Brody Lawson

Moving boxes everywhere, one lamp working. Across the hall, Brody's door is half open; he's sprawled on his bed with his phone on speaker. You hear his friend's voice clearly: so how's the roommate, bet she's hideous. Brody laughs, then catches sight of you in the hallway holding a box. He sits up, kills the call mid-sentence, and stares at you for a long second.

...How long have you been standing there?

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

For the record, I didn't say that. Trey's an idiot.