• • •

Mom's sitting at the kitchen table with her glasses high up on her nose, her eyes trained so intensely on her laptop screen that she doesn't hear me until I walk in front of her and say good morning, and she snaps her head up like I've caught her doing something illicit. I already saw the article about Maggie on her screen.

"Any news?" I ask as I fill a glass with water. I feel a lot better today. I love working and earning but it was so good to have yesterday off. Getting home at six rather than after ten made a world of difference, from eating with Mom and Tad, to Gray and me being able to get a start on the essay that's due in a few days.

Mom shakes her head. "Nothing. It's been nearly forty hours."

The first forty-eight hours matter the most. I heard that so much back when Dad had only been missing for a few hours, then a day, then nearly two. The police told us – unhelpfully, I thought – that after the first forty-eight hours, the chance of finding anything is slashed in half.

Mom was inconsolable when we hit that point. Then sixty hours. Seventy. Now it's been nearly twenty-thousand hours since I last saw my dad.

"They'll find her," I say. I hope. If there's no news on Maggie as the week goes on, or if she turns up dead, it'll hit too close to home. "She'll be ok, Mom. Just ... don't think about it."

"Her."

"I meant it as in the situation." I sit down opposite her and she shuts her screen.

"I know. Nothing I can do."

"Exactly." When I give her a warm smile, she gives it back to me and she squeezes my shoulder when she stands to refill her juice.

"Such a good head on your shoulders, honey," she says. "I'd be a mess without you. It is strange here when you're out so late."

"At least you have Tad," I say, trying to meet her eye when I mention his name. She's not facing me but I don't miss the slightest twitch of her lip. Elmosolyodik, I think, remembering Kris's word. The start of a smile. When she says nothing, I add, "You guys seem to get on really well."

"We do," she says at last. "He's been absolutely fantastic. I know you two haven't spent much time together but he's a wonderful man."

"I know," I say, and I make sure she sees my smile. If there's even the slightest chance she's ready to move on, or even start to think about it, I'm not going to get in the way of that. It's hard, and I know the reality will hurt more than I think it will when she does let go, but she has to.

"And you and Gray are such good friends," she says. "We got lucky with our neighbors, didn't we?"

"We really did." I nod at the kitchen window. "Speaking of," I say when I see Tad coming over. He waves and smiles when he sees me; I do the same. Mom turns around and her face lights up. Tad lets himself in, a pot of coffee in his hand. I can't confirm it but Mom insists he makes the best coffee. I don't know how when it's all just beans and water.

"Hey, Jen," he says, greeting Mom first. His hand grazes her elbow and he pours her a cup of coffee. Then he looks at me, his expression turning to more of a grimace. "No Gray today, I'm afraid, Storie."

No. That's not right. Gray's supposed to come and eat breakfast and chat away as we drive to college and sit in the background when I meet Liam. My heart squeezes tightly for a second. "Is he ok?"

"He's not feeling great," Tad says. "He'll be fine, but he'll probably be laid up for a couple of days."

That's not part of the plan. It doesn't fit into our routine. I can feel my heart suddenly up its pace as though it's trying to gallop out of my chest. I know I can function without Gray – I did for nineteen years – but now I'm used to his constant presence and I've never spent a moment at college without him.

"Can I go see him?" I ask, already standing. Tad nods, filling his own mug, and I leave him with Mom. Following the creak of a bed, I find Gray looking sorry for himself in his bedroom. He looks bad, a greenish tinge to his pale cheeks, and there's a bucket by his bed, a towel on the floor.

"Are you dying?"

"I think so," he says. "Can you die of food poisoning?"

"Yes." I take out my phone and google the statistics. "Nearly half a million people die of food poisoning every year. What'd you eat? We all had your dad's beef last night."

"I got snacky," he says, groaning when he rolls over. "I made a chicken sandwich later. I guess the chicken was bad." He drops onto his back and drapes his arm over his forehead, breathing heavily.

