I’ve been here two days in Bar Harbor. It’s late September, and I shiver and pull my mom’s fleece jacket around me. I’m wearing one of her long-sleeved shirts, too, and a pair of jeans. And my trusty black Converse.

There’s not much to do here in Maine, and once I rolled out of bed this morning and had two cups of coffee, I walked down to the Town Pier from my aunt’s house. I follow a pretty path around a park with vibrant green grass – it’s so bright that it nearly hurts my eyes – and I flop down on a bench and stare at the sky. The crispness in the air feels so foreign after Florida’s steam.

But it’s too damned cold, I realize. The wind rustles a nearby tree, and I look up, startled to see that its leaves have already started to turn a brilliant orange.

The temperature matches how I feel inside. Frozen. I assumed I’d welcome the feeling, hope it would numb me. To my surprise, I don’t like it.

I miss Florida.

I miss Zelda.

I really, really miss Diego.

Still shivering, I take out my phone. There's a silence here that's eerie. I miss the beach and the waves of the Gulf.

Will Diego still want me if I return? I should have been more mature about this entire situation. Why did I tell him not to contact me? But then, what if the damage is already done?

All of a sudden, big sobs escape from my body.

Diego doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him.

I deserve only cold and winter and my self-imposed exile. Hoisting myself up, I walk slowly back to my aunt’s. In the kitchen, I hear my mom laughing with her sister. As miserable as I am, the one good thing about Maine is seeing my mother happy again.

But I'm like a wet blanket the minute I walk in because they stop laughing.

“Why the long face?” Aunt Mary asks.

I shrug.

“Something is bothering you, more than usual.” My mom has been more focused since she’s left Florida and while I’m happy about this, I’m not so thrilled that she’s now noticing my moods.

I scowl and take a peek in the fridge, hoping to find some cheese. There’s none. I raid the cabinets, looking for something salty to eat. “Do we have any chips?”

“Did you and Diego have a fight? Is that why you’re really here?”

My head whirls around. “How do you know about Diego?”

Mom shrugged. “Your brother told me you’d been spending time with him again.”

I huff out a sigh. “Well, I’m not spending time with him anymore. And, I don’t see how it’s your business.”

“Shut the fridge,” Mom says sharply. “Don’t waste energy.”

I shut the door a little firmer than expected and Aunt Mary takes this as her cue to slip out of the room, her eyes wide and her cheeks puffed out with a dramatic breath.

“Cat, pour yourself some coffee and talk to me. And while you’re at it, give me a refill, too.”

I glance at her warily. There was a time when my mom and I were close. It almost feels like the old days. It's as if we've been transported to the past, before the photos of me were circulated, before my dad’s bankruptcy, before his heart attack.

I do as I’m told, filling her cup and then mine. She leans forward in her seat as I sink into the chair.

“Scott told me about you and Diego. How you were basically living there.”

“I was going to tell you. Honest. Are you upset?” I ask, hesitant.

She shakes her head. “Not even a little. I know how much he means to you. How much he cares about you.”

I can feel tears filling my eyes.

My mother reaches her hand toward mine. “Catalina. Stop beating yourself up. It happened. And now you have another chance to pursue a relationship with someone you care for. Why are you so hesitant?”

That’s when I lose it and start crying. In between my blubbery tears and snotty sniffles, I tell her about the photos. About leaving Diego because his business is on the verge of being acquired. My mother nods gravely as I talk, and somehow, I feel lighter and a little better after I’ve explained everything.

“Who do you think sent the photos?” she asks, her deep brown eyes unblinking.

I shrug. “I figure it’s either the stupid politician or one of his former staffers, or maybe someone from high school who knows I’m back.”

“Who from high school knows you returned to Florida?”

I hold out my index finger. “Jessica. But she wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course not,” my mom replies quickly.

“Scott. Diego. And…” I think for a moment.

My mom gets out of her chair to fold me into an embrace.

“Maybe you should go home, and you and Diego should report this to the police. They have ways of figuring these things out, you know.”

I sigh and lean away from my mom to wipe my nose on a napkin. “I know. But remember how nasty and judgmental the cop was six years ago?”

My mom makes a face. “They were insufferable. Unfortunately, the system tends to revictimize women.”

I snap my fingers. “Wait. There is another person from high school who knows I’m back.”

My mom’s eyebrows raise.

“Ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“Yeah, Jake Farber. Do you remember him? We were in the same grade. Diego said he had nothing to do with my photos being passed around though. I don't know if he ever saw them.”

My mom scowled. “Jake, wasn’t that the boy who asked you to freshman homecoming?”

I squint at her. I know a lot has happened to me in the nine years since freshman year of high school, but how do I not remember that Jake asked me to a dance?

“I don’t recall,” I say, slowly.

“Yes. His parents owned the wine bar downtown. Bacchus. Lovely people. He asked you to that dance, and you said no because you and Diego were planning a video game thing that night. A raid. I never really understood why you wanted to play a video game than go to a dance, but now I guess I know why.”

My mom talks on about how I was such a tomboy in high school and how glad she is that I’m wearing makeup now. I don’t listen because I’m thinking about Jake.

And Diego.

“Mom, I think you’re right. I should definitely go back to Florida,” I blurt.

* * *

The next day, I fly home to Florida. My mom convinces me to leave my car in Maine for her – it’s a junker for the winter, she says – and tells me to use her car once I get back to Palmira.

So a day after talking with my mother in my aunt’s kitchen in Maine, I’m back in the humid, swampy weather of Florida, grabbing a cab and headed to get my mom’s car. All I want is to see Diego. And to tell him about Jake.

I haven’t texted or called Diego because I want it to be a surprise. I don’t want to talk myself out of this, and I don’t want him to encourage me to take more time for myself.

I want to see him, now. And I don’t want to ever leave him again. It’s time I give him the chance he deserves, and way past time that I put someone else first, for a change.