"Your mom did what?" Tristan stumbles back a few steps, shock clear on his face at what I just blurted out.

"Oh God, I don't even know why I said that!" I rush through my explanation. "It has nothing to do with your kissing skills, I swear. You're a great kisser and I'm flattered you find me attractive. I just have so many emotions that I've held back on releasing and I guess that was the first thing to pop out. I am so sorry! Let's not make this a huge deal!"

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, choosing to ignore my flustered state. He sits on his bed, patting the space next to him. I take a seat and let out a long, heavy sigh. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I know we're not exactly friends and Nicole would probably be a better person to lay all your stuff on."

"I do want to talk," I finally say. "And yeah, we're definitely not friends. Friends do not kiss their friends like that." I manage to smile a little at him.

"Okay, enough with that!" he chuckles a little bit, but there's still a sadness in his eyes. Sadness for me.

"So, like I said" I begin. "My mom murdered my dad."

"Hey, kids!" Helena pushes the door slightly more open, poking her head in. "Just wanted to check on how the homework was going."

"It's fine, mom," Tristan replies, rolling his eyes and running a hand through his hair. "Can you please leave us alone?" Helena smiles and leaves us, but not before opening the door wider. "Sorry, about that. Please continue," he encourages.

"Right, so we were a happy family. Totally normal. Around the time I turned eleven, my mom started having really bad mood swings. Long story short, she was diagnosed as bipolar and schizophrenic. She had a family history of mental illnesses, but I guess it had skipped a couple of generations or her relatives that had them were treated earlier than she was," I pause, looking at Tristan. He is intently listening, his hand placed over mine in support. I hadn't even noticed. "Things got better, but she started getting sloppy with taking her medication. She..."

"We can stop talking about this if you need to," he says, rubbing his thumb over my pink in a comforting way.

"No, it's okay. I need to talk to someone about this just to get it out," I reassure him, sliding my hand begrudgingly out from under his to swipe at a rogue tear that escaped. "I can't believe that the first time we're actually talking and getting along and being friendly is being ruined by this."

"It's not ruining it, just keep going."

"Okay. So, my mom stopped taking her meds regularly. She was having really bad days. But also really good ones. It was just hard to tell each morning what kind of day it was going to be. My dad tried his best to support her and make sure she had everything she needed. Despite blatantly not taking care of herself, my dad still loved my mom. He was good like that. Fast forward to this past May, my mom was having a manic episode which tended to increase the frequency of her personality splits. She was arguing with my dad and he was trying to do his best to calm her down... and then she did it. She pulled a gun, shot him first and then herself. There was so much blood..."

"You found their bodies?" Tristan puts his arm around my shoulder, hugging me to his side. The spicy smell of him calms me down a little bit, just enough to get through this last part.

"I was there when the whole thing happened. I decided to skip my last few classes of the day to spend time with my mom. She seemed really good that morning, happy even. I was in the kitchen looking for a snack in the pantry when the yelling started. They didn't even know I was there."

I'm full on sobbing into Tristan's shoulder. I was right, his sweater is soft. I cry even more. I cry for the loss of my mom. My dad. My life back home. I cry for Aunt Clara and Uncle Luke, my two saviors. I cry for Nicole and Nate, my two best friends who don't know this part of me. I cry for Tristan for having to hear about this.

"Hey, it's okay," Tristan whispers, hugging me tighter. "You're safe now."

The two of us just sit on his bed, him comforting me until my eyes run dry and my sobbing stops. I have no idea how long we have been like this. I don't care. I sit up and rub my eyes, my hands coming back with smudged mascara on them. My body feels heavy and weak at the loss of Tristan's shoulder supporting me.

"I'm sorry I just unloaded all of that stuff on you," I say quietly. I'm afraid to look him in the eyes now.

"I'm just glad you feel like you can trust me enough to confide in me," he says, equally as quietly. "You probably shouldn't have this much trust in your neighbor that you barely know and who has peeked inside your room through his window."

I gently smack his upper arm with my mascara covered hand. "I knew you looked into my room!"

"Only once or twice out of curiosity," he says with some humor in his voice. His eyes are sparkling green again. "But seriously, if you ever feel like you need to tell someone something, I'm here. Your secrets are safe with me. I promise."

"Thanks, Tristan," I say, leaning my head back onto his shoulder. "Do you want to eat pie now?"

"Absolutely," he says, reaching for our plates of dessert. We eat in silence on his bed, stealing glances at each other until Aunt Clara calls for me.

Tristan Johnson. Resident mystery man. Excellent kisser. Even more excellent listener.