“So…” I say, being unhelpful, then sigh at my antics. How old am I again? In my defense, there are full-grown men out there acting like idiots, and no one gives them any flak.

  “What did you want to talk about?”

  There’s a myriad of topics that we can discuss, at how comfortable I feel with Brody, even after all this time. There’s nothing to prove with him—he knows me.

  He knows what I look like when I’ve bawled my eyes out, and even though the subject matter at what I cry over nowadays has changed—the fluff scenes in my favorite romance novels and rom-coms versus what used to be stressing me out about school and my utter hatred for everything having to do with physics, my face will look the same.

  Brody knows what I look like without a lick of makeup on, he knows what my bedhead looks like.

  It’s like we’ve skipped the hot and heavy portion of a relationship and moved straight to sweet and domestic, which is my favorite part in any romance story or movie.

  I live for those moments where the main couple just have quiet moments at home or have spent the night out with family or friends, and end up coming back to each other at night, heaving a deep sigh of relief that the other person is there, just there.

  I didn’t know I felt so lonely until those moments would move me to tears, and then I just buckled down and thought of something productive—school, work, some more work and school shit, and dealing with my parents and my family and work colleagues, and I know, I know I don’t need a guy to come home to, but t—it would be really… really nice.

  And it would be a lot nicer if that man was Brody. I know that much, I can admit that much to myself, anyway. But this is still a bad idea.

  Brody went off to find his future in another country, and that’s fine and dandy, but I don’t want history to repeat itself twice. I don’t want to be a fool again.

  I don’t.

  My heart starts beating erratically in my chest, and my brain makes the smart decision and commands me to take a sip of hot, scalding coffee since that is definitely what you need—caffeine when you’re having some kind of heart palpitations.

  Brody drums his fingers along his paper cup, right above the giant maple leaf in the middle. “I want to talk about yesterday. About that kiss. About what it meant, because I have a feeling that it means something different for me than it does for you.” His steely eyes pin me to the spot, and I’m having a hard time breathing. Which, of course, is the right time to take another scalding sip of coffee, hot enough to burn my esophagus right through.

  “I didn’t think you were going to choke, Jesus Christ,” Brody says, half off his seat, about to come to my side of the table and save me from my own damn self.

  Hasn’t he kind of been doing that since he got back home? Making you realize how much you’ve changed, and for the worse?

  God, Amber, how many interventions does one person need? How many?

  As many as it takes, I guess.

  I keep coughing into my hands until whatever liquid that was lodged in my throat disappears and I can breathe easier again.

  “Yeah, well, what did you expect me to do? Get on my knees and thank you for wanting to talk about it?” I slap at my own chest, and frown when I start to sound hollow.

  Dramatic much, Amber?

  Dramatic is my middle name, in another lifetime, maybe. In this one, that’s Max’s job and she does it so well.

  “You heard me.”

  I did, I did hear him, I’m just double-checking, triple-checking. Brody Kane is in my cute house, in my kitchen, sitting across from me.

  As opposed to what?

  “Look,” I say, ignoring the burn in my cheeks. “I don’t know if this is a good idea…” I start, planning on going the route where I end this, once and for all, and before brunch, too. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest, and I try to pretend like it doesn’t exist, that I don’t have a heart to hurt.

  I open my mouth only to close it again, searching for the right words.

  Brody tilts his head at me, like an inquisitive puppy. “Why can’t we talk about it?” He’s asking a question, there’s no hint of anger underlying the words and it lets me relax against the chair I’m sitting in, hiking up my foot onto the seat and hugging my knee.

  What if you leave again? What then?

  I was so heartbroken before, what do you think is going to happen to me now that I’m this messed up?

  Why are you making me hope for more, Brody Kane, when it was so easy for you to leave the first time, follow all your hopes and dreams without even thinking about me?

  Why are you making me hope? Why?

  That’s cruel, even for you.

  “I just don’t want to. Drop it, okay?”

  He frowns at me, questioning. “But you still want to go to your parents’ today?”

  I nod slowly. I’m not getting out of it, I know. It’s like I can survive going by myself—the amount of berating I would get.

  “I take the easy road when I can. I’m tired of struggling.” Jesus, Amber, what do you really have to complain about, huh? Not much. Suck it up, buttercup.

  “And therefore, sure, let’s pretend everything’s just fine between us.” I shrug, even though I want to down my kindly gifted coffee and make a run for it upstairs, lock myself in my bedroom and just yell through the door at him to leave.

  “Amber…” he sighs, rubbing a hand along his eyes and forehead, like he’s already got a brewing headache. I think I’m the brewing headache.

  “Yeah?” I say around a mouthful of coffee, nearly drowning in the process. Yikes, not doing that again.

  It’s not odd at all, seeing him in my kitchen, looking like he’s a part of it all, like he fits right in. Like when I bought this house, some part of me could imagine him in it, waiting for him to come back home.

  And honestly, how pathetic is that?

  I can just imagine him puttering around the kitchen—our kitchen—making us pancakes for breakfast or seeing the both of us sometime next year after American Thanksgiving, sharing Aunt Lisa’s extra pumpkin pie for breakfast before getting into a food fight, or making out standing in the middle of it.

