• • •

I'm woken up by the sound of a smash that yanks me from a dream. It takes a minute for it to sink in, the seconds ticking by before I realize that it came from downstairs rather than my imagination. Silence follows and it takes my disoriented brain a moment to latch onto the unusual quiet.

When Mom breaks something, it's usually followed by the sound of her cursing then the clatter of a broom. But there's nothing, and a few minutes pass before I pull myself together enough to race downstairs. I expect the worst. I always do. Mom face down in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by smashed glass. A burglar with a gun, holding her hostage. Any number of horrendous situations

But when I get to the kitchen, I see her looking a little dazed with a dustpan in her hand, sweeping up ceramic shards. Her eyes are wet, her cheeks white. I don't need any more evidence than that.

"Mom." I grab the dustpan from her. "You fainted?"

"I'm fine, honey. I just dropped the mug," she says, but I know the signs. I've lived with them for as long as she has.

"You fainted," I say. "Sit down, Mom." I have to force her to sit down at the kitchen table and it's only then that I notice a bloody shard of white ceramic in the pan, a diagonal gash across Mom's arm. "Oh my God."

"I'm fine, Storie, I promise," she says, but that's an empty promise. My whole body is flushing hot and cold with panic, my brain whirring too fast.

"You passed out, Mom!"

"Only for a minute."

"You cut yourself." When I take her arm, she winces and clamps her hand over the wound. A trail of blood snakes down to her wrist until I hold her hand up above her head and wrap a dishcloth around the cut. "Just hold on a sec."

I know we have a first aid kit upstairs somewhere and a burst of adrenaline pushes me to run up the stairs and grab it from the bathroom. When I get back, her shoulders are shaking and one hand is covering her face, and she doesn't say anything as I clean up the cut and tape it, using a few bandaids to cover it.

"Listen to Kris. And me. You need to go to the Cleveland Clinic, Mom," I say, trying to stay calm as I patch her up. The roles are reversed and we both hate it. "This isn't right. You could've hurt yourself way worse. It's not ok."

"I know," she murmurs. "I made an appointment."

"You did?"

She nods. "I'm going on Friday."

"You are? How? I have class on Friday." A new flicker of panic rushes through me. I hate hospitals. I've taken her to so many and I can't stand the smell, the sounds, the sickness. I hate watching her have her blood taken, waiting outside as doctors run tests that they don't believe in. They always tell her it's no big deal, that she's just stressed, and they have no problem bleeding her insurance dry.

"Tad has the day off," she says. "He's going to take me." She blinks a few times and gives me a smile. "I'm going to be fine, honey. It's probably just a build-up of stress."

"About Dad?"

She nods. It's not often she gives such a straight answer when it comes to this, or to Dad. Maybe I've just not been asking the right questions. She always just says it's stress: the doctors have got in her head, telling her she just needs to take it easy. But we have been taking it easy and it's still happening, and she can't afford the thousands in copayments each time she has to go back to hospital.

"But I'm working on it," she says. "I'm ok. It's just a blip. We're in a good place right now. Right?"

"Right."

"I'm going to be ok, honey. Five millionth time lucky." She crosses her fingers and smiles.

She must have given in and let Kris pay, else she couldn't afford another visit. There's a reason she hasn't been to the hospital in almost a year. I wish I could help, but I just about make two hundred bucks a week and a lot goes on gas, even when Gray pays half each time I fill the tank.

"Exactly. This time will be different," I say, the words I know she needs to hear – words we both need to believe, even though I'm struggling. "I'm here. And you've got Tad."

She nods and dries her eyes, pushes her hair back and lets out a sigh. "I'm so sorry, honey."

"It's ok, Mom. It's not your fault. They're gonna get to the bottom of this and you're gonna be fine."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and sitting up straight, and I know she's feeling better. There's always a moment of emotion and uncertainty after she faints, but she always comes back to normal after a few minutes. Sometimes she'll go lie down but today she stands and kisses my head, her hands on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry I scared you, bogárkám," she says, brushing my hair off my face. "Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. College is good; life is good. Things are going really well," I say, a genuine smile making its way onto my lips. Mom fetches herself a new mug and fills it with coffee and sits next to me again.

