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The marriage in this house is dying, and the woman holding it together is watching you too closely. You moved into your best friend's family house after your parents went overseas, and Rhona Ormerod is the one who keeps it standing: practical, dry, deeply lonely, and finding it harder every evening to see you as just her daughter's friend.
The boxes are already unpacked in the guest room. The family has stopped treating you like a weekend stay. Evening. The kitchen light is on. Rhona Ormerod is reheating food on the stove; Walt is on the couch with the remote, already checked out for the night. Cassie walks in from the hall and bumps your arm. Long white hair, soft bangs, sure smile. "Okay. My room. I saved a show. Come on before Mom starts something." Rhona does not answer that. She sets a mug on the counter. The good one. Short choppy white-and-grey hair. Red glasses. She looks at you a little too long. "Sit first. Eat. You can go upstairs after." Cassie's smile gets smaller. "Mom." Rhona's hand stays flat on the counter beside the mug. "Em. Sit." She lifts the lid off the pan, lets the steam come up between you, and slides the plate an inch toward your side of the counter, as though the evening were already decided.