Robin entered the living room, the kitchen towel still clutched in one hand. She stopped just inside the doorway, her eyes landing first on the book on the coffee table, then on Jenny, curled into herself on the couch. The sunlight painted Jenny’s skin an uneasy gold, catching the streaks of fresh tears across her cheeks. Her shirt—one of Robin's old cotton tees, blue and soft from years of washing—was bunched beneath her chest in a way Robin recognized immediately.
Robin’s heart clenched. For an instant, she saw herself at nineteen, trembling and furious on the linoleum floor of the old apartment in Eastview, refusing to leave the kitchen until her own shirt was under control. That day had felt like the ending of everything and the beginning of something she hadn’t wanted. She shook the memory away and focused on Jenny, who looked so young and so lost, knees drawn up and arms hugging her bare middle.
Robin crossed the room quietly and knelt beside the couch. She spoke Jenny’s name gently. Jenny flinched, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand but failing to compose herself. Robin hesitated, then reached out and placed her hand on Jenny’s shoulder. The contact was light, asking permission more than giving comfort.
“It happened,” Jenny choked out, voice cracking on the second word. She sniffed loudly. “I can’t— It just— It won’t stay down.”
Robin brushed a strand of Jenny’s hair behind her ear, her touch slow and deliberate. “I know. Honey, I know.” There was nothing else she could say. The words that had comforted Rachel, that had soothed dozens of friends and classmates during their own Shirt Phenomenon moments, seemed to tumble apart in her mind.
Jenny’s shoulders shook. “I tried to pull it down. I tried everything. It’s not fair.”
Robin nodded, squeezing Jenny’s arm. “The first time is always the worst. You feel like everyone will see you. Like you can’t step outside, can’t even stand up.”
Jenny’s face twisted with a fragile, wounded anger. “Why me? Why now?”
Robin didn’t answer immediately. The steady hush of the breeze through the open windows filled the space between them. Robin let her hand settle gently at the small of Jenny’s back, an old gesture from childhood. “It’s not fair,” she said finally. “It just is.”
Jenny sniffled again. Her gaze drifted down to the exposed skin of her stomach, to the sharp line where shirt met skin. She hugged her knees tighter, as though she could fold herself small enough to disappear. “I can’t go anywhere like this,” she whispered.
Robin’s expression softened. “You don’t have to. Not right away. The first day is always hard. But you’ll get through it. I promise.”
Jenny blinked rapidly, her breath coming in shallow bursts. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to calm down. But fear prickled up the back of her neck, sharp and humiliating. She imagined the neighbor’s children riding their bikes past the window, catching a glimpse of her bare middle. She imagined having to go to the store, to see Rachel and Robin’s knowing smiles. The images swirled with shame and dread.
Robin shifted closer, her presence a steadying force. “Do you want me to call Rachel?” she asked quietly. “Or would it help if I sat with you a while longer?”
Jenny bit her lip. The house was suddenly too bright, too open. Everything felt raw.
Then, from somewhere outside, a car door slammed. Jenny’s eyes flew open. Footsteps crunched across the gravel drive—the unmistakable rhythm of Rachel’s return. A moment later, the front door latch clicked and Rachel’s voice called out, cheerful and oblivious… just as Jenny realized she was about to greet her sister like this, midriff bare, eyes red from crying, and no escape in sight.