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“No,” she says, a note of surprise in her voice. “Not legal, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right,” I say, not having considered it. I keep thinking we’re closer in age than we are. Also, age didn’t keep Collin or me from having beers during a game before we became legal two years ago. Emma must think I’m closer to Rachel’s age than hers. I never corrected Rachel’s assumption. Now, it doesn’t matter. “I’m supposed to be the responsible adult, right?” I shake my head to keep from confessing. I’m used to bending the truth or evading it completely. Full-out fabricating isn’t usually my thing. It’s starting to feel like there are too many lies to keep up with.

I return from the kitchen with a beer for me and a soda for Emma.

We watch football, eat a ton of crap food, and ridicule the commercials. Some games, the commercials are the best part. I discover Emma’s pretty fun once she lets down her guard. All it takes is something that has nothing to do with her. Football’s that today. Makes sense. It’s easier to be herself when she doesn’t have to focus on holding up her shields.

We take turns checking on Rachel. I know our laughter and cheers are affecting her sleep.

“Want me to close the door?” I offer after bringing her a cold facecloth.

She shakes her head. “Want you to be able to hear me,” she says with a strained voice.

At halftime, Sara shows up. And the girls disappear upstairs for a while. The surprise on Emma’s face at finding her best friend knocking on the door makes it obvious they have something to talk about. And it isn’t football.

I’ve gotten pretty comfortable in this house in the short time I’ve been coming here. I helped Emma put away groceries and knew where everything went. I know where the blankets are when I spend the night on the couch. And I know how to keep the stairs from making too much noise when I need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Getting away earlier was another reminder that this isn’t my life. It’s not right for me to slip into theirs, knowing I won’t be around much longer. I have a commitment to uphold. Another life to live.

Fuck Valentine’s Day,” I say, whirling my spoon in strawberry ice cream ribboned with chocolate. I really wanted chocolate-covered strawberries but couldn’t bring myself to buy them. Nothing screams pathetic more than a single girl buying herself chocolate-covered strawberries.

Instead, I’m extra pathetic, crying—literally—into my ice cream while I watch Valentine’s Day. I stand up and click off the television and slam the cover back on the ice cream. “Seriously.” I scream, “Fuck Valentine’s Day!” To an audience of zero, because I’m home alone.

I need a roommate; I think you should move in.”

“Dude, it’s V-Day,” Collin says. “I only picked up because I thought it was an emergency.”

“Oh shit. You’re on a date.” I feel like the love-killer. So awful.

“I am.”

“Oh! I suck. Go back to your romantic night, and I’ll put an ad on marketplace.”

“Don’t you dare. We’ll talk about this tomorrow… afternoon.” Before he can hang up, he hollers, “And put that ice cream back in the freezer. So I can eat it when I come over tomorrow.”

I couldn’t move back in with my parents after graduating college. I’ve lived on my own, mostly, for four years. Reverting to being under my parents’ roof, under their always watchful eyes, can’t happen. I need to maintain my independence, even if they’re technically paying for my condo.

It was a practical purchase, right down the street from the courthouse and the office, while still being close enough to commute to grad school, if I ever decide to go. I sent in several applications. But I’m not sure I’m ready to commit. To take the step forward toward my future. It’s not what I pictured it being.

I take in the space that my mom helped decorate. She tried so hard to give me full control over the stylistic choices. But I can see her in the drapes and the floating shelves. The only place she didn’t try to influence was my bedroom.

I’ve gotten neater over the years. It’s hard going to work wrinkled and trying to explain the clean versus dirty method. And living with Jonathan helped make me more aware of my chaos. Although he didn’t mind.

Or maybe he did. And that’s why he left. Maybe he couldn't stand picking up after me. I collapse back onto the couch and clutch the throw pillow to my chest. I have no idea why he left. I’ve thought of every possible reason, from my inability to put the cap on the toothpaste to texting with friends at all hours—until he made the not-in-bed rule. None of them feel like the right reason.

That’s why Collin and I are convinced he needs space. To heal. To remember who he is. That he’s loved. And that he deserves that love.

“You’re making a mess,” Jonathan says, laughing.

“Me? Your side of the counter is… okay. Yes. I’m making a mess.”

“Why do we keep doing this?” Jonathan asks, licking chocolate off his thumb. “There are people who do this for a living.”

“But making chocolate-covered strawberries ourselves is so much better.”

“Like the pie that looked like it should’ve been the before photo for a skin ad.”

“It tasted delicious. And ew, by the way. Sure, it was bumpy and oozy, but it was incredible.”