls, the thought of its return or refusal to return would burst out of her. But she’d never had the imagination or willingness to consider how a return would make her feel. There were so many things out of her control, Ayanna’s feelings about the situation had become mostly irrelevant to her.