  These were some of my teenage dreams, big dreams that centered around Brody and I, how we would always be there for each other.

  It’s a pretty thing, this future that I’ve dreamed up. But like a mirage in the heated heart of the desert, I know I can’t trust it, not one bit.

  We always end up talking about me, anyway, not about Brody and his future—we never talk about that.

  Mostly because I don’t I want to hear it.

  There’s a constant ticking time-bomb in my head, an analog clock countdown that goes tick-tock, tick-tock, with every single second that brings us closer to January first.

  So right now, I have to think about me, about being strong, and putting that wall up, and staying safe behind it, no matter how sweet it is that he stood out in the cold with our coffees, waiting for me to come and open the door for him, for wanting to talk.

  Brody Kane was ever a thoughtful boy, and he’s now turned into a thoughtful man, introspecting more often than not, the eloquent professional lacrosse player that made him hard to pin, to put in a box, growing up.

  “You can hang out here,” I say, being mindful that he drove all the way here, and I’m not going to make him drive all the way back to his parents, and then come back to pick me up.

  “And I’ll be ready soon. You can peruse my collection of DVDs and Blu-rays to your heart’s content. I’m gonna go get dressed for the day. You can even have a slice of the pumpkin pie in the fridge since you brought me coffee,” I say, getting up from the table, stopping when he looks at me a certain way.

  Brody’s assessing me again, those steely blue eyes of his swiping up and down my body, and I feel exposed, vulnerable, an organism underneath a microscope, every micro-movement being tracked and noted.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re a lot different than the person I thought you’d be.” Brody glances away, looking disappointed, and there’s a part of me that’s glad that he’s getting why this won’t work out in the end, why it just can’t.

  Now, I could take that as an insult, I could, but that would give him some sort of indication that I care what he thinks about me, when this has all been about him and his comfort, even if I find myself looking at him for a few seconds too long, imagining that reassuring squeeze yesterday between our hands when he was talking about his injury.

  There’s baggage, there’s history.

  This would be so much easier with someone else, anybody else, but Brody Kane knows me in ways that I don’t know myself, and him saying that to me, right now, stings, more than a little.

  I nod, swallowing past the pain in my throat, holding my cup of coffee a little too tightly, the heat leaching out of the cup and into my hands.

  “Holler if you need anything,” I say with finality and head upstairs to my bedroom to get dressed.

  If I wanted a sign from the universe that Brody and I missed our chance, then this was it.

  How could I ever be with someone like that?

  EIGHTEEN

  Crickets, nothing but crickets as I allow myself to be driven over to my parents’ place, Brody the stoic driver, eyes pinned to the road (like any attentive driver, honestly, it’s not like I want him to look at me constantly, but still).

  I squirm with the need to say something, anything to fight the weighted silence.

  I’ve gone heavy with my eye makeup, pretending I’m somebody else, and paired it with a bright, bright lipstick aptly named ‘Dragon’s Blood’ that has a way of making me feel all-powerful and ready for world domination.

  I want to feel strong and powerful, and my makeup does that for me, for sure, another layer in between Brody and I and the impending doom that’s going to happen at my parents’ place.

  Why are we even still deciding to try it out like this again between the two of us?

  It’s not working, and it’s starting to hurt more than anything else.

  The drive over is agony, even as I try to concentrate and count down the milestones that we hit as we take the highway, reduced to counting down the exits until we’re finally there.

  Brody pulls into the driveway, and I’m already unhooking my belt and opening the door for fresh air, for the expanse of earth and sky and out of the clutches of the small space that I just shared with Brody, the awkwardness choking me.

  I breathe in deep pulls of air, filling my lungs, my heart fluttering in my chest because I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to be here. I’m forcing something that shouldn’t happen, we both are.

  Mom’s already at the top of the front porch stairs, shivering in her oversized cardigan that looks suspiciously like it belonged to me once upon a time, but somehow found its way into her closet who knows how long ago. She waves at the both of us, her smile wide and bright as I take the stairs two at a time, not caring if Brody’s going to follow or not.

  Hell, you’re running away from him, of course you care if he’s going to follow or not!

  My parents seem to be happier to see Brody than they are to see me, and Mom is asking him how his day’s been so far, if I’ve been sharing that cursed pumpkin pie (that Brody didn’t take a piece of, I checked before we left my house), and Mom turns to me to ask me how my cramps are.

  My dad blinks, looks down to my stomach and then frowns at me, turning red.

  He never could handle how Mom and I talk about the crimson wave, looking more distraught than ever that I was in pain, making offerings to buy me buckets of chocolate or super-sized tampons instead of hearing what I have to say.

  Brody’s unfazed, and I just shrug, not bothering to answer my mom. It is what it is.

  “What’s to eat?” I ask, patting at my belly, moving into the kitchen once my boots and coat are off, then hit the fridge for some sparkling water. I grab a bottle for me and then offer one to Brody and Mom and Dad, because manners, and hand stuff out while Mom takes out the French toast casserole that would turn the devil into a saint with how good it is, and the smell of cinnamon and hot bread wafting in the kitchen has me drooling, my period nausea currently replaced by a voracious beast that’s starving.

