Chapter Text
The door opened before Lilly had time to regret knocking.
It wasn't Patty.
The woman standing in the doorway was tall—or maybe just seemed tall because Lilly was still on the porch step. She wore a pale blue cardigan set, the kind that looked soft and expensive, and her hair was set in perfect waves that didn't move when she tilted her head slightly to the side. Her lipstick was coral pink and applied with the kind of precision that suggested a steady hand and a well-lit mirror.
Barbara Stanton smiled, but her eyes did the real work, scanning Lilly from boots to collar in maybe two seconds flat.
"Yes?" The word came out pleasant, curious. "Can I help you?"
Lilly's mouth had gone dry. She'd rehearsed this. Five words. Simple. But standing here with Barbara Stanton's careful attention fixed on her, the words felt clumsy and too small.
"I'm Lilly Bainbridge," she managed. "I have— Patty forgot this. At my house. Last week."
She held out the purse.
The change was immediate and total. Barbara's face didn't exactly transform, but her posture shifted, softened at the edges, and her smile widened just enough to show perfect white teeth.
"Oh!" Barbara pressed one hand to her chest. "Oh, of course. Lilly. Patricia told us about you. Please, come in, come in. You must be freezing out there."
Lilly opened her mouth to refuse. Had the refusal ready. But Barbara was already stepping back, holding the door wider, and the warmth from inside hit Lilly's face like a physical thing, and somehow her feet were moving forward before her brain had finished formulating the excuse.
"That's very kind, but I should really—"
"Nonsense." Barbara's hand was suddenly on Lilly's shoulder, gentle but firm, guiding her inside. "You walked all this way in the snow. Please come in and warm up a bit."
The door closed behind her with a soft, expensive click.
The foyer was wide. A chandelier hung overhead, crystal teardrops catching light from the window and scattering it across cream-colored walls. The floor was hardwood, some dark expensive-looking wood polished to a shine that Lilly could see her distorted reflection in. There was a mirror on one wall in a frame that probably cost more than Lilly's winter coat, and below it a narrow table with fresh flowers—actual fresh flowers, in January, in Maine—arranged in a vase that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Lilly stood just inside the door and felt acutely aware of her boots, which had tracked in snow. There was a mat but still. She looked down and saw the wet footprints she'd already made on the perfect floor.
"Don't worry about that," Barbara said, following her gaze. "That's what mops are for. Here, let me take your coat."
Lilly hadn't planned on staying long enough to take off her coat. But Barbara was already reaching for it, and refusing seemed impossible without being obviously rude, so she shrugged out of her coat and handed it over. Barbara hung it in the coat closet.
"Now," She turned back to Lilly, that pleasant smile still in place. "Let me make you some tea."
"Oh, I don't need—"
"Nonsense. The least I can do is offer you something warm. Come along."
She led Lilly through the foyer, past a staircase with a polished bannister and carpet runner held in place by brass rods, into what Lilly assumed was the kitchen. It was bigger than Lilly's living room. White cabinets, white countertops, white everything except for the pale yellow curtains over the window above the sink and the checkered pattern on the floor tiles. There was a table in the center, round and wooden, with six matching chairs, and everything was so clean it looked like nobody actually cooked here. Like maybe they just arranged food on plates and pretended.
"Sit, sit." Barbara pulled out a chair. "I'll put the kettle on."
Lilly sat. The chair was solid, didn't wobble. Lilly had a sudden image of Patty sitting at this table every morning, eating breakfast while Barbara watched, correcting her posture, reminding her to chew with her mouth closed, to sit up straight, to be a lady. Years and years of that, of being molded into the right shape. No wonder Patty moved like she was always being watched. She probably was.
Lilly set the purse on the table in front of her and folded her hands in her lap because she didn't know what else to do with them.
Barbara moved around the kitchen with the kind of efficiency that suggested she'd done this a thousand times, filled the kettle at the sink, set it on the stove, turned the burner on. She got down cups—actual teacups with saucers, the kind Lilly had only seen in movies about English people—and set them on the counter. A sugar bowl.
"I'm so glad you came by," Barbara said, not looking at Lilly, arranging things on a tray. "Patricia has been beside herself all week. She wanted to come get the purse herself, but I'm afraid she's grounded, and, well." A small laugh. "The rules are the rules."
