Finishing the closet and out for the evening

"Yeah, okay," you say, turning to Wren. "You can photograph me. Hands, shoulders, whatever works. And if you want quotes, I'll give you quotes."

Wren's face splits into a grin so wide her freckles scrunch together. "Really? Oh my God, thank you. I promise I'll make you look amazing."

"I already look amazing," you deadpan, and Priya nearly chokes on her tea.

Back upstairs, the work resumes with renewed energy. Wren positions herself in corners, crouches beside the bed, lies on the floor shooting upward as you hang garments on freshly sorted rods. At first you're aware of the lens—hyper-conscious of your hands, your posture, the angle of your jaw. But somewhere between rehanging Janelle's denim collection by wash and cut, and folding a stack of silk blouses with tissue paper between them, the awareness dissolves.

You're just working. And Wren is just documenting it.

"Hold that—" Wren clicks. "The way you're holding that scarf up to the light. That's perfect."

You glance over your shoulder and smile—actually smile at the camera—and Wren captures it before you can second-guess yourself.

The hours blur. Priya becomes your ruthless quality controller, vetoing hanger placements with a decisive finger. "That cardigan does NOT live next to that blouse. The textures are fighting." You relocate it. She nods approvingly. Janelle works beside you, quieter than usual but warm, her knee occasionally bumping yours as you reach for the same section of rod.

By 4:30pm, the closet is unrecognizable. Tops sorted by color temperature—warm left, cool right. Bottoms organized by rise and fabric. Dresses hung in a dedicated section with space between each. Shoes on a rack. Accessories in a hanging organizer. The emerald green dress—Janelle's aunt's burgundy wrap—hangs in a featured spot, steamed and ready.

Priya stands in the doorway, arms crossed, surveying the result. She walks the length of the closet, pulls out a drawer, checks a shelf, then turns.

"Okay. This is actually insane." She looks at you. "You did this in three hours."

"We did it," you correct.

"No. You directed. We were labor." Priya grins. "I take back every skeptical thing I've ever thought about YouTube tutorials."

Janelle stands in the center of her transformed closet, turning slowly, running her fingers along the organized hangers. Her eyes are bright. "Riley... I can actually see my clothes. Like, all of them. This is wild."

Wren is already scrolling through her camera, making small sounds of satisfaction. "I got at least forty usable shots. The before-and-after is going to be incredible."

Priya claps her hands together. "We need to celebrate. There's that place on Route 9—The Lantern. They do those loaded nachos and those weird cocktails with the smoke. My brother got us in once."

"The Lantern is twenty-one and up," Janelle points out.

"It's eighteen and up after four on Sundays. I checked." Priya's expression is pure triumph. "They have a patio. And trivia night starts at six, which means nobody cares about carding because everyone's focused on guessing capital cities."

Wren tucks her camera away. "I'm in. I need nachos after that organizing marathon."

Janelle looks at you, that same steady warmth from earlier. "What do you think, Riley? Celebrate a job well done?"

From downstairs, Colette's voice carries: "Are you girls staying for dinner or what?"

Priya leans out the door. "We're going to The Lantern, Mom Osei!"

"The WHAT?"

"It's fine! It's a restaurant!" Priya pulls back and mouths at you: She thinks it's a bar.