• • •

As August slips into September, the weather becomes a lot more aggreeable with a delicious breeze to accompany the heat that lingers on. The temperature has finally dropped to the seventies and it couldn't be more perfect this weekend. Lying out in the garden with a new book from Mom's store, while she lies next to me with an old favourite, I feel truly happy.

Sometimes I catch myself in these moments and my brain scrambles to fixate on the most devastating tracks of my life, as though I don't deserve to feel good, but today there seems to be a filter blocking out the worst of my memories.

When my thoughts land on the creep from the two days ago, I don't focus on how afraid he made me feel, but on the relief that came with Liam's smile; when Dad enters my mind with his trademark beam, I don't think about every word I regret saying to him, but on the highlights that play like a movie trailer.

I don't have closure and I probably never will, but I've finally reached a point where I've made peace with Dad's death. I don't begin to entertain the thought that he's out there, a thought that only brings indescribable pain, but I pray that he's watching down on Mom and me, willing us to move on.

It took a while to reach this point. Honestly, it's only since moving to Five Oaks that the feeling has had any degree of conviction to it, and I wish we'd moved sooner. With a bit of distance, I can see how stifled we were by the apartment that was all him, Mom's closet still half-filled with his clothes, the scent of his cologne in the air.

Mom was right. This has been good for us. Maybe it's the clean country air or the water I can actually swim in, but I feel like a weight has flown off my shoulders, leaving just a chip behind. Since we've been here, I haven't googled Dad's name once.

After he went missing, I couldn't stop refreshing his name in the search bar. It was a drug I was hopelessly addicted to, scouring the internet for some clue as to what had happened. At some point after locking up the bookstore, he had vanished without a trace. After Mom and I spoke to the police and we rallied up all the entire neighborhood to search, an article finally popped up.

IMMIGRANT STORE CLERK MISSING

That was it. People lost interest, if they had ever cared at all. I called the site, I emailed them, I begged them to change the title of the piece. Dad landed in America when he was a toddler; he was forty-three when he disappeared. As soon as he turned eighteen, he fought for his citizenship and he got it.

He grew up here; he worked here; he was just as American as anyone else. But he was reduced to four words that ensured nobody cared.

I pleaded the website to change the title to DEVOTED HUSBAND or LOVING FATHER or ACTUALLY A PRETTY COOL DAD but I learnt that you can't choose your adjectives. They're chosen for you, slapped on like a product label without the full list of ingredients.

Nobody cared that Dad was an incredible chef. They never saw the way he and Mom cuddled on the sofa at night. They couldn't see how proud he was of his bookstore. He wasn't a clerk: he owned the place.

If the papers had read DEVOTED FAMILY MAN AND SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS OWNER MISSING, then people would have looked for him. Maybe they'd still be looking; maybe he'd be right here, but he's not. People saw a man with dark skin and an unfamiliar name and they decided that Levente Sovany wasn't worth looking for.

Mom's sure he's somewhere out there, that he's going to show up one day and everything can be more, but I know he won't. He's dead. He has to be. It's easier if he is. Because what if he's not? If my dad is still alive, then why did he go? Why did he miss my birthdays, my graduation, me? Why would he ignore my prayers and my pleas, every poster I pasted with his smile?

He wouldn't have left, just like that. If he did, then I'd have to rethink everything I knew about him, and that hurts even more than letting go.

• • •

When I get to the end of a chapter, halfway through the book, I remember my page and put it to one side, rolling onto my back to enjoy the sun. Mom does the same, clasping her hands over her stomach and turning her cheek to look at me.

Since I started college, we haven't seen each other as much as we used to. We spent almost every minute of the past two years together, especially once I graduated and ended up taking the year off, but now that I have a job on top of classes, I'm home late most days and Mom's often off to work before I wake up.

This weekend has been really good. I haven't thought about my assignment at all, and I haven't seen Gray since I drove him back on Friday. He and his dad left early yesterday to go see his aunt in Ann Arbor and I was half-asleep by the time I heard Tad's car crunch up the driveway way after midnight.