A small, unpleasant prick stung Lilly. Patty had been beside herself. Beside herself over a purse, or beside herself over....what? The whole night? Had Patty been replaying it in her head the way Lilly had, turning over every moment, every word, trying to make sense of what it meant?
Probably not. Probably Patty had just been worried about her stuff, about the inconvenience, about the social awkwardness of having to interact with Loony Lilly again. That made more sense. That was logical, reasonable, the kind of thing normal people worried about.
"How's your ankle?" Barbara turned now, and her face was all concern, eyebrows drawn together. "Patricia said you had quite a fall."
"It's better. Just sprained." She shrugged awkwardly.
"Thank goodness. These icy sidewalks are treacherous this time of year. You really should be more careful."
There it was. The small recalibration. You should be more careful. The gentle implication that Lilly had been careless, and carelessness had consequences, and wasn't that a lesson worth learning.
Lilly smiled. "I'll try to remember that."
If Barbara caught the edge in her voice, she didn't show it. The kettle started to whistle. Barbara turned off the burner and poured hot water into both cups, then brought a small box of tea bags to the table. English Breakfast. Earl Grey. Some kind of herbal thing with flowers on the label. Lilly took the English Breakfast because it seemed safest.
Barbara settled into the chair across from her. There was a brief pause, comfortable on Barbara's end, less so on Lilly's.
"Patricia!" Barbara called suddenly, not turning around, her voice bright but firm. The kind of voice that expected obedience. "Come down, please. We have a guest."
There were footsteps upstairs. Slow ones, like whoever was up there didn't want to come down but was doing it anyway because they had to.
Lilly's heart drummed in her chest. She should have just left the purse on the porch and run. Should have mailed it. Should have done literally anything other than agree to come inside this too-perfect house with its too-perfect mother and its implication that Lilly was being examined and found wanting.
And now Patty was coming down, was going to have to sit here while Barbara performed hospitality and Lilly performed gratitude and they all pretended this was normal.
Patty appeared in the doorway.
She stopped when she saw Lilly. Her face went through several expressions in quick succession—surprise, then embarrassment, then a careful blankness that didn't quite stick. She was wearing a blue sweater and a wool skirt, both of them looking freshly pressed. Her hair was pinned back on one side with a small barrette. She looked clean and pretty and like she belonged exactly where she was.
She looked like herself, Lilly realized. Like the Patty everyone at school saw, the one who moved through hallways with easy confidence, who always had the right answer, who never seemed out of place or uncertain. Not like the Patty from that night, who'd sat in a kitchen chair with shadows under her eyes and made bad eggs with shaking hands.
Which one was real? Or were they both real? Was Patty just better at switching between versions of herself, at being whoever the situation required?
"Hi," Patty said. Her voice was quiet, careful, and Lilly hated how much she noticed the tone, how she was already analyzing it for hidden meaning. "Lilly."
"Hi." Lilly held up the purse slightly, then realized how stupid the gesture was and set it back down. "I brought your purse."
Patty's eyes went to the purse, then back to Lilly's face. She swallowed and licked her lips slightly in a nervous motion before speaking. "Oh. You didn't have to— I mean, I could have picked it up."
"Well, you didn't." A pause. "Your mother invited me in for tea."
"I see."
Lilly was trying her best not to stare at Patty, and Patty seemed to be trying her best not to stare back.
Patty and Barbara exchanged a glance, quiet but charged, leaving Lilly out of the loop. Then Barbara smiled and gestured to the empty chair beside Lilly, breaking whatever tension had been building.
"Patty, be a dear and get another cup for yourself. And bring out that pie you made yesterday. I'm sure Lilly would love to try it."
Patty's face did that complicated thing. She turned toward the cabinet and took down another teacup, this one matching the other two. Her movements were careful, controlled. She set the cup on a saucer and brought it to the table, then went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pie with a golden lattice crust.
"Patricia made this from scratch," Barbara said, her voice full of pride. "Apple pie. Her specialty. She won second place at the church bake sale last fall."
Patty set the pie on the counter and started cutting slices. Lilly watched her hands, the way she held the knife, the precise way she transferred each slice to a plate.