"I've noticed how much happier you've seemed recently," she says, and she quietly laughs when she adds, "Whatever you're taking, I want some. How do you do it?"

"I'm just happy," I say. "This is our fresh start and it worked. I needed to move on and I did. We did." I meet her eye and give her a smile, and I see the yearning in her eyes. She's not joking. She wants advice. Taking a deep breath, I say, "I guess I figured out that I can miss Dad and still be happy."

She nods slowly, holding her mug in front of her mouth. "I wish it was as easy as you make it sound, honey. I'm so glad you're doing so well."

"You can too. You just have to take that step," I say. I feel like now, of all the times, I have a chance to get through to her. "Dad's gone and it sucks, but he's not coming back, Mom, and we can be ok. We've made it two years; we can make it another two years, then ten, twenty ... forever."

She doesn't cry. I think this is the first time I've said something like that and she hasn't cried, and I feel a bud of hope sprouting in my heart.

"I want you to be happy, Mom," I say, speaking a little slower and choosing my words a little more carefully. "I know you're happy when you're with Tad. He's a really great guy."

"He's a wonderful man," she says, and she gives me a watery smile. One hand is a fist over her heart. "I just ... I feel guilty."

Suddenly it makes sense.

I sit back and I see her in a whole new light, as though there has been a storm in my brain for months and only now is the dust beginning to settle. It's not that Mom isn't moving on: it's that she feels bad because she is. My mouth hangs open for a moment before I figure out how to shut it, staring at her as she watches her coffee swirl.

"You really do like Tad, don't you?"

She presses her lips together in a thin line and bobs her head, and her eyes are wet when she looks up at me again. "I love your father, Storie. I have loved him since I was nineteen, and I will always love him. He was my best friend."

The past tense strikes me like a bullet, a sudden sharp pain that tears through me so fast it takes my breath away.

"I would give my soul to know what happened," she says, her voice getting quieter. "The not knowing kills me, but you're right. We have made it this far and I couldn't have done it without you, bogárkám."

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you more," she says, squeezing my hand.

"Do you love Tad?"

For a moment, she says nothing. Silence reigns until she breaks it with a deep breath, filling her lungs for a long few seconds. "I know it's too soon," she begins, and I shake my head.

"It isn't." It's been two years. We've lived here for four months. She and Tad have spent almost every day together, from a snatched few minutes of breakfast to dinner that stretches on for hours. I know he has sat with her unconscious body more times than she'll admit to fainting while I'm away. "It's ok if you love him, Mom."

She sets down her coffee, tucks her hair behind her ears and rests her hands on the table. "I think I do."

I don't want to cry but this feels like a turning point in our lives and I can't help welling up. When I throw my arms around her, she sinks against me like a deflated balloon, as though all the tension has fled her body. After a few moments, her strength returns and she grips me tightly, and I wish I could frame this moment.

Mom only pulls away when we hear voices outside and look up to see Tad and Gray heading towards the back door, and she doesn't try to hide the light in her eyes. When she opens the door, she takes Tad by surprise with a hug. He laughs and hugs her back, and Gray's eyes linger on them before he looks to me. I just smile. After a moment, when he catches on, he smiles too.

• • •

"On a scale of one to eighteen, how likely am I to fail this stupid classics class?" Gray shakes his head as we take a seat in Starbucks after a tedious and kind of depressing class. He tucks his card back into his wallet – he almost always pays for both of us, making the most of the allowance his mom sends each month in lieu of actually visiting him – and groans when he flops over the table.

"One," I say. "You're not going to fail. You're a literary genius."

He shakes his head, pouting. "I can tell you anything and everything about YA releases from 2013 until the middle of next year, but I know nothing about the classics."

"Technically," I say, "I'm not sure we even have to pass. It just depends what kind of GPA you want."

He grimaces. "Well, considering the amount my mom sends me is based on my grades, the higher the better." He points at the ceiling. "I want to keep my two hundred a month, so I gotta keep my 4.0."

"She actually does that?"