"I love this," Mom says out of nowhere. Her hair's fanned out on the grass around her, newly colored after a visit to the salon yesterday, and she looks ten years younger. She always used to keep on top of her hair, making sure the gray strands never showed, but she let her age get the best of her when we had bigger things to deal with.

Now she's back to honey blonde. It suits her. I'd make a terrible blonde, but Mom and I don't look a bit alike. That used to upset me, and it frustrated her when people stared at us when I was younger. I have too many memories of people assuming we weren't related, or that I was adopted. I never got that when I was with Dad.

"The weather?" I ask. She smiles her response.

"The weather, the quiet. Everything," she says. "This is working, isn't it?" Her eyes implore mine – she's really asking, and she really wants an answer. "We made the right decision, didn't we?"

"We did," I tell her, and I smile too. It wasn't really my decision. We couldn't afford to stay in New York so Mom decided to relocate closer to Kris. Even Cleveland was too pricey, so here we are. We may be in the middle of nowhere, but this house is ours. I didn't even know Mom and Dad had owned our apartment until she told me it was time to sell.

"Your dad would love it here," she says. "In twenty-three years, we hardly ever left the city, but he loves the country."

The present tense hurts, but not as much as it used to.

"I wish he was here. God, I wish he was here." Mom wells up, the sun shining in her teary eyes, and I wonder why she's getting so sentimental until the date hits me.

Today is the second of September. Twenty-five years ago today, she and Dad got married in Manhattan with Kris as Dad's best man.

My heart lurches in my chest and when I grab her hand, she blinks and smiles and wipes her eyes. I don't know what to say. When I sit up, she does too and she squeezes my hand.

"Mom..."

"I'm fine, honey, I promise." She gives me a sideways hug, pressing her cheek to mine, and she says, "You know I lost control of my tear ducts the day you were born, bogárkám. I really am fine."

Still. I wish I was better equipped, that I had the right words, but no matter how much I read, I can't translate those experiences to real life. The characters in my books would know what to say. I should know what to say. This is my mom, this is about my dad, but my tongue feels shriveled and useless.

"Happy anniversary," I say after a moment, and Mom hugs me tighter.

"Thank you, Storie," she says quietly. "Now, how about we do something?" She stands and brushes grass off her pants. "Nothing major," she adds. She knows I hate spontaneity.

"Like what?"

"Maybe we could see if Tad and Gray are around, we could take a picnic to the beach?"

That's the kind of last-minute plan I can deal with: something low-key with people I like and trust. I don't see a ton of Gray's dad, who drives forty minutes to Toledo each day for work, but he's only ever been ridiculously welcoming to us and he reminds me of a grown-up Gray.

They have the same sense of humor and lack of an ego; they share a love of books and good coffee; they're both unquestioningly friendly. I know he and Mom get on and I can't explain how glad I am that she has a friend here. Back home, she and Dad were each other's everything.

Like me, she's never been one to have friends, but there's something different in the Ohio air. Now I have Gray, and Mom has Tad.

"That'd be good," I say. "I'd like that."

Mom's grin widens. I know she worries about me, no matter how much I assure her she doesn't need to. I do the same, to be honest. I worry about her every time I borrow her laptop and see that she's been reading old articles about Dad; I worry when I see her light on at four in the morning. She's always been a bad sleeper, but now I can't help but attribute it to Dad.

"Fantastic," she says, and she pulls me into a tight hug. When she pulls away, I realise she's looking really good at the moment. She's tall, only a couple inches off six feet, and after a couple of years of shrinking away, she's drawn to her full height and wearing clothes that fit, rather than drowning in Dad's old shirts.

That wasn't new – she often wore his clothes and he would roll his eyes when he found her in the shirt he was looking for – but it took on a whole new meaning once he was gone.

When she heads next door to see if Tad and Gray want to come to the beach, I drag myself into the warm house to change into my bathing suit. As much as I hate any outfit that is designed to cling and show so much skin, I love being in the water.

