• • •

All I can think about all day is Maggie. Maggie, who I thought was dead. Maggie, who is alive and well. Maggie, who up and left when college stress got to her and returned when she realized the mess she had left behind. Now she's home and safe, and she made a statement apologizing for causing such a panic.

When I'm not thinking about her, I'm thinking about the body. The body that was still found, the body that clearly wasn't Maggie and hasn't been identified as any other missing people Mom's keeping track of. I'm turning into her, refreshing the news between classes and when professors aren't looking and when work gets quiet.

It's been a long ten hours. My shift has felt even longer, though it's only been five hours, and as the clock ticks closer to ten, the second hand seems to slow down until it's barely moving. I swear time has stopped still right before I'm due to go home.

A watched pot never boils, I think, so I turn away from the clock and focus on putting away the books that have been left in the wrong place throughout the day. I feel the air move before I hear Navya's quiet feet behind me. We've been the only ones here for almost an hour. Apparently nine o'clock is the latest people will buy books on a Wednesday.

"Hey," she says, her voice soft. I told her everything, from what happened the night of the party – we haven't closed the store together since before then – to the drama with Maggie's disappearance and reappearance, to everything going on with Liam and Davis and my own mind.

It's a lot. I'm barely managing to hold it together so I feel pretty awful for throwing it all on Navya, but she asked and she was insistent, and there are only so many times I can insist I'm fine before word vomit takes over and I lose sight of my sense.

"Hi, Navya."

"How're you doing?" she asks. She's pretty good at switching from slightly manic and overenthusiastic to nurturing, and it doesn't feel patronizing when she asks me that and puts her hand on my arm.

"I'm ok. Just ready to go home," I say. "It's been a long day."

"I bet. Only quarter of an hour to go, though," she says. "And hey, as much as you've been through today, everything turned out pretty good!" She paints a bright smile on dark lips. "I mean, Liam came good and your friend is ok, right?"

I smile and nod. Maybe I didn't tell her everything. When I started working here, I said that my dad was dead. It was so much easier than explaining the truth and dealing with awkward sympathies, but now I can't talk to anyone but Mom and Gray about him.

I can't tell Navya that yes, I should be happy; yes, today was hard but it was good; yes, Liam likes me as much as I like him. I can't, because all I can think is that if the body wasn't Maggie, then maybe it's my dad.

It's a long shot. He's been gone for more than two years. But from what little has been released, I know the body was found somewhere in Queens, where Dad went missing. Where we used to live. I wish I could banish the thoughts. I wish I could just get on with work without my mind slipping to Dad every five minutes. I wish I could dwell on anything else.

I wish I didn't feel so hopeful.

I despise myself for the optimism that flashed through me when I heard that Maggie was ok. Not because she was fine, but because that meant the body could be my dad. I hate myself for wanting it to be him. The thought of him being gone, permanently, is one that makes my whole body ache; it makes me want to curl up in a ball and wake up in a different life.

But it's also a relief. It's an end to years of wondering. The end of the what-ifs and the maybes. It's a new beginning. If Dad really is gone, if Mom knows for sure, she can move on. She can be with Tad. My mind is torn, an unimaginable Sophie's choice. I'd give anything to have my dad back, but I'd give anything for Mom to be happy again.

A much quieter voice whispers that if Maggie's ok, maybe Dad is too. But Maggie ran away. Dad never would have done that.

"I'm ok," I say, and only realize once the words are out that Navya didn't ask. But she doesn't point it out. She just gives me a hug and nods at the door.

"I'm going to lock up," she says, and she glances up at the clock that has been torturing me. "I think that needs new batteries."

I follow her gaze. The clock is still saying it's nine fifty-eight. I have to laugh at that, even if it's the last thing I feel like doing. Time wasn't slowing down. The clock's just broken.

Approximately five seconds after Navya has locked the door, there's a knock on the glass. I'm about to apologize to whoever is too late to grab a book until I spot Gray waving at me through the window and I let him in. He's not technically allowed to be here, but it's hard to give a crap what Rich says.

"Navya? D'you reckon it's ok if Gray hangs out until we close?" I ask, and I can see the struggle in her eyes between the rules and her crush.

