My stomach twists. It's not the hangover. That's down to a dull ache.

It's all the dread in Mom's green eyes.

The frown on Dad's face.

He's in his suit. He just came from work. And Mom is in her usual trendy outfit—she does hair at a nice place by the beach. And she usually works on Fridays. She usually works Wednesday through Saturday.

Neither one of them should be home.

Even though my feet are throbbing, I don't move. "I'd rather stand."

"Please, honey." Mom motions to the dining chair. "How about I put on some tea?"

She's nervous. Scared. Which means it's bad.

I don't want to make it harder for her.

But my feet refuse to move toward the table.

I'm not ready for a blow. Any kind of blow. Things are finally good. College starts in a few weeks. I've got my school schedule and my work schedule ironed out. I've got a nice chunk of change in my savings account.

And I'm healthy enough I'm not thinking about how I'm healthy every three minutes.

Mom moves into the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle. She's the person who got me into tea. We still spend afternoons lingering in tea shops together, talking about books and movies and clothes and boys.

Or we did. Until last year.

My parents don't know much, really. Only that I wanted to see a shrink. But that's enough they treat me differently. Like I need to be handled carefully.

Like right now.

Mom fills the tea maker with four scoops of vanilla black. My favorite. Brendon never let me forget my favorite is vanilla.

Dad looks up at me with a sad smile. His hazel eyes are as streaked with regret as Mom's are.

This is something awful.

I tap my toes together. Then my heels. My non-skid shoes are special order Converse knock-offs. They're actually approaching fashionable.

They're a lot more comforting than the looks on my parents' faces.

I continue staring at my scuffed black shoes.

Mom strains the tea into two cups and brings both to the table. She lets out a heavy sigh as she takes her seat.

Again, she motions to the chair opposite hers.

This time, I sit.

I press my knees together.

My toes. My inner feet. My heels.

My shoes are still worn in all the same places.

"Kaylee, Grandma, she isn't doing well. Mike, I mean your dad, had an opportunity to take a promotion that will put us back in New Jersey." Mom's voice is steady, like she's talking about the taste of the tea and not our lives uprooting. "He's taking it."

I continue staring at my shoes.

"We talked to the Kanes."

Does she really see Brendon as another parent enough to call him by his last name? When we first moved here, and Emma and I became instant friends, she used to complain about him being a bad influence. That was before the accident. Before he became Emma's dad as much as her brother.

Still, he’s only twenty-six.

That’s young.

At least that’s what I tell myself. That an eight-year age difference means nothing. That there’s a chance he sees me as something other than a naïve kid.

"We agreed. It's best if you stay here." Mom folds her arms in her lap and straightens her back. Her posture is stiff. It's this is our decision and you don't get a say.

"What if I want to be with Nana?" There's no if. Of course I want to be with Grandma. She lived with us until we moved here. She was my first friend, my closest friend. She still is. We still talk about Days of Our Lives and Harry Potter. She still tells me every piece of my fan fiction is amazing. "What if I want to watch soaps with her all afternoon and listen to her complain about whatever terrible reality show she's watching all night?"

"I know it's hard, honey. It kills me thinking about my mom all alone, especially when she's ill. But you know this is what she'd want. She wants you in school. She's so proud of you." Mom's smile is earnest. Sweet.

She's right. Grandma has always talked about the importance of school. She's always the first one cheering when I bring home straight As—and I always bring home straight As.

"Brendon made a generous offer," Dad jumps in. "He said you can stay with him and Emma."

What? My lips press together. When the fuck did he do that? He acted normal this morning. And last night...

"He's not my first choice, honey, but this is for the best. Especially with everything that happened last year. Grandma's care is going to be expensive. We're going to have to sublet the apartment. We can try and stretch things so you can stay here. But we'd have to rent out a room. And we figured you'd rather live with your friend than with a stranger." Mom's throat quivers. It's her tell.

They can't stretch things.

They can't afford to help me financially.

And I can't afford to cover half the rent here. Not if I want enough time to ace my classes.

This is an obvious solution.

A smart solution.

But fuck them for not involving me in this decision.

For forcing me to choose school over Grandma.

For treating me like a child.

I push myself to my feet. "When are you leaving?"

"We're flying out Sunday," Dad says. "We need to clear out by the end of the month."

"That's a week and a half away." That's bullshit.

This is all bullshit.

Still, I nod an I understand.

I take calm steps to my room.

Press the door into the frame.

Plant on my bed.

Then I hide under my headphones, blast my best angsty playlist, pull the covers over my head and try and fail to feel okay.

When I'm tired of wiping tears off my cheeks, I grab my Kindle and try to lose myself in all the shit going wrong in Katniss Everdeen's life.

This series is usually instant comfort—I've read it at least two dozen times now—but it's not sticking today.

Nothing is.