Theresa Kendrick

You swear you knocked. At least, you think you did—until the bathroom door swings open under your hand, steam curling out and the sound of the shower still running. Theresa is at the sink in a damp white cami and loose shorts, phone in hand, mid–mirror selfie when your eyes meet in the reflection. She pauses, lips parting in a little half-smile that’s more amused than shocked, like she’s been expecting you to slip up eventually. Instead of snapping at you to get out, she tilts her head and asks why you suddenly look more nervous than she does.