"Sure thing," she says after a moment, giving in with a grin. "Let him in. If Rich bothers to check the cameras, then ... well, he can suck it."

I let Gray in, with a gust of rainy wind, and lock up again behind him. The storm faded after a couple hours but it's been raining ever since. I'm not looking forward to driving home in the dark, but at least I'll have Gray by my side, and he finished the book he was reading earlier.

"Hey, Graham," Navya says with a sweet smile. He smiles back and rakes a hand through his hair. He does that when he's nervous.

"Hi, Navya. It's, uh, it's just Gray," he says, and I'm not sure I can bear to watch their awkward flirting so I leave the two of them to get to know each other and I balance a box of homeless books against my hip, heading off to find where they're supposed to go.

Blocking out their words, I focus on the books in the box, sorting them by genre before I head off to slot the authors back where they belong. The routine helps. I love routines, and book-sorting is one of my favorites. It may be a bit tedious and I know Navya hates it, but I like knowing exactly what I have to do. I can't screw it up: every book has a place.

Before I know it, Navya calls my name and when I reappear by the counter, she has her coat on, her umbrella in her hand. Gray's eyes are on her as she punches out; he switches his gaze to me when I follow suit, setting the alarm and switching off half the lights.

Gray waves when we part ways with Navya and he grins when he turns back to me and says, "She's really nice."

"Come on, Gray. You surround yourself with words and all you can say is that she's nice?" I roll my eyes at him, thankful for the distraction. I'd rather spend the ride home talking about him and Navya than Maggie or my dad.

"Ok, well," he says as we get into the car, "I think she's beautiful and cute and she seems really sweet, but I haven't spent enough time with her to form a proper opinion about anything more than a first impression, which is mostly physical."

"That's why you should ask her out," I say, nudging him. I slam my door and jam the key in the ignition and jump out of my skin when a shadow blocks my window and there's a knock on the glass. My immediate thought is always that I'm going to die, and I'm scared to look.

"Storie. It's me." Liam's voice is muffled through the glass, and my fear dissipates when I see his smiling face through the speckles of rain. The rain won't give in. It's driving me crazy, and I hope it won't make my driving too crazy.

I roll down the window and his smile comes into focus, as wet as I was when I turned up on his doorstep this morning. It looks like he ran over here, his face red and his hair has been flattened by the rain.

"Hey. What're you doing here?"

"I wanted to catch you before you went home," he says.

"We're leaving now; you just made it." My hands are still on the wheel. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. Should I invite him to get in the car? I could drive him back to his house, I guess, but I'm confused. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just..." He holds out a bag. "One of the brothers had a birthday and the cake was really good. Thought you might like a piece." He looks a little embarrassed as he passes it to me.

"You came over to give me cake?"

"... and I wanted to check if you still want to come over on Friday?"

I laugh and shake my head at him. "If you wanted an excuse to come and ask, you could've just brought my clothes," I say, and a moment of surprise crosses his face before he laughs too.

"I totally forgot," he says, apparently not bothered by the rain streaking down his face. "Your stuff's been on the radiator all day – it'll be really warm now." He's still holding out the cake that I haven't taken yet. "It's really good, I promise."

"Thanks, Liam." I pass the bag to Gray, who sets it at his feet. Liam gives him a nod and a semi-smile.

"So, are you still up for Friday?" he asks. "No pressure. And no funny business. Just a date." He leans against the door, arms crossed in the window. "You, me, dinner? And maybe a bit of Netflix"

I nod. "Perfect."

"Awesome." He grins and ducks his head through the open window to kiss me, his nose pressing into my cheek. I don't care that he's getting me wet, rain dripping down his face and off the end of his nose. He smiles when he pulls away. "I'm really sorry about everything," he murmurs. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"It's ok," I say. "We're ok."

"See you Friday."

"See you then," I say. He kisses me again and leaves before I can offer him a ride home. He jogs off in the rain until I can't see him anymore, and only then do I pull out of my space outside the bookstore.

"He seems like a good guy," Gray says. "He just made an asshole mistake."