"Try it," Barbara encouraged when Patty set a plate in front of Lilly. "Tell us what you think."
Lilly picked up her fork. The pie looked perfect—flaky crust, apples that had been cut into even slices, the right amount of cinnamon. She took a bite.
It was good. Annoyingly good. The crust was flaky, buttery, and the filling was sweet but not too sweet, with just enough tartness to keep it interesting. Of course Patty could bake perfect pies. Of course she could. Lilly wondered if there was anything—besides eggs, maybe—Patty had been allowed to be bad at, or if perfection was just another requirement in this house, like the polished floors and the fresh flowers.
"It's great," Lilly said, and meant it, even if she didn't want to.
Patty's face did that complicated thing again, a quick flash of pleasure before she looked away and took the chair next to Lilly instead of across from her.
Barbara smiled and took a bite of her own slice. "She's been baking since she was ten. I taught her myself. Took her a few tries to get the crust right, but she's a quick learner. Aren't you, sweetheart?"
"I guess," Patty mumbled. Her blush deepened. She looked pleased, Lilly realized. Like she’d just been emotionally petted.
Barbara poured tea for Patty without asking if she wanted any, added milk and sugar in what Lilly assumed were Patty's usual amounts. Patty accepted the cup with a murmured thank you and looked down.
She looked tense now. Did she know what was coming? Had Barbara done this before, invited Patty's classmates over for tea and subtle interrogation? Was this a standard Stanton family practice?
"So, Lilly. How are you feeling? Besides the ankle, I mean. Patricia said you had quite a scare that night."
"I'm okay. It looked worse than it was."
"Still, it must have been frightening. Falling like that, all alone in a parking lot." Barbara shook her head. "Thank goodness Patricia was there."
Lilly nodded because that seemed like the expected response, even though frightening wasn't really the word she would have used.
It had been terrifying and humiliating and she'd cried in front of Patty like a child, had let herself be vulnerable in a way she never allowed. But Barbara didn't need to know that. Nobody needed to know that except Patty, who'd already seen it and somehow hadn't used it against her yet. Though maybe she would.
"She stayed with you all night, you know," Barbara continued. "We were worried sick. Had Officer Bowers here until morning, thinking something terrible had happened. But Patricia refused to leave you. She can be very stubborn when she sets her mind to something."
"I didn't ask her to stay."
"No, of course not. But that's just the kind of girl Patricia is. Always thinking of others." Barbara reached over and patted Patty's hand. "We raised her to be compassionate. To help people who need it."
Lilly doubted that very much but didn't say so. Either Barbara had no idea who her daughter actually was, which seemed unlikely, or she knew perfectly well and preferred the saintly brochure version. Lilly wasn’t sure which possibility made her more tired.
People who need it. Barbara said it so casually, so certain of the categories. Helpers and helped. Givers and takers. People like the Stantons and people like Bainbridges.
Lilly set down her fork and tried to keep her voice as even as possible. "My mom wanted me to thank you...For taking care of me."
"Of course, dear. Anyone would have done the same." Barbara took a sip of tea. "I heard your mom works at the diner? Or am I mistaken?"
"No ma'am. She used to work there, but she finished her LPN training couple of years ago. She works at Derry Hospital now."
"Oh, how lovely." Barbara's smile returned, warmer this time. "That must be very rewarding work."
"She likes it."
"I'm sure she's very good at it. Nursing is such an important profession. Very noble. But it must keep her very busy. Patricia mentioned she works nights."
Of course Patricia had mentioned that. What else had she mentioned? The state of Lilly's house? The fact that they didn't have matching china or embroidered tablecloths? The evidence of how the other half lived?
"Sometimes," Lilly agreed, keeping her voice neutral. "Her schedule rotates."
"That must be hard on you. Being home alone so much."
Lilly's fingers found the handle of her teacup and held on. "I'm almost eighteen. I can manage."
"Oh, I'm sure you can. I just meant it must be lonely sometimes. Without a father and with your mother gone so much." Barbara's voice was all sympathy, but her eyes were doing math. Adding up the missing pieces, calculating the deficits.