  That’s how the cookie crumbles apparently.

  We take our seats, and I sit stiffly beside Brody, my parents opposite us at our four-person kitchen table, the very one I grew up on, the one where I introduced my parents to Brody as my boyfriend back when we were sixteen, when it all started, before it all changed.

  And now we’re back here, and it’s making my eye twitch with nerves, my skin itch with the need to tell everyone at the table that this is not working out.

  It’s like my parents want me to be stuck on memory lane, my imaginary car’s tires blown out and all I can do is wait for some poor soul to come and save me and get me the hell out of here.

  My father, blind to reading a situation if it doesn’t involve anything to do with his job (he’s a semi-retired electrical engineer that can’t see the forest for the trees more often than not), looks between the two of us and says, “What’s the matter with you two? It’s freezing in here, colder than outside!”

  “Dad…” I groan, hiding the side of my face from Brody, even if I want to laugh. Well, it’s either laugh or cry, right? “Come on!”

  “What? What did I say? I’m your dad, I’m allowed to say crappy dad jokes, they’re what I live for. And embarrassing you, of course. Let an old man get his kicks. Who knows how much longer I’ll be around for?”

  Mom slaps at his chest and gives him a stern look when I glance up at them, and my eyes instantly water at the mere thought of my parents not being around anymore.

  “Here, Brody,” Mom says, taking over the hostess duties while I fumble the ball. “Let me put you some on your plate.”

  We eat in strained silence, the scratching of fork and knives a cacophony against our plates, slurping of coffee, and non-conversation making the glances between my parents seem like ticking time bombs more than anything else.

  “Did you two fights?” Mom asks softly.

  “Nope—” I say, just as Brody says, “Yes.”

  “Ah, Amber. You know you get like this.” Mom flaps a hand at me, dismissing me and whatever I could be angry about, and then picks up another forkful of food.

  I stop chewing, stilling, going tense. “Get like what, Mom? Get like what?”

  “Shit,” Dad says, rubbing at his face, and the whole gesture only serves to infuriate me more.

  What’s the point, what’s the point if they’re not willing to see me without a Brody-type person in my life?

  Why can’t I just forget him once and for all? Why can’t I? “It’s fine, Mrs. Prewitt. We fought in the car, and we’re just getting over it.”

  I shoot him a look—why’s he trying to placate them? Why is he doing anything at all?

  Why does the mere sight of him make me feel like my heart doesn’t actually belong to me anymore?

  “The food’s really good, Mrs. Prewitt,” Brody says, ever the mediator, and I just glare at my parents, not caring that Brody’s around. He’s not a stranger and he’s known my parents his entire life. We’re comfortable enough with each other—people fight all the time; it doesn’t really mean anything.

  “Thank you, sweetie, that’s nice of you to say,” Mom says, placing her fork to the side and taking her napkin to dab delicately at her mouth.

  “What’s up your ass?” She looks at me, eyebrows high on her forehead.

  “Shit,” Dad reiterates before scraping his chair back and taking his plate towards the living room and Sunday American football.

  “Brody let’s go before the kitchen explodes. Move it, kid,” he says, and makes his way out of the kitchen. Brody glances over at me and I just tilt my head towards the living room, and he goes, leaving me behind, glancing back just the once, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

  I shake my head at him and place my own fork down (in case I do a crazy thing and use it for evil instead of its intended use) and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Why do you have to embarrass me like that?” I ask.

  “I didn’t embarrass you,” she says, shaking her head.

  I’m infuriated even more when my eyes start to well up. Nothing feels like it’s working, I’m a total mess, and just when it feels like I’ve got all the balls in the air I’m juggling, there’s always something calling my attention, demanding it, and before I know it, I have to juggle faster, to make sure all the additional shit I have in the air doesn’t fall. “Mom, stop, okay? Just stop.”

  “Why are you pushing Brody away?” she asks, cutting to the chase with a double-edged knife, where it hurts just as much going in as it does when it’s pulled back out.

  I huff out in surprise, stifling the groan of pain. “I am doing no such thing.” Jesus, who am I kidding? Why lie straight to her face? What’s the point?

  “You’re doing the exact same thing I’ve always seen you do with every boy you ever dated since that boy in there left to pursue his dreams.”

  I roll my eyes and ignore the stinging of unshed tears in my nose, glancing up at the ceiling and will myself to stop blinking altogether. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “You never want to talk about this, you never want to talk about anything, it seems. Hell, I thought you going through the hell-hole that was teenagerhood was going to be the real challenge, but color me surprised!”

  I snort at her F-bomb, but keep my eyes pinned to the ceiling, the swaying cobweb that my mom won’t touch with a ten-foot pole, and my dad has yet to find the time to take it down for her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You come home every other week, but we don’t talk, and you don’t say anything.”

  I glance down at her, and she looks to be just as angry as I am. “I talk to Vick and Max.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Not from what I heard. You barely see them.”

  I scoff. “Mom, I’m busy, okay? Busy. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”