"Yeah." I smile. I feel good and Gray's approval makes me feel even better.

"He's hot, too."

"Right? And I feel great about him," I say as I head out into the rain, my wipers furiously slashing the windscreen. "I know he did one thing that made me feel pretty horrible but he didn't mean to and he was really sincere when he apologized. I kind of felt bad for him."

"No!" Gray cries out as I pull up to a red light, the rain making the colour bleed like a splatter from a gunshot. "Storie. That's awful. You shouldn't feel bad." He glares at me, his eyes hard. "He's a nice guy and I'm thrilled you two are together, but he still did a crappy thing and you shouldn't feel bad for him."

"I know."

"Good. Because, you know, when someone hurts you, it's your decision whether or not you forgive them. You don't have to."

"I know, Gray. I have to go with my instincts and my instincts are that I really like him and I'm excited for our date, and I don't want to keep overthinking one little thing. It happened; we talked it through; it's done. I forgave him because I wanted to."

"Ok," he says, and I catch his smile out of the corner of my eye. "Sounds good to me." He punctuates the conversation when he reaches down for the cake and takes a box out of the bag. "This looks really good."

I glance across. It does look really good, and it looks really familiar. Leftover birthday cake doesn't come in a take-out box, and I recognize the whorls of chocolate icing. It's from the dessert place Liam took me to the other day. He went out and got this for me.

Gray scoops off a pinch of icing and cake and licks his finger with a moan. "Damn, that's good cake. Keep him around if you get this every time he feels a bit bad. Make him feel bad," he says. "Have this as your wedding cake."

I don't bother to point out that it's from the same place we went to yesterday, where we sought solace from the flood. I'll just buy him a piece tomorrow.

"I think you'll find Liam gave that to me," I say. "If anyone deserves comfort food today, it's me."

"This will comfort you alright," he says, shutting the box and wrapping it in the bag. "Save it for a crappy day."

"If this doesn't qualify as a crappy day, I don't know what does."

I can feel Gray's eyes on me, watching me as he figures out what to say. A few seconds pass.

"I think, in the end, it was a good day," he says. "You cleared things up with Liam; Maggie's ok, and you got cake."

"Maggie's ok, but someone isn't."

He goes quiet, as though he's not next to me anymore. "Oh," he says at last. The single syllable sounds pained. "Oh, Storie. You think the body they found is your dad?"

I don't look at him until traffic slows. My lips are pressed together so tightly it hurts, but it's easier to deal with a physical pain than the emotional toil that comes when I say, "I think I need it to be."

• • •

When we get back, a tired Gray braves the rain to run to his house and I drag my weary body home. I head towards the light in the living room, where I find Mom and Tad watching TV. They're cozied up next to each other on the sofa like a couple. Like Mom and Dad used to sit together. I swallow the lump that jumps to my throat. Mom needs this.

"Hey," I say, letting my bag drop to the floor with a damp thud. Tad stands when I come in.

"Hi, Storie. Did Gray straight home?"

"Mmhmm. We're pretty tired," I say with a yawn.

"I'll bet," he says. "I should head back. Night, Storie. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Night, Tad," I say. He squeezes my shoulder when he passes me. Mom follows him to the door and I don't intrude on their goodbye. It's nearly eleven thirty and I'm totally drained, so I drop onto the sofa and put my feet up, taking a moment to unwind before I crash in my bed.

Mom comes back after a few minutes and sits down next to me with a smile. She tucks her hair behind her ears and pulls me close, kissing my temple and stroking my hair. All the crap from today washes away when I can feel her contentedness radiating off her.

"How are you, honey?" she asks, her words a murmur close to my ear as she plays with my hair.

"I'm ok. It's been a really long day."

"I know," she says, her hand dropping to stroke my shoulder. "Did you hear about Maggie?"

"Mmm."

"Thank goodness she's ok," Mom says. "Her poor family must've been waiting for the worst. I'm so glad everything's ok."

"Me too." I don't voice my thoughts. I don't want to ruin this serenity. Mom's in a good place. "How was your day?"