"I can stay," I say. "I can give you a hand?"

"No. You've got a date today. You're not cancelling because of me." He lies still for a moment. His hand moves to his mouth. He takes a deep breath through his nose before he tips out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. I can't bear the sound of him throwing up. There's nothing I can do to help him.

A few minutes pass. He comes out looking a lot worse, his eyes red and his skin pallid, and he drags himself back to bed with hardly an ounce of energy.

"I hate throwing up," he says, collapsing onto his crumpled comforter. "You should go."

I don't want to. I hover in the doorway. Gray stares at me.

"You don't have to go to class if you don't want to," he says, "but you should go and see Liam and have a great day. I'm not going to let you throw away the day just because I'm sick." He groans again, letting out a heavy sigh, and buries his face in his pillow. His words are muffled when he says, "Go, Storie."

"Are you going to be ok?"

"Nope. I just gotta flush it out of my system."

"Let me at least get you some water."

"Ok," he says, the word an effort to push out. "Then you need to go. Have fun without me."

• • •

It's weird driving alone. I'm not sure I've ever driven anywhere alone: I'm more of a taxi. I never have anywhere to be except college and I share that with Gray. His absence is painfully obvious as I sail down the I-90. I miss his narration. I even miss the sound of a book in his hands, the papery whoosh as he turns the page every thirty seconds.

When I get to South Lakes, I don't feel right. Nothing physical, just a niggle at the back of my mind that it's not right being here without him. It is, of course. It's normal, whatever normal's supposed to be. I'm supposed to be able to go to class without him; I'm supposed to be able to drive for a couple hours without being caught in a panic that clutches my chest.

It'll be ok. I tell myself that over and over and over. It'll be fine. I feel sorry for Gray too, and I hate myself for feeling bad that he's not here when I should be feeling bad that he's so ill. I do feel bad about that: I feel awful for him and I wish I could help but he'll only be happy if I just go about my day as normal.

Class first. I can do that. I can sit in one of those awkward chair-table combos and I can make notes on literary theory for ninety minutes. Then I can do it again for Shakespearean literature. Then I can swallow my nerves for a date with Liam.

I'm not sure if the feeling in my gut is even nervousness. Anticipation, maybe. Sending the text terrified me, but I want to go. I want to see him. I don't know where this is going, but I'm here for the ride.

The fact that I don't feel too horrendously sick with nerves gives me a boost of confidence right when I need it, and I walk into class with my head held high. The professor even gives me a smile and a nod of acknowledgment, and I take a seat on the end of the front row. That way I don't have to climb across anyone, nor do I knock a laptop off a table when I try and navigate the awkward seat.

Before the professor starts a dry class, I send Gray a text. I'm not sure he's fixed his phone yet so I don't expect a reply, but I know he can at least read a message.

hope you're ok! thinking of you. stay hydrated and rest. you're not missing anything.

I guess he figured out what was wrong because his reply beeps in almost instantly, and I silence my phone as quickly as I can as though that will take back the sound.

I may not be missing anything but considering you're texting me in lit theory, you might be

I roll my eyes and try to bite down my smile as I type out a reply before the professor can glare at me for being on my phone. I wouldn't be the only one, but I don't want to insult him more by purposely sitting in the front row and then texting throughout class. Before I can get my response out, though, another text from him pops up.

thanks though storie <3 ngl I drank the water you gave me and threw it up. then again. and again. only 70% dead rn, down from 90! found some anti nausea meds. making me sleepy. gonna nap now. I'll let you know if I wake up

After reading the message, I glance up at the exact moment that the prof looks over at me. Our eyes meet. His drop to my phone in my hand. Red-faced, I slip it back into my pocket and pull up today's slides. When he looks away, I fire off a series of emojis to Gray, and I resign myself to a boring few hours.