Poor thing, living with a mother who works nights. Poor thing, having to manage on her own. Poor thing, not having the advantages Patricia has.
Patty shifted in her chair. Her hands had moved from the table to her lap, and Lilly could see how pale were her hands against the fabric of her skirt.
"I have friends," Lilly objected. "They come over a lot. So it's not lonely."
"That's good. Friends are important at your age." Barbara refilled her own teacup, not offering more to Lilly. "Are you thinking about college? Patricia's planning to go to the state university. She's interested in education. Teaching, most likely. Such a good fit for a young woman."
Lilly glanced at Patty, who was still staring at her plate like it had personally offended her.
"I haven't decided yet," Lilly answered.
"Well, there's still time. Although it does creep up faster than you'd think. Before you know it, graduation's here and you need to have a plan." Barbara smiled. "What subjects do you like? What are you good at?"
This was a trap. Lilly could feel it, but she didn't know how to navigate around it without looking like she was hiding something, and hiding something would only confirm whatever Barbara had already decided about her.
"Math. I like math. And science. Chemistry, mostly."
Lilly waited for the reaction, for the polite skepticism or the gentle correction or whatever form the dismissal would take.
Barbara's smile didn't change, but her eyes sharpened for a moment. "How interesting."
Interesting. Not impressive or wonderful or that's great. Just interesting, like Lilly had said she collected bugs or enjoyed watching paint dry. A small detail, precise, that deserved notice but not praise.
"I'm good at it," Lilly added, and immediately regretted the defensive edge in her voice, hated that she'd let Barbara get to her this quickly.
"I'm sure you are." Barbara took a delicate bite of cake, chewed, swallowed, letting Lilly’s tension grow."Those are challenging subjects. They require a great deal of dedication."
"I know."
"And focus. Single-minded focus, really, if you want to pursue them seriously."
Lilly set her fork down carefully, making sure it didn't clank against the plate. "I can focus."
"Of course." Barbara's voice was all gentle reason, the tone of someone explaining obvious truths to a child who didn't quite understand how the world worked yet. "I'm just thinking aloud. It's wonderful that you have interests like that. But you know, women's lives tend to be... complex. There are so many demands. Family, eventually. A husband, children. A home to manage. It's difficult to sustain that kind of intense academic focus when you have other responsibilities pulling at you."
This was what they always said. All of them—teachers, counselors, even some of her mother's friends who'd heard about Lilly's grades and felt compelled to warn Terri about setting expectations too high. Women could do many things, but not that. Not mathematics or physics or any of the serious sciences. Those required commitment, required the kind of single-minded focus that women couldn't sustain because women had other obligations, biological imperatives, natural roles to fill.
And here was Barbara Stanton, in her perfect kitchen with her perfect cake, explaining it all again with that same gentle condescension, that same implication that Lilly was naive for thinking she could be the exception.
"I suppose so," Lilly heard herself say, and hated how quiet her voice sounded, how small. Hated that she was agreeing, even passively, even just to make this conversation end.
"I'm not saying you shouldn't try," Barbara continued, and now her tone had shifted into something that might have been kindness if you didn't know better, if you couldn't hear the steel underneath. "Just that it's important to be realistic. To understand the trade-offs. A career in mathematics or science would consume your life. And for what? When there are other paths that would let you have a fuller, more balanced existence."
Fuller. Balanced. Code words for acceptable, for feminine, for staying in your lane. Lilly wanted to argue, wanted to say something sharp and cutting that would shut this down, that would make Barbara see how condescending she was being. But the words wouldn't come. Everything Barbara was saying sounded so reasonable, so concerned, like she was just trying to help Lilly see reality clearly instead of living in fantasies.
And maybe she was right. Maybe Lilly was delusional for thinking she could do this. Maybe the whole thing was just a fantasy she'd been telling herself to make the daily grind of school feel like it had a point, to make her feel like she was working toward something instead of just spinning her wheels in a town that would never let her be anything more than Loony Lilly Bainbridge, the girl whose father died, who went crazy, who should be grateful for whatever scraps of normalcy she could manage.
"Women can do anything they set their minds to," Barbara's voice was warm now, encouraging in a way that somehow made everything worse. "But we have to be smart about our choices. Practical. Teaching, for instance—that's a wonderful profession for a woman. Or nursing, like your mother. Respectable work that still allows time for family."
