My mom is going to lose it.
Even though I’m nearly eighteen and already in college, she still worries about me like I’m made of glass. Like I might shatter if she looks away for too long.
In high school, I had a midnight curfew, even senior year. The one time I forgot to text her that I was crashing at Hayes’s house in one of the spare bedrooms, she nearly called the police to report me missing.
I was an hour late.
Not a day. Not one week. One hour.
She grounded me for a month. Even Amber said she was being insane, and Amber never agrees with me. But once my mom’s fear locks in, there’s no reasoning with it. Safety and control are everything to her.
For years, I told myself I understood. I made excuses for her, rationalizing that trauma does that to people. My father walking out had to leave scars, and I figured this was just one of them. An overcorrection.A mother clinging too tightly because she’d already lost too much.
But now I know better.
Of course, she panicked.
In her mind, when I break curfew, I’m not just out a little too late. I’ve been taken. Dragged somewhere dark and unforgiving, somewhere no one comes back from. Monsters. Gods. The Underworld itself.
I check my messages, bracing for nuclear fallout. Instead, I find something I never expected—an extremely civilized exchange from 11:30 p.m.:
Hey Mel. Al fell asleep here. I’ll take care of her. Don’t worry. —H
Thanks, hon. She’s lucky to have you. Sleep tight!
I blink at the screen.
My best friend is a goddamn angel. Even after I’d been a total asshole to him earlier, he still had my back, still thought to cover for me.
“Thanks for texting my mom, Hay,” I whisper, setting the phone back down on the nightstand. “You’re the best.”
He opens one sleepy eye and grins.
“I am, aren’t I?” he says, eyes drifting lower. “Also, you might want to move that wine bottle before you kick it and break a toe.”
I glance down.
Sure enough, there’s an empty bottle of his mom’sfancy Greek wine tucked near my ankles. The glass is cool as I grab it, groaning under my breath.
“Shit. Did I seriously drink this whole thing?”
“No idea,” he says with a massive yawn. “When I found you half-comatose on the couch downstairs, you were singing to the dog, asking if he wanted to share.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“I did not!”
“You kept calling him Argyros.”
“Argyros? What’s that?”
He plucks the bottle from my hand and taps the beautiful gold-foiled label:Vinsanto Santorini Argyros.
“Ah.” I grin. “Actually, that’s kind of perfect. Regal. Let’s call him that.” Then, a little breathless, I add, “Wait… if I was downstairs, how did I get here?”
He flashes a slow, wicked grin, equal parts mischief and smug delight.
“I carried you.”