• • •

My second class of the day finishes late at twelve fifty-five, giving me just enough time to get to Starbucks and cutting out extra the minutes I have to worry. There's no time to get nervous when I only have a few minutes to get to Starbucks, though I don't try to rush across campus. I'd rather be late than arrive sweating.

No new messages from Gray. I guess his meds knocked him out. I send him a quick one to let him know I'm on my way to see Liam and I make sure my phone's on silent, tucked away in my bag. I can do without it for a couple of hours, even if that means being cut off from Gray while I'm on a date.

I almost walk straight into Liam when we arrive at the same time and he disarms me with a boyish smile. He has a kind of boyish face, round cheeks and full lips, but his body is all man. Today he's wearing surprisingly snug jean shorts and a t-shirt tight enough to show me an outline of his abs, and I scold myself for being so shallow when any figure of mine is buried far below the surface.

"Hey." I get the first word. Liam opens the door.

"Hey, Storie," he says. He runs a hand over his hair, half of it pulled into a ponytail. The rest hangs to his shoulders, a little scruffy. "I was wondering when you were gonna text me. Thought I was gonna have to come to the bookstore to see you again."

"I figured you'd earned my number," I say, still basking in that moment of confidence from this morning. "As long as you don't abuse it."

He holds up his hands, his face sincere when he says, "I wouldn't dream of it."

We join the line, enough tables available that I don't need to save one, and I give in when Liam refuses to let me pay. I don't want to fee like I owe him anything but there's only so much I can protest. He's unfazed when the total is over twenty dollars, and I'm instantly more endeared to him when I see him throw his eight dollars of change in the tip jar.

I hate my brain for questioning whether he's incredibly generous or if money is just no object to him. He could be both, I guess. I prefer to think he's generous: the thought adds a bright splash of color to the picture I'm painting of him in my mind's eye.

"So, I know you have brothers in your frat," I say after a moment of silence as we begin to eat, "but what about your actual family? Just you?"

"Not quite," he says with a half laugh. "I have four actual brothers and a sister."

"Wow. Big family. Are you the oldest?" Another pang of jealousy hits. He has it all.

He shakes his head, lips pressed together. "I'm the second. We're all kind of spread out. Matthew is twenty-four; I'm twenty; Johnny's sixteen; George is twelve; Sam's seven and Daria's three."

"That's a crazy age gap. Are you all full siblings?"

"Yup." He laughs and slurps his coffee, which puts the slightest dent in my attraction. "We get that a lot. Mom was seventeen when she had Matt."

"Oh my God. That's so young," I blurt out, imagining myself with a two-year-old. I can't imagine it, though. I've never spent enough time with kids to know how I'd deal with one.

"Yeah." Liam takes a bite of his sandwich. "What about you? Are you part of a story collection?"

I roll my eyes at his pathetic joke. He'll have to try a lot harder than that to come up with one I haven't heard before. "Just me," I say as I sip my drink. "There are only two people left in the world who I'm related to. Just me, my mom, and my uncle."

"I can't imagine that. I think I'd get lonely," he says. He takes a mammoth bite of his sandwich and shakes his head and when he meets my eye, he gives me the kind of smile that sets my heart on fire. "How was your weekend?"

When I tell him, he's listening. He cares. I stumble over my words when I see that intoxicating smile and he laughs. Not at me. He just laughs.

"You know," he says as I rave about Mitchell's ice cream and get lost in a tangent about the botanical gardens, "you're actually really cute."

He sounds surprised. I should be offended. I think I should, anyway. I'm losing sight of right and wrong, the boundaries blurring with every smile. If he's surprised by that realization, one that I'm not sure I believe, then why ask me out in the first place? But I don't know if that matters, because he thinks it now.

He just called me cute, and I can't control the way my cheeks heat up and redness floods my skin. Liam's smile widens. His foot bumps against mine under the table and scatters my thoughts in all directions, and it's a momentary relief when he excuses himself to the bathroom.

