Page 3 of Creeping Lily

LINCOLN

L ily pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, her other lifting in a small, almost shy wave. A quiet goodnight—soft enough to sting. Then she’s gone, swallowed by the shadows on her way to the guest house.

Something settles in my chest, heavy and sharp, like a stone dropped into still water. The ripples move through me, slow at first, then spreading until my blood feels thick, poisoned. I don’t want her to go. I don’t want her out of my sight.

The tightness in my chest refuses to name itself. Is it just the instinct to protect—like an older brother watching over his kid sister? Or is it something far more dangerous? Something that’s been creeping in, quiet but steady, this whole summer?

I notice things now. Too many things.

The tilt of her chin when she laughs.

The tiny pause before she meets my eyes, like she’s deciding whether I’m worth the look.

The dimple she doesn’t give freely—only me.

Her innocence isn’t the manufactured kind people try to fake. It’s the rare kind. Pure. Untouched. And I want to keep it that way .

I want to shield her from the world. From the messes people make. From the kind of pain you can’t scrub off no matter how hard you try. I want her safe in my arms, locked away from everything and everyone.

And then a thought comes, unwelcome but honest—maybe I need to protect her most from myself.

I’m nineteen. Most guys my age are out in loud bars, getting drunk on bad beer and chasing girls they’ll forget by morning. But not me. I spend my nights here. With her.

We’re together so often now that even Maria, who’s always been in my corner, is starting to give me those side looks. I’ve caught pieces of their arguments—Lily’s voice sharp with frustration.

“I finally have an older brother. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

Those words hit me harder than they should. Brother. Protector. She says it like it’s solid stone, but the way it lands in my chest feels like it’s crumbling.

She’s sixteen. Too young. Too off-limits.

And yet—deep down, I already know—she’s meant to be mine.

Maybe it started the first time I saw her, a little thing with two braids and braces that gave her a lisp.

I remember the floral dress. The shiny Mary Janes.

The way she clutched the hem like she was holding herself together.

That was eight years ago. The summer Bentley and I met this strange, awkward girl who made us laugh in ways we hadn’t in years. She thought she was just visiting her “two older brothers,” but the truth is, she brought this house back to life. She made us remember what fun felt like.

When she was ten, I was just learning what it meant to be a teenager.

Bentley was seventeen and already acting like he had the world figured out.

Summers were the best then—our parents gone more often, leaving us in Maria’s care.

Lily would write us silly poems when she went home, little lists of all the things she missed about us.

By fourteen, the braces were gone. The lisp too. Her hair had grown long and silky, hanging down her back like a dark river, and her body had begun to change. She spent whole afternoons in the pool, shoulders bronzed, arms toned. The softness of childhood giving way to something leaner, stronger.

And I noticed.

“You know, one day she won’t want to come here anymore,” Bentley said once, his voice casual as his sunglasses tracked her through the pool. She swam like she was trying to beat the water into submission.

“What makes you say that?” I asked, trying not to sound defensive.

“She’ll grow up,” he said with a shrug. “Realize there’s a whole world out there. She’ll spread her wings.”

The thought sank in deep. One day, she wouldn’t need us. Wouldn’t be here. Would be out there with a life—school, work… boys.

“What’s your point?” I asked.

“Don’t get too attached,” Bentley warned. “All good things end.”

The words stuck like grit in my teeth. Maybe he was right. But I couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t.

The idea of her gone was unbearable. A world without her laughter in it? Without the way she wraps her arms around me like she means it? No. I couldn’t imagine it.

Later, Bentley drifts onto the patio, sunglasses perched in his hair, a lazy grin on his face. “Meeting friends for drinks,” he announces .

My eyes flick to Lily. She’s across the table, the night air playing with her dark hair. Her gaze is somewhere up in the stars, soft and thoughtful.

“She’s really grown up,” Bentley murmurs, and I don’t need him to say it. I already know. She’s a woman now—at least in the ways that matter.

I cut my gaze back to him. “What’s on your mind, brother?”

He shrugs. “Senator’s flight’s delayed. Mom says not to wait up.”

Routine. Always gone for fundraisers or campaign dinners. And we still call him “the Senator” instead of Dad. Some habits are harder to kill than others.

Bentley glances in Lily’s direction again. “You coming?”

I shake my head without hesitation. “Nah. Maria’s got Bridge night. I’ll keep Lily company.”

Bentley’s eyes narrow, but he lets it go. He waves to her before disappearing into the house.

Lily looks at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I shuffle the deck, trying to keep my hands busy.

“You don’t have to babysit,” she says. “Go out with Bent. We can play tomorrow.”

I shake my head too fast. “No. I want to be here.”

And I do. Every second counts now.

She’s changed. And I’ve noticed every inch of it—curves where there weren’t any, a confidence that wasn’t there before. Bentley notices too, and I hate that he does.

“So, two more years and you’re free,” I say, grasping for safer ground.

She grins. “Only to trade one prison for another. Community college, remember?”

Her grin lingers, and it’s impossible not to stare.

“Still journalism?” I ask.

“Have you ever seen me without a notebook? ”

I chuckle. “Friends? Boys?”

The flush hits her cheeks fast, and she hides behind her cards. “A few friends.”

“And?”

She peeks at me, smirking. “You’re really going for the older brother act, huh?”

It lands like a punch—because maybe that’s all she’ll ever see me as.

I can’t stop myself. “Boyfriends?”

She holds my gaze for a beat before biting her lip. “Nothing serious. Not many to choose from where I’m from.”

I lean in, voice low. “Tell me.”

She shakes her head, smiling like she’s keeping secrets.

And I realize—I’m not ready for her to grow up yet.