Teaching. Nursing. Secretary work. All the acceptable paths, the ones that let you pretend you were using your brain while still maintaining your proper role, still being available for the real work of womanhood which was apparently catching a husband and raising his children and making sure his dinner was on the table.
Lilly had heard this speech before, in different variations, from different people. It always came back to the same thing: know your place. Be realistic. Don't reach for things that weren't meant for you.
She nodded because that seemed easier than trying to form words around the thing that was lodged in her throat, easier than letting Barbara see how much this hurt, how it felt like being buried alive in reasonable expectations.
Patty hadn't moved during Barbara's speech, and Lilly couldn't tell if she was still breathing. Was she agreeing with her mother? Was she sitting there thinking that Barbara was right, that Lilly should give up on mathematics and find something more appropriate? Or was she just uncomfortable with the whole conversation, wishing Lilly would leave so they could go back to their perfect life without the reminder that other people existed, people who didn't fit into neat categories?
"Now, Patricia," Barbara turned her attention to her daughter with the same bright focus she'd given Lilly, "is planning to study education. Aren't you, dear?"
Patty's response was barely audible. "Yes."
"She'll make an excellent teacher. She's so patient, so good with children. And teaching is perfect because the schedule aligns with school holidays. She'll be able to be home with her own children when she has them." Barbara said it like it was already decided, like Patty's whole future was a map that had been drawn without any input from Patty herself, every turn and destination already marked. "It's a very sensible choice."
Lilly looked at Patty, really looked at her, and saw the tension in her jaw, the way she was holding herself so still it looked like she might shatter. Did Patty even want to be a teacher? Or was that just what Barbara had decided for her, what fit the acceptable narrative of Patricia Stanton's life?
"She'll make a wonderful teacher," Barbara continued, warming to her subject now. "But teaching isn't everything. The most important thing for a woman is building a good home. Finding the right husband. Raising children who will contribute to society. Everything else is secondary."
Everything else is secondary. Mathematics was secondary. Dreams were secondary. The person you actually were underneath all the expectations—that was secondary too.
Lilly felt submerged, Barbara’s voice reaching her through a thick, cold pressure.
The kitchen was very quiet except for the ticking of a clock and the distant sound of a car passing on the street outside. Lilly's slice of cake sat in front of her, half-eaten, and she couldn't remember what it tasted like anymore. Couldn't remember why she'd thought coming here was a good idea, why she'd let herself be pulled inside, why she'd agreed to sit down and drink tea and pretend this was normal.
"Lilly's really smart," Patty blurted out.
The words cut through the quiet like a knife, sharp and unexpected. Lilly's head snapped up, and Barbara turned to look at her daughter with an expression that was still pleasant but had cooled several degrees.
"I'm sure she is," Barbara said, her tone dismissive in a way that suggested this wasn't actually relevant to anything they'd been discussing.
"No, I mean it." Patty's voice was still quiet, but it carried a new firmness, a determination that made Lilly notice the effort it took for her to keep speaking. "She's the best in our math class. Peterson says she's one of the best students he's had in ten years."
Lilly's brain stuttered to a halt. She stared at Patty, who was still looking at the table but whose jaw was set with the particular stubborn angle that meant she wasn't backing down, and tried to process what was happening.
Patty was.... defending her??? Patty Stanton, perfect daughter, obedient student, the girl who never stepped out of line, was actively contradicting her mother. For Lilly?
"That's lovely," Barbara tilted her head slightly, her tone had cooled further, the warmth draining out of it like water from a cracked cup.
"She got a perfect score on the last three tests," Patty continued, and now she'd found her rhythm, the words coming faster. She was already unstoppable. "And she can explain things better than Peterson can sometimes."
Every word felt like a small explosion in Lilly's chest. Patty had noticed. Had been paying attention. Had seen Lilly in class, had registered that she was good at this, had apparently even saw Lilly helping Went or Marge. Why? When? Why would Patty care enough to notice these things, to remember them, to bring them up now?
"Patricia..." Barbara's voice had a warning edge now.
