The sound of a door slamming wakes me from my deep slumber. My mouth is parched and my head is pounding. I’m still drunk, or severely hungover. Heels click against the wood floors, and my hands brush the sleep off my face, gathering my thoughts.

Where am I?

My vision is blurry and I realize I slept with my contacts in again. Fuck.

“Passed out hugging a bottle, Leslie? How ladylike of you.” My mother’s voice shoots through my ears and I wince. I’m in my childhood bedroom. The previous forty-eight hours flood through my mind, and I gasp, sitting up on the bed. With both hands, I try to hold my pounding head.

“How’s Dad?”

My mother looks at me in a disapproving manner. Her hands cross at her chest and she purses her lips at me. “I called you,” she says. “I called you seventeen times. I haven’t seen you in almost eight years. Do you know how that feels? You left me, Leslie, after everything I did for you. You up and left me, and when I called you, you didn’t answer.”

“It took you eight years to call, Mom,” I say with a hoarse voice and my eyes closed. “And I didn’t leave you. I disappointed you by breaking my ankle and tossing all your hard work down the drain.”

“That’s beside the point. I called and you didn’t answer. Not only is your father in the hospital but I was worried sick something happened to you, too.” Her eyes cut through me.

“Is Dad okay?”

“They took him to surgery this morning. I took a cab here to get you.” She flicks the light in my bedroom on. “Go shower; you reek. We need to get back to the hospital right away.”

I groan from the bright florescent light as I stand and make my way out of my bedroom.

My mother is a creature of habit. Once she finds something that is up to her standards, she never looks for an alternative. The shower curtain is the same one she purchased ten years prior from Bed, Bath and Beyond. Her Chanel No 5 religiously sits in the same spot on her side of the vanity, and she’s used the same shampoo for as long as I can remember. I’m nothing like my mother. I change the curtains in my bathroom every season. During the holidays it looks as if Santa lives in my bathroom. I use different shampoos all the time, and I most definitely don’t wear fancy perfume.

Sighing at the differences between my mother and me, I undress and climb into the shower. The warm water slides down my body and washes away the grime and exhaustion from the previous day’s travel and hospital visit. Not to mention it helps with the headache that was beginning to form due to lack of food and the consumption of alcohol.

Once I’m finished, dressed and proper, I walk down the stairs. My mother has also showered, and she holds a warm cup of coffee.

“I made a pot,” she offers.

“Thank you,” I answer.

When I pass her, I stop and look over my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

“You too, Leslie. Go and get your coffee. We need to get back immediately.”

The sun is still hidden beyond the horizon. As we’re pulling out of the driveway, I hold my breath and focus my gaze anywhere but on Ethan’s home. My mother notices my hesitation and clears her throat. She doesn’t say anything until we’re on the freeway.

“Have you spoken to him?” She doesn’t move an inch.

“No,” I reply.

“Since?”

Inhaling slowly, I try to steady my crazed heart rate. “Since I left for Los Angeles.”

“Really?” Her voice increases an octave and I glance over at her.

“Yes, really.” I let a few seconds pass before I ask, “Why?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She shakes her head. “He disappeared after you left. I figured he went after you. That’s all.”

He’s gone. A wave of relief washes over me, I want to ask her where he went and where he is now, but I stop myself. The chance of seeing him again has vanished. The sobering realization brings sadness to my heart and a cold shiver up my body. He’s moved on with his life, and what we once shared disappeared right along with him. The secrets we held, the love we shared, have all dissipated.

I moved on, damn it. The best I could at least. I forced myself to forget about him the second I got to Los Angeles. I enrolled in every class available to me and dove head first into a major that seemed as if it would make me forget the life I once lived and the future I was supposed to have. I did a semester abroad in Brazil where I met my best friend, Emilia. I fell in “love” with a boy named Harry who, for a short time, made me forget Ethan. He was as damaged as I was and I clung to him. I tried to fix him and failed miserably. He overdosed on drugs, and I blamed myself for his shortcomings. Now I realize I loved Harry but I was never in love with him. He was my Band-Aid. Focusing on him kept me from facing my issues.

My mother’s words were an affirmation that, once again, I had lost someone I loved more than anything. I had lost my very first friend. He was gone, and the chances of seeing him again were slim. The secrets we shared and swore to never tell a soul would stay hidden, never to be spoken again. I had let Ethan go, but I wasn’t ready for him to let me go.

It was selfish to assume he wouldn’t.