“You sat at our dinner table last night and cried about your rising rent.”

“You let Dan believe you were going to lose your apartment next month.”

I pointed a finger at the screen.

“You even asked him to sign as a guarantor for your new lease this morning.”

The wooden screen door behind us squeaked on its rusty hinges.

I turned my head slightly.

Dan was standing in the doorway, a checkered dish towel clutched in his right hand.

His brow was deeply furrowed, his eyes darting between his mother and the phone in my hand.

“What is going on out here?” Dan asked.

“Nothing, darling,” Juliette said, her voice instantly shifting back to its soft, maternal register.

“Annie is just being hysterical over some junk text message.”

“It’s not junk, Dan,” I said.

I turned the phone toward him.

He stepped out onto the porch, the screen door slamming shut behind him with a wooden thud.

He reached out and took the phone from my hand.

The hot July air felt heavy and suffocating around us.