Avoiding the mirror, I pull on a tight one-piece that squashes my boobs but at least keeps them where they should be. It's the only swimsuit I own, the only one I could find that has a skirt so I can keep a shred of dignity, so it'll have to do. By the time I've added a dress that covers my upper arms and shorts to avoid more chafing, Mom's back.

"Storie!"

"In my room."

She jogs up the stairs and beams when she comes into my room. "I love that dress, honey," she says, rubbing the hem between her fingers. "This colour looks wonderful on you."

"Thanks, Mom." I love this dress too. The sunny yellow fabric sits in all the right places, managing to highlight my curves without clinging to my lumps. "Are they coming?"

She sticks up both thumbs. The light catches on the only two rings she wears. One for her engagement; one for her wedding. "Tad's putting together some snacks and I'm going to make some sandwiches and then we'll go."

"Am I driving?" I ask, if only to decide what shoes to wear. Of the four of us, Tad and I are the only ones who can drive. When he's away, the responsibility falls on my shoulders to ferry Mom and Gray around. Gray's too scared to get his license; Mom's was revoked eighteen months ago.

"Nope. Tad said he knows the perfect spot for a picnic so he's going to take us. You're off duty today, honey."

• • •

Tad's perfect spot is a thirty-minute drive away so my stomach's growling by the time we make it, but it's worth it. Our section of Five Oaks's beach gets crowded but there's hardly anyone else in sight along the stretch of warm sand. The beach faces northeast so there's no land to be seen, though Tad says that if we could see as far as two hundred miles away, we'd be looking at Buffalo.

After a much needed sandwich and some of Tad's leftover homemade sushi – a million times better than the store – Gray and I leave our parents chatting on the sand and we head into the water with a couple of pool noodles. There's nothing more relaxing that floating in the lake with my arms hooked over the foam, the sun on my cheeks.

"So, on a scale of one to fourteen," Gray begins, and I'm already smiling, "how likely are you to meet your white knight tomorrow?"

"What's the numerical equivalent of I don't know?"

He purses his lips. "Probably anything between two and seven."

"Then ... seven."

He laughs, rippling the water as he lazily kicks to keep himself afloat. We're drifting close together, treading water side by side. "For what it's worth, I think you should go."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "It's Starbucks, which is pretty low on the intensity scale – you know there'll be plenty of people around, me included. From what you told me, he sounds like a nice guy, and although I have a general dislike of frat guys, they got that dolla dolla." He rubs his fingers together and grins. "Worst case scenario, it's just a bad date and you don't see him again."

The word date strikes me. Liam never used it. Neither did I. I'm not sure if it was implied, if I'm just so out of touch that I missed something. I stare at Gray until he feels my eyes and twists in the water to face me.

"You think it's a date?"

"Yeah..." He looks at me like I've just grown another head. "You don't?"

"I don't know. He just said he could show me the ropes, teach me about South Lakes."

Gray laughs and shakes his head at me. "Oh, Storie. Correct me if I'm wrong, but did he not first ask you for a drink after work?" He raises his eyebrows, challenging me.

"Yeah."

"It's a date, my dear poem," he says, grinning. "He wants to get into your pants."

"Graham."

"It's true! You guys have never met before, so he doesn't know what you're like, and I know college guys. They don't save girls from creeps and ask them for coffee unless they want a little something something. He liked what he saw and he wants more."

That's not something I've heard before. I'm used to the insult that strikes when guys will tell me with surprise that I'm actually cool, or funny, or good company, like they're amazed that a fat girl can have a fourth dimension beyond being too three-dimensional. I've grown up in a world that tells me I'm the kind of girl guys have to get to know first before they can find me attractive.

"Why?" The word slips out before I can stop it. I don't mean to ask. It seems conceited, like I'm fishing, but Gray's unconcerned.

"Because you're really pretty," he says.

"I don't think any guy has ever said that before," I tell him. "They all just see a fat girl."

Gray frowns at me. He stops kicking the water. "You do know that fat and pretty aren't mutually exclusive, right?"

I ... I know that. I should know that. But as soon as Gray says it, I realise I've never heard it before. I've been big my whole life, and for just as long I've been reminded at every turn that big equals ugly. My mouth hangs open as I track through nearly two decades of feelings, and Gray is staring at me.