He nods. "Five bucks per tenth of a point," he says. "I took all AP classes in high school and managed to get a 5.0 in all of them. I won't lie, the extra cash was a major incentive." He slowly straightens his back and crosses his arms on the table. "She keeps a closer eye on my grades than me. Haven't seen her in three years but my bank gets a boost each month."

"Wow. That's really sad, Gray. Doesn't that bother you?" I can't imagine having such a broken relationship with my mom. It's impossible to think about when we've always been close: my brain won't even entertain the idea of her walking out and keeping in touch via money only.

"We were never close," he says, "and it's been nearly a decade since she left. It's a totally different life."

"That sucks."

"It's fine," he says, and he smiles. "Dad alone is better than most people's parents combined. And by the looks of it, there might be a stepparent on the horizon." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Never thought I'd get a big sister."

I laugh and kick him under the table. "I doubt they're about to get married," I say, rolling my eyes at him. The entire ninety-minute drive to college was spent talking about our parents after I told him what Mom told me.

"I don't know, Storie," he says conspiratorially. "I've seen my dad in love. He was crazy about Mom, even after she left. Let me tell you this: he's in love with your mom. He's not a subtle man. I think it's the real deal. I just wasn't sure your mom was ready."

"Neither was I. She surprised me," I say, stealing a sip of his drink. Whenever something new comes out, he'll buy it. Some kind of iced tea. Not bad, but I prefer my chocolate Frappuccino. "But I don't know about marriage. Mom's just figuring out how to move on. I don't think she'll ever be fully there if she doesn't know what happened to Dad."

Gray sighs. "I know," he murmurs. He crosses his fingers. "Here's hoping."

We fall into a moment of contemplative silence. It doesn't last long before Gray fills it with a gasp, slapping his hands down on the table.

"Astoria Sovany!" he cries out, startling me. I almost knock over my drink at the loud and sudden first name treatment.

"Jesus, Gray! What?"

"You never told me about your date!" His voice is loud, filling the entire store, and he only reels himself in when I grab him by the wrist and pull him back to the table.

"Shush! God, you're so loud."

"I can't believe you haven't told me. There I was, throwing my guts up and worrying about making you go alone and you haven't even told me how it went. How was it?"

"It was good," I say, and I can't help the smile that spreads at the memory of yesterday. There's still a slight hint of shame, just the slightest embarrassment about how I spent my afternoon. "We came here, got a drink and a sandwich."

Gray points at my face, his finger an inch from my nose. "That's not the smile of someone who just got a drink. Oh my God. Storie. What did you do?"

"Well, my three o'clock class was cancelled," I begin, and I can't finish because he gasps again. I've never met anyone as dramatic as Gray and I'd laugh if my cheeks weren't burning so much, getting hotter with every second that passes.

"Holy shi- Storie."

"I haven't finished yet. Stop jumping to conclusions." I wag my finger at him and push my hair behind my ears, which also seem to be burning up. "He asked if I wanted to back to his and watch a film."

"That's an obvious line. Did you really fall for that?"

"I knew it was a line," I say, not quite ready to admit that I fell for it anyway. I'm not sure if it's better or worse that I knew how it would end and I went through with it all the same. "We walked to the frat house and he showed me the garden – a lot nicer in the day – and we made out. He asked me upstairs and I said no funny business."

He leans back in his seat. "That's strong," he says. "If a cute guy I liked asked me up to his room, I'm not sure I could resist the funny business." He swirls his straw in his drink. "You're very strong."

I shift in my seat. "Well."

He meets my gaze. His eyes widen. "Oh my God. You had sex?"

"No." But my face is on fire and he knows there's more, and I can't hide anything from Gray. After nearly twenty years of keeping everything to myself, no-one to share my inner ramblings with, he now knows every secret, from the tiniest embarrassments to the most shameful moments that hang over my head.

"Spit it out," he says, then he cocks his head. "Or did you swallow?"

"Jesus, Gray. I didn't do that."

Staring at me, he lifts both hands and flexes his fingers, raising his eyebrows at me. I nod. He grins so wide it looks painful.

"Wow," he says. "Nice. Get it, girl. Unless it was just a one-sided thing."

