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I shake the thoughts away and return my attention to the court as the clock runs down to conclude the game. I’m in no position to judge anyone’s parenting.

Rachel passed out in her room hours ago—after three too many lemon drops. We ended up at a college bar on karaoke night. It was sloppy and borderline obnoxious. Which means we laughed… a lot.

And now I’m stuck at Rachel’s Decatur Street house because my truck’s ten miles away. And the only other person who could’ve driven me to my truck is spending the night at her best friend’s house. So here I am, on the couch. Night two.

I wake automatically when I typically rise for work. I’ve never needed an alarm clock. Probably because I didn’t sleep well most of my life. The slightest noise had me prepared for the worst. And last night wasn’t any different. This house screamed all night with the wind howling and the panes of glass rattling. Between that and the nightmare that still has a firm grasp on my soul, I was lucky if I got two hours of sleep.

Coffee’s brewing and I’m checking the time, wondering if Rachel’s up yet or if I should go up and wake her. I sent a message to Kellan that I’d be in casual dress, just to warn him. The office attire is usually low-key, unless there’s a meeting. But I’m wearing the same jeans and sweater as last night, so I felt I needed to give him a heads-up.

He offered to let me work from home today… except I’m not home, and I don’t have my computer or the portfolio. I will never be without my truck again.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” Rachel races down the stairs, heels in one hand, a hair tie in the other. “Zip this?” She turns and reveals the open back of the dress. I oblige. She drops her heels on the floor, twists her hair in a bun and secures it with the hair tie, dumps coffee in a travel mug while sliding her feet into her shoes. “Gotta go. I’m late.”

“Uh, I don’t have my truck… or my computer—”

“You said you can work remotely, right? And use Emily’s computer. She’s at Sara’s. She won’t care. Sorry, I gotta go. I can’t be late… again.

And then she’s out the door, sliding her arms into her jacket with her purse slung across her chest.

I stare at the spot where she disappeared from the kitchen. She’s literally stranded me here.

I consider my options. That doesn’t take long. I don’t know anyone in the area. And everyone I do know is at work. Besides, I don’t want any of them to know I’m here.

Kellan was cool about me not coming in when I called him, but said there are a few things he needs me to take a look at. I delay as long as I can. I watch a movie. Flip through and listen to some of Rachel’s CDs while doing some general calisthenics that won’t work up a sweat.

I don’t really know what I’m waiting for. Maybe Emma to come home and give me permission to use her computer, or a ride to my truck. After eating Rachel’s leftover Thai for lunch, I realize I can’t put it off much longer.

My eyes climb the stairs to Emma’s door. Am I really going into her bedroom to use her computer? I brace myself and climb the stairs. Standing outside her door, I push it open without stepping over the threshold. The door makes a yowling creak as it slants open.

I’m met with a bed set upon a white wall with a burst of black butterflies flying out of it. The bed is also black and white. And when I poke my head in, the entire room is colorless—everything’s black or white. It’s… interesting, I guess. For a girl. I mean, it’s not very… Knock it off, Reeves. No commentary needed. Just get in, check the docs, and get the fuck out.

Of course, that’s not what happens. I get caught up in the work and end up sitting at her desk for several hours. And because I’m a dumbass—I can’t come up with another explanation—I linger after logging off her computer and check out the pictures hung above Emma’s desk. The ones of her with Sara or Evan, often both. Some are of just her. I wonder who took them because there’s an artistry to the way they used the light and the angles. Like the photographer sees beyond the girl with the haunted eyes and reluctant smile.

The door creaks open, and I spin around, acting as guilty as I feel. “Emma, hi.” And to make it worse, I add, “You scared me.” And this god-awful laugh comes out of my mouth. “Rachel said to use your computer to check my email. Sorry.” She’s staring at me like she caught me trying on her clothes. Which is exactly how I’m acting. “I obviously freaked you out.”

“It’s okay,” she assures me, unconvincingly.

“Are you sure?” I grimace. I messed up. It’s written all over her face. “You don't look okay.” I continue to be an awkward fuck like I’ve never had a conversation with a girl before.

I attempt to steer the train wreck toward something that might take her mind off walking in on me creeping around her room. “I was about to leave but noticed the pictures.” You play soccer too?"

“Yeah. I'm better at it than basketball.” She sets her bag at the foot of the bed.

“You were quite amazing last night,” I say, honestly. “So if you’re better at soccer, then I would definitely want to see that.”

“Well, it’s paying for me to go to Stanford,” she says, her cheeks darkening with color, clearly uncomfortable with the praise.

“Do you always turn this red?” I tease, only making it worse. Should’ve remembered—no teasing. No asking about personal stuff. Basically, pretend I’m talking to me, except the teasing never got to me. Not like the insults.

“Usually.”

“Sorry," I offer with a slight chuckle. "It's… cute." I want to roll my eyes. I’m acting like an amateur right now. It’s like all my ability to talk—more specifically, to make sense while talking—left me along with my best friends.

“Thanks for letting me use your computer.”

“Any time,” she says with a nod, still unable to look at me.

While I’ve already made it uncomfortable, I might as well keep going. But this has been bothering me since I walked in the house that first night. “I’ve been meaning to say something, but…”