"Storie." He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Well, better late than never, I guess. You're really pretty, and frat boy thinks so too, because he wants to have coffee with you, and I'm going to be hiding in the background to make sure he doesn't try to dry hump you in Starbucks."

I splutter a laugh and lose control of my noodle, shrieking when it jumps away from me. Gray cracks up and grabs it before it can drift off on the gentle tide, and he chokes on a mouthful of lake water when he laughs at me splashing before I realise the water's hardly waist high.

"Maybe don't go on a lake date," he says once I've righted myself, the noodle propping up my neck. "Or maybe you should. If he can't handle at your incompetent noodle wrangling then he doesn't deserve you at your yellow dress."

I laugh and splash him and he gasps when his glasses get wet, the lenses speckled with droplets. His chunky black frames, paired with the clear sky, blue water and the bright yellow foam noodle, make for a very aesthetic look. Very hipster Instagram chic, I think.

"So, are you going to help me? I've never been on a date before but apparently there's a first time for everything and I only have twenty-four hours to prepare."

Gray pushes his glasses to the top of his head and I know that means I just got a lot blurrier. "I can give you a pep talk," he says, "but advice isn't really my forte. Us Ono men don't have the best track record."

"I need help."

"Me too," he says with a laugh. "I may have been on several dates, but I've never been on a second date. I don't think I'm boyfriend material."

"Are you kidding? You have five thousand flannel shirts. If that's not boyfriend material, I don't know what is." I tut and shake my head at him. "You're just dating the wrong people."

"That I can agree with," he says. "I have bad taste, and you can't argue with me on that."

"I wouldn't know." I lift my hands and almost lose the noodle again.

"Then you'll have to trust me. In tenth grade, I pined after Gracie Clarke for six months before I asked her out and she left the date early to go out with another guy. After I paid for her confusing Frappuccino and a brownie."

"Oh my God. That is a bad date."

He gives me a knowing look, his eyes wide and his lips pressed together. "I have, like, ten more stories like that. Last year, I went out with a girl I went to camp with when we were fourteen. She didn't realise I'm half-Japanese and when I mentioned it, she came out with a whole catalogue of racist assumptions and some very poor-taste jokes."

"As poor as your taste in dates?"

He laughs and paddles round when the lazy waves turn him away from me. "Even worse, if that's possible. I think the worst so far was at the end of my senior year."

"That's not long ago."

"Yeah, it was right before you moved in," he says. "I was high-key crushing on a guy in my math class and I thought I'd won the jackpot when he asked me out – to McDonald's which should have been a warning sign, I guess – but it was just a set-up to out me or something."

"Oh my God, Gray, that's awful!"

"It didn't work," he says. "Obviously none of them followed me on Twitter, or had ever paid the slightest bit of attention to me." He laughs and shakes his head, remarkably unfazed. "Turns out he embarrasses much more easily than me, when I pointed out that he was the one who asked an openly bi guy on a date. And it solidified my theory that I have terrible taste in both men and women."

"Damn."

"Damn right," he says. Then he lets out an awkward laugh and says, "But I'm sure your date will go fine."

"I'm not feeling great about it right now."

"You'll be fine. I have a string of uniquely crap experiences. Or genetically crap. Dad has no game either," he says, nodding at his father.

Mom and Tad are lying on separate towels, each holding a book that they're not reading as they talk to each other instead. Mom waves when she meets my eye and Gray enthusiastically waves back, almost hitting me with his gangly arm. He stands in the shallow water and nods at our towels.

"Time for lunch part two," he says. As we're walking back to our parents, he turns to me and adds, "I won't come tomorrow if you don't want me there. Right now you're probably thinking I'm a curse."

"I'm not. I want you there. Unless you don't want to be there."

"I want to be there," he says, and he wields his pool noodle like a sword, jumping into a karate-like stance. "If white knight frat boy turns out to be as much of an ass as the creep, you might need me to fend him off with my insane skills." He whips the noodle until it flies out of his hand and soars across the beach.