Ryan grinned and glanced back at his friends. “No offense, but your old man looks like he’s one bad day away from asking me for a dollar.” His friends laughed. Lily went very still. Ethan, who was visible through the window and heard every word, went still too. But for a completely different reason.
He watched his daughter’s face, watched her work through it. The embarrassment, the anger, the calculation of how to respond without making it worse. “Okay,” Lily said quietly. She looked back down at her phone. “What, no comeback?” Ryan pressed. “Come on, tell your dad to mow his lawn at least. This whole side of the street is embarrassing.”
“Ryan, man, let it go,” one of his friends said, but the other one was still laughing. “I’m just being honest,” Ryan said, spreading his hands. “Neighborhood has standards.” Lily didn’t respond. She was staring at her phone, jaw tight, and Ethan could see from the window that her hands were gripping it too hard.
He walked to the front door. He opened it. He stepped onto the porch. Not fast, not dramatic. He just appeared, standing there in his old jeans and his faded green shirt, and he looked at Ryan. The yard went quiet. Ryan turned, saw Ethan, smiled wider. The entertained smile of someone who thought this was going to be fun.
“Hey, neighbor,” Ryan said. “We were just—” “I heard,” Ethan said. His voice was completely flat, not angry, not loud, just completely, utterly absent of warmth. Ryan blinked. Something in the tone stopped him for half a second. Some primal thing, the kind of warning signal that exists in human beings below the level of conscious thought. Then his ego buried it.
“Look, I was just—” “Ryan.” Ethan walked down the porch steps. He stopped at the edge of his yard, six feet from the fence line. “These are children. Go back inside.” Ryan’s eyes narrowed. His friends went quiet. The girls didn’t move. “Children,” Ryan repeated. He looked around, performing amusement for his audience. “Dude, they’re like fifteen.”