"She should go to college. And study math. She's smart enough. She works harder than anyone else in our grade." Patty said it on a single breath, pushing the words out fast, not leaving room for Barbara to cut her off. "It would be a waste if she didn't."
She finally looked up, meeting her mother's eyes.
The air in the kitchen felt different now, Lilly could feel pressure against her skull, could hear the blood rushing in her ears. All the blood had suddenly rushed to her face, making her probably look like a tomato now.
Barbara's smile had frozen on her face, polite but empty, and her eyes had gone sharp in a way that made Lilly's instincts scream danger, get out, this is not your fight.
But Patty was still talking, her voice steady even though her hands were shaking now, trembling where they gripped the table edge.
"That's what I thought," her voice roughened now. The air supply in her lungs ran out and it became difficult to speak. "About her plans. That's what I think."
Lilly couldn't breathe. Couldn't process what was happening. This wasn't how Patty behaved. Patty was careful, controlled, always saying the right thing to the right people. She didn't argue with adults, didn't push back, didn't risk her perfect reputation to defend someone like Loony Lilly.
She just had.
Barbara set her cup down with careful precision, the porcelain making a sharp click against the saucer. "How kind of you to advocate for your friend."
The word friend landed strange, almost mocking. Like Barbara was testing it, seeing if either of them would correct her. Lilly's mouth opened but nothing came out.
"She's not—" Patty started, then stopped. She tried to steady her breathing, but her chest was still rising and falling a little bit too quickly. "I'm just being honest."
Just being honest. Not she's my friend, but not denying it either. Just sidestepping the whole question to make a different point. That Lilly deserved to be defended regardless of what they were to each other.
"Yes, well." Barbara's smile widened, became brighter, more terrible. "Honesty is important. But so is understanding one's place. Lilly has her path, and you have yours, and it's not your responsibility to decide what's best for other people. I think Lilly has her own opinion about what future is best for her."
"You were deciding—" Patty said, and now there was heat in her voice, actual anger breaking through the careful control.
"I was sharing perspective. Experience. The kind of wisdom that comes from actually living in the world as an adult." Barbara's voice remained pleasant, but there was steel underneath now, sharp and cold. "Which you are not yet. However much you might think you know."
Patty's face went red, color flooding her cheeks "I know enough to—"
"That's enough."
The words were quiet but absolute, carrying the weight of years of obedience, of a power dynamic so entrenched that challenging it was almost unthinkable. Beside her, Patty went very still, her mouth slightly open, as if the words she had been about to speak had been cut off at the source.
Lilly should say something. Should stand up, should thank Barbara for the tea, should grab the coat and leave before this got any worse. But she couldn't move, couldn't look away from Patty's face, from the way her expression had crumpled slightly before she caught it and forced it back into blankness.
For several seconds, nobody moved. The clock kept ticking. Patty’s breathing slowly evened out. She was breathing normally again. The rush was over. Lilly was scared to death about whatever was gonna happen next.
Then Patty spoke again, so quietly Lilly almost didn't hear it. "Isn't that what you do?"
"Excuse me?"
"Decide what's best for other people." Patty's voice was barely above a whisper but every word was clear, distinct, like she was enunciating carefully to make sure there was no misunderstanding. "Tell them how they should live. What they should want. Isn't that what you're doing right now? Isn't this what you've been doing my whole life?"
The question hung between them, loaded in a way that reached far beyond this conversation, this moment. Lilly wanted to disappear, wanted to sink through the floor or teleport to another dimension or develop any superpower that would get her out of this kitchen before the explosion that was clearly coming.
This was about more than Lilly. This was about every decision Barbara had made for Patty, every path she'd chosen, every future she'd mapped out without asking if it was what Patty actually wanted. This was years of resentment compressed into one quiet question, and Lilly was sitting here witnessing it, trapped in the middle of a family conflict that had nothing to do with her except that she'd somehow become the catalyst.
Barbara's face had gone very pale, two spots of color high on her cheekbones, her mouth pressed into a thin line. When she spoke, her voice was so controlled it didn't sound human, didn't sound like it was coming from a person at all but from some mechanism designed to produce words without feeling.
"Go to your room."