I spent a minute gathering up my thoughts and trying to slot them back into their files before I check my phone. Nothing from Gray still, but there is an email from the professor of my three o'clock class. Today's lecture is cancelled. An extra ninety minutes of my day are suddenly wide open, nothing to do now until work at five

Liam comes back while I'm still reading the email. I notice the slight dampness at his wrists, light catching on a watery sheen, and I know he washed his hands. My standards must be pathetically low for that to impress me.

"Looking for an excuse to get away from me?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.

"My next class was cancelled," I say, flashing him my screen as though half a second is long enough for him to even catch a word.

"Ah. The opposite," he says, draining the last of his Americano. My iced tea is still mostly full. "In that case, d'you wanna come over?" He tilts his head slightly. Today's Liam doesn't intimidate me like Friday's Liam did. I blame it on the alcohol. "You should see the garden in the light."

It's only one thirty. I have no reason to say no. If I don't go with him, I'll have nothing to do for more than three hours. He knows I have no excuse and I don't want one.

"Ok," I say. "Let's go."

• • •

It's a gorgeous day. I can't see a single cloud and the sun's not too powerful, and Liam doesn't walk so fast that I have to strain to keep up with him. He strolls. I like his leisurely pace. He's not rushing this time; he's not begging.

He jumps when our hands brush. His reaction makes me flinch. But as we exchange campus for the leafy street filled with fraternities and sororities, his fingers graze mine again, this time not an accident, and he takes my hand.

I think my blood has turned to popping candy.

For a full five seconds, I'm over the moon. Then the paranoia sets in. What if my hands get sweaty? Do I ignore it? Do I let go? Do I find a way to wipe my palm without looking gross? But it's not so hot that my palms are damp and he's not holding on so tightly that our hands are slipping. In fact, our palms are hardly touching: it's our fingers that are laced together.

This feels like a whole other level.

He wasn't lying on Friday. The garden really is beautiful in the daylight. Where I once saw shadows and uncertainty, I now see luscious trees and a blossoming rose garden. Flowerbeds are planted along the perimeter of the wall in every color and pretty flowers climb trellises up the bricks.

"There's no way you guys do any of this."

"We have a gardener," he explains.

"What kind of frat has a gardener?"

"Only the best," he says, serious now. "And we're the best. There's no beating Theta Chi Theta."

He leads me to the same place we were standing a few days ago when I kissed him. This time, he kisses me. He doesn't force me, but he does nudge me against a tall oak tree and there's a sudden hunger in the way he pushes his tongue into my mouth and his body is pressed against me.

I know he meant it when he called me cute. I can feel it. His hand is warm on my cheek; his tongue is hot and probing; he's stiff against my stomach.

It doesn't repulse me like I thought it might. It doesn't freak me out. If anything, it turns me on to know that he's turned on. But this isn't the time or the place, so I pull away.

"Want to come upstairs?" he asks.

"No."

"No?"

I glance down and quickly up again. He knows exactly what I'm saying no to. "Not with that," I say. I don't know for certain that's what he was implying and I could be humiliating myself with my assumption, but I'd rather make a fool of myself now than give him the impression that I want to have sex.

"That?"

He's playing dumb. I think he wants me to say it. I'm not going to. I just look down at his crotch again and meet his eye. "You can deal with that yourself."

Liam laughs. His cheeks go a little pink. I kind of like that. I'm not sure why. Maybe it just makes me feel like I have control, if I can make him blush. He adjusts himself and lets out a nervous chuckle. I swallow hard. My whole body's burning.

"No funny business," I add.

"No funny business," he says. He checks his watch. "Just a movie."

"Ok." A movie I can do. Ninety minutes of awkwardly sitting next to each other and hoping the other isn't too bored. That'll kill the mood, I hope, if it doesn't make the tension burn harder.

A forest fire is storming through me, spurred on by his touch, and I don't know if I have what it takes to put it out.

• • •