"It was two-sided," I say, and I lower my voice to hardly more than a whisper to recount the afternoon to him. He listens, enrapt, as I give him enough detail to stop him from begging me for more. I can feel his unasked questions buzzing in the air between us, so I tell him as much as I can bear to share out loud.

"This Storie got her happy ending, I guess," he says, and I can't help but laugh.

"You could say that."

"So, are you two a thing now? Like, officially?"

"We're officially dating." I hold my drink in both hands and pull my foot under my knee, sinking into the comfortable armchair.

"But you're not his girlfriend."

"No."

"If he asked you, would you want to be?"

"Yes."

"No hesitation," Gray says. "You really like him, huh?"

"I do," I say nodding. "I had all these doubts and fears and yesterday, they could have all come true but he got rid of all of them. It was really good. I really like him, yeah."

"Good for you," he says with a soft smile. "Get it, girl. I totally understand why you were nervous and it's probably smart to be cautious, but the only thing holding you back is you."

It feels good to agree with him. It feels good to smile when I think of Liam, to be rid of the paranoia that has plagued me since the day we met. I grin at Gray when I say, "I'm not holding back anymore."

"Good. You don't deserve it," he says, and any other words are cut off when a familiar face pops up, a perky girl bouncing over to our table. The Phi Phi Nu girl who liked my hair at the party, the one I've seen around a few times.

"Hey!" She beams and hovers by our table. "Storie, right?"

"That's me," I smile I pray that she'll introduce herself. I'm good with names – once I know a name, I won't forget it, but she has never told me hers.

"I'm Annika," she says, waving and grinning. She's pretty in an adorable way, short and slim with a young face, her mousy blonde hair pulled up in an effortless ponytail. I like that it really looks like she made no effort.

"I remember you from the party," I say, and Annika grins even more. She looks like she's jumped straight out of the Disney channel, her bright backpack hanging off one shoulder and a couple of textbooks clutched in her arm, a colorful iced tea in her hand.

"Yes! That was an awesome night," she says. "You're with Liam, right? You two are dating?"

I don't know if it's public information yet. I don't know if Liam has told anyone, but I've only told Gray so if Annika thinks we're dating, it must have come from him. I'm not sure what to think, until the less critical part of my brain tells me I'm overthinking. I smile at Annika and nod. "Yeah, we are," I say. "How'd you know?"

"Liam's my boyfriend's roommate," she says, still wearing that sunny smile. "That's so awesome you guys are dating! We should all hang out sometime!"

"Yeah," I say, forcing a smile. That weird feeling is back, creeping up on me. Annika's dating Liam's roommate and she knows that I'm dating Liam, so I guess he told his roommate at some point in the past twenty-four hours. Less, even. But the only time he's mentioned his roommate to me was that weird text yesterday.

"You ok?" Annika asks. I hate myself for my inability to hide what I'm thinking from my face. It's painfully obvious when I'm confused or uncomfortable, and she looks genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, yeah. Liam just hasn't really talked about his roommate," I say. "I figured they didn't get on."

Annika laughs and shrugs. "They're kind of on and off," she says. "Sometimes they're like brothers, sometimes they're hardly talking. Well, like brothers, I guess. I gotta run, but we should totally grab a coffee sometime." She hardly gives me time to respond when she waves and disappears with a spring in her step.

"Is that weird?" I ask Gray when Annika's out of sight. He shrugs.

"I dunno," he says. "I don't think so."

"If they don't get on, why would Liam tell him that we're dating?"

Gray shrugs again. "Maybe they're getting on at the moment?"

"Then why was he so weird about a text from his roommate yesterday?" I want to banish the niggle of doubt but it's burrowing itself deeper and deeper.

"I don't know. Ask him?"

Past Storie would have brushed off the suggestion but recently, the more I speak my mind the better I've felt, knowing it's up to me how a conversation goes. If there's something on my mind, I have the power to speak up. It's so simple, but it has never felt easy before. It's not easy now, but I type a text to Liam.

hey. everything ok with your roommate yesterday?

A shiver of pride and nervousness skids through me when I hit send. It's not much. It's hardly anything, to be honest, but it feels so good to take charge and address the infuriating doubt that wants to take over my mind.