Patty didn't move. She just sat there, looking at her mother with an expression Lilly couldn't fully read. Not defiance. More layered than that. Grief, resignation, and a desperate, almost painful hope that if she pushed hard enough this time, things would finally change.
"Now."
Then Patty stood. The chair made a harsh sound against the floor. She crossed to the doorway, moving with that careful control that looked effortless but probably wasn't. At the edge of the kitchen she stopped, one hand resting light against the doorframe. She turned her head—not completely, just enough that Lilly could see her face in profile. The edges of her expression softened, her lips parted faintly, her chin lifted with a subtle confidence. It was a silent message, and Lilly felt it.
Then she was gone, footsteps quick and unsteady on the stairs.
Lilly’s palms were damp. Her knee was bouncing under the table, fast and uncontrollable, the movement rattling through her whole body. She didn’t know where to look, what to do, or how to stay in this moment.
She'd done this. Her presence here had triggered this, had pushed Patty into open conflict with her mother. And now Patty was upstairs probably crying or at least trying not to cry, and Lilly was still sitting here with Barbara Stanton who was looking at her with an expression that was carefully, terrifyingly blank.
Barbara was still sitting across from her, hands folded on the table with that same careful precision, smile completely gone now. The pleasant mask had dropped and what was underneath was harder, colder, assessing Lilly with eyes that saw exactly what she was: a problem, a disruption, a bad influence on her previously obedient daughter.
She looked at Lilly for a long moment, and Lilly forced herself not to look away even though everything in her wanted to.
"I'm sorry you had to witness that," Barbara cleared her throat. Her voice was calm again, smooth, like she'd pressed all the jagged edges back into place through sheer force of will. "Patricia has been under a great deal of stress lately. She's not herself."
Lilly nodded because that seemed safer than speaking, safer than saying what she was actually thinking which was that maybe Patty was more herself than she'd ever been.
"She means well, of course. She has a good heart. But she's young, and she doesn't always understand the complexities of adult life." Barbara reached for her tea, found it cold, set it back down with a small moue of distaste. "I'm sure you understand."
"Yeah."
"Good." Barbara stood, and Lilly recognized the movement for what it was—a dismissal, a signal that this visit was over and Lilly's presence was no longer required or desired. "I'm glad you brought the purse by. That was very thoughtful of you."
Lilly stood as well, too quickly, her chair scraping like Patty's had, creating an echo of that earlier moment. "I should go."
"Let me see you out."
They walked back through the hallway, past the polished furniture and the fresh flowers and all the careful evidence of a life that looked right from the outside but maybe felt like suffocation from within.
Barbara retrieved Lilly's coat and held it out. Lilly took it, shrugged into it, felt the cold damp fabric settle against her shoulders.
Barbara opened the front door and cold air rushed in, shocking after the warmth of the house, carrying with it the smell of snow and winter. "Drive safely. Or...you're walking?"
"Taking the bus."
"Ah. Well. Do be careful. The sidewalks are terribly icy."
"I will."
Lilly stepped out onto the porch, her boots crunching on the mat. The snow was coming down harder now, fat flakes that stuck to her hair and shoulders immediately, melting against her skin. She turned back to say goodbye and found Barbara already closing the door.
The door clicked shut. A second later, Lilly heard the lock turn, a definitive sound that suggested she wouldn't be invited back.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, at the brass knocker she'd used what felt like hours ago but had probably been less than thirty minutes. Her face felt hot despite the cold, her chest tight like someone had wrapped bands around her ribs and was pulling them tighter with each breath, making it hard to inhale fully.
Then she started walking, her boots leaving tracks in the fresh snow, each step taking her further from the Stanton house and its perfect facade and the knowledge of what was probably happening inside right now.
The street was quiet, most houses buttoned up against the weather, smoke rising from chimneys in thin gray lines that dissolved against the sky. Christmas decorations were still up on some of them, wreaths and lights and plastic Santas, though the holiday was over and everything looked a little sad now, a little desperate.
Lilly's boots crunched through snow that was already deep enough to make walking difficult, and her ankle protested each step but she didn't slow down. Couldn't slow down. She needed to move, needed to put distance between herself and that house and that kitchen and the sound of Patty's voice saying she's the best in our math class like it mattered, like she meant it, like Lilly was worth defending.
