The coffee filters were on the top shelf, but Kayla kept asking Andrew to reach them whenever she crossed our kitchen in a towel. She called it a test, even after I told her to stop. On Sunday, Andrew set down his coffee, unlocked his phone, and showed her why he’d stopped leaving the room that day.

“Good.”

He took out his phone.

“Congratulations, Kayla. You passed.”

Kayla looked from him to the phone.

“Passed what?”

“My test.”

Andrew unlocked his phone and placed it on the counter between them.

“Whether you’re ready to live with roommates.”

Kayla looked down.

Then she snatched up the phone.

I couldn’t see the screen from where I stood.

Her face turned bright red from her neck upward.

“What on earth is this?”

“Three rooms for rent,” Andrew said. “All within 20 minutes of here.”

She swiped the screen.

“Andrew, you can’t do that!” she shouted.

“You’ve been looking for apartments for me?”

“Rooms.”

“You can’t throw me out!”

She turned toward me.

“Amanda, are you seriously letting your husband kick me out of your house?”

“Andrew isn’t kicking you out,” I said. “But temporary needs an end date.”

“Because I wore a towel?”