"It was good," she says, her voice soft. "A lot better once I heard Maggie was ok. Tad came over with a Chinese takeout. There are some leftovers in the fridge if you want, honey."

The way she's stroking my arm feels like a lullaby and her body is warm, tucked against me like she's a sleep child. I could fall asleep right here, my eyelids beginning to droop, but then Mom sits up and my side goes cold.

"Look what I found today." She leans across the coffee table to a flimsy folder and pulls out a handful of photographs. "I lost these when we were unpacking. I thought I must have left them in our old apartment but there was a box of things I never got to." She nestles against me again, holding the photos in front of us.

The first makes my heart seize. It's my whole family, the day I was born. Mom's sitting in a hospital bed with me in her arms and Dad's standing next to her, his arm around her shoulders and the biggest grin on his face; Kris is sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes on me rather than the camera, and there's a birthday badge on his chest.

"Kris was a bit annoyed with you," Mom says with a quiet laugh. "You were six days late and he thought you waited just so you could spoil his birthday." She taps his face, her thumb resting over Dad's heart. "I remember when the nurse took that photo for us. Kris had just told me that he had changed his mind and he decided you were late so you could be the best birthday present."

I haven't seen this picture for years. I've heard the story before, but it feels fresh each time I hear it. I could listen to Mom narrate her memories through pictures all night.

"I worked right up until we shut the store," she says, "and you came along a few hours later. Your dad was getting so stressed that you'd be born at home but I wanted to finish the day."

It may not be the world's best photo – I'm a wailing newborn; Kris isn't facing the camera; Mom looks like she's barely hanging on and Dad is crying – but I think it might be my favourite. There aren't many of the four of us when either Mom or Dad was always behind the camera.

Mom shuffles through the pictures, several of Kris and me when I was a baby and he was a doting big brother. There's no order to the photographs – I'm in middle school in some of them; some are from before I was born. Mom passes me the photos as she sorts through them, but there's one she can't let go of.

"One of our first real dates," she says, showing me the photo that shows my parents in the nineties, years before they married. Dad is tall and slim, dark and swarthy against Mom's pale skin and blonde hair. They're standing with their arms around each other's waists, smiling as a stranger snaps their photograph.

"You look so young," I say as I stare at the photo. Mom looks like a sorority girl, young and beautiful with her hair much longer than I've ever known her to wear it, and Dad looks like an Italian model with his black curls and oversized shirt half tucked into his pants.

"Mmm. I was nineteen, nearly twenty," she says. "Same age as you. Your dad was twenty-one. We'd known each other for a year or so and your dad's parents looked after Kris so we could have a proper date."

It's so weird to think of my parents as being my age, a couple of kids navigating love. They look so in love in the photo. Mom is doe-eyed and pink-cheeked; Dad looks like he just won the lotto.

"This," Mom says, trailing off with a sigh and a smile. "This is when I knew I'd marry your dad. See that pier?" She points to a brown blob in the far distance of the picture.

"Yeah?"

"That's where he proposed twenty minutes after this picture. It was like he read my mind."

"I love this," I say, taking the picture from her. They look like a perfect couple. Every version of them I ever knew looked like a perfect couple.

"The other end of the spectrum," she says, passing me a much more recent photo. It must only be a few years old: Dad is graying at the temples and Mom is a few sizes bigger, a candid of the two of them working in the store. Until Dad disappeared, she was a comfortable eight to ten, but she lost a whole bunch of weight in just a few months and it never came back.

Now she's a four, sometimes even a two. For a while, I was scared that she had developed an eating disorder, but she was just as freaked out when the pounds started dropping. Like everything else, the doctors put it down to stress, and they lost interest.

"Anyway," Mom says quietly, shuffling the pictures until she finds one of Kris and me that makes her beam. It's his high school graduation and he's giving me a piggyback, grinning for the camera with his cap in one hand even though it looks like I'm choking him.

It's way after midnight by the time we've looked through all of the pictures and while I'm yawning non-stop, Mom is virtually asleep against me, sleepily sifting through the pictures until she forces herself to her feet.

"Time for bed," she says, wrapping her arms around me like a blanket. "Sleep well, honey."

"You too, Mom."