Patty had defended her.
The thought kept circling back, refusing to be dismissed or rationalized away. Patty had argued with her own mother—clearly not something Patty did, clearly something that cost her—because Barbara Stanton had been doing exactly what every adult did, which was smile and nod and then explain very reasonably why Lilly's ideas about her own future were naive and impractical and ultimately pointless.
And Patty had interrupted that. Had pushed back. Had said out loud, in front of her mother, that Lilly was smart and worked hard and shouldn't waste it. Had made herself a target to defend someone who wasn't even her friend, who she barely knew beyond couple of strange nights.
Lilly's hands were shaking. She shoved them into her pockets and kept walking, barely watching where she was going, just letting her feet carry her away from Maple Street and toward the main road where the bus would eventually come.
The thing was, she hadn't asked for that. Hadn't wanted Patty to step in, to make herself a target. Lilly could take care of herself. Had been taking care of herself for years. She didn't need rescuing, especially not from Patty fucking Stanton who lived in a perfect house with perfect clothes and a perfect cake she'd baked herself because apparently being pretty and popular and coming from money wasn't enough, she also had to be domestic and talented and good at everything she touched.
And now she was brave too. Now she was someone who said true things even when they were costly, who chose honesty over comfort.
Lilly's foot hit a patch of ice and she nearly went down, caught herself on a mailbox at the last second, her hands slipping on the cold metal before finding purchase. Her ankle screamed and she stood there bent over, breathing hard, one hand on the mailbox and the other pressed against her mouth.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't. Her eyes were just watering from the cold and the wind and the general awfulness of existing in this moment in this body in this life that kept getting more complicated when all she wanted was for things to be simple and straightforward and not full of confusing gestures from confusing girls who said confusing things that made Lilly's chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.
But she was smiling. Under her hand, against her palm, her mouth had curved into this stupid, helpless smile that she couldn't stop and couldn't explain and didn't want to examine too closely. Because Patty had defended her.
You couldn't fake that. Couldn't perform it convincingly enough to fool someone who was looking for the con. It was too costly, too genuine, too obviously against Patty's own interests. Which meant—
Which meant it was real. All of it. Not a game. Not manipulation. Not Patty playing some long con for reasons Lilly couldn't fathom.
A gust of cold wind hit Lilly from behind, sharp and sudden, just like the realization. Every moment before October hadn't been fake. Marge was wrong. Patty wasn't a manipulative bitch. She'd just been... what? Trying? Caring, maybe, in her own careful way?
And Lilly had mattered. Actually mattered. To Patty Stanton, who could have anyone, who had everything. Lilly Bainbridge had been worth defending, worth staying up all night for, worth arguing with her terrifying mother over.
Lilly's vision went blurry and she blinked hard, angry at the sting in her eyes. One tear escaped anyway, hot against her frozen cheek. Then another. She wiped them away roughly with her palm, smearing cold and wet across her face.
Stupid. This was stupid.
She started walking again, faster now, her breath coming harder. The tears stopped as quickly as they'd started, leaving just the ache behind her ribs and the sick twist of guilt in her stomach. Because Patty was back in that house right now, probably being torn apart by Barbara's perfectly controlled fury. And it was Lilly's fault.
The guilt was new and unwelcome. Of course, Lilly was already used to feeling guilty for everything she'd done, for all the lives she'd taken. But never before had she felt guilty for Patty Stanton.
Patty had deserved Lilly's anger, had earned every cold word, every deliberate distance. But she hadn't deserved this. Hadn't deserved to get in trouble for telling the truth about Lilly's abilities, for pushing back against her mother's condescension.
Lilly reached an intersection and had to stop, check for cars. Across the road she could see the bus stop, its small shelter barely visible through the falling snow. But to her right, maybe half a block down, there was the distinctive shape of a phone booth outside Miller's barbershop.
She'd promised her mother. Said she'd call when she was done. Terri would be expecting it.
Lilly turned right, toward the phone booth. The booth's door stuck when she pulled it, ice in the hinges, but she got it open and stepped inside.
It smelled like stale cigarettes and wet wool. The phone hung heavy on its metal cord.
Oh, right. The phone.