“Hello? Mom?”

“In here, honey!”

I follow her voice to the kitchen, where I find her chopping lettuce. She abandons her task and rushes around the island to hug me. The scent of her perfume swirls around me like a second embrace, thick with memories of a different, simpler me.

A crack spreads in my chest, but I hold it closed until the urge to cry passes.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re here.” She releases me, leaning back. Teary eyes scan my face and hair. “You look beautiful. But so thin! Are you hungry? Dinner’s on the stove.”

“Sure, I’m hungry.” My words and smile are both lies. “I’ll take my bag upstairs and freshen up. Where’s Dad?”

“Garage,” she says with a chuckle.

“Shocker.” I give her a quick kiss, then head back into the hallway for my bag.

Upstairs, my room is exactly as I left it four and a half years ago. A time capsule of a girl who no longer exists.

The twin bed creaks as I sit. I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at it. The case is the same, but the device is new. Not functional yet, as it lacks a service provider. No contacts, no locator apps. No backlog of text messages.

Liam has my old phone. I’d watched him delete all traces of himself from my social media accounts, email, and photos. The only numbers he’d allowed me to write down were Karina and Raul’s.

I’d watched him erase us and done nothing to stop him. I don’t even know my new phone number.

And neither does he.

All I have left of him is soreness. Light bruising that will fade too fast. An ache when I sit. And an order to close my checking account and open another when I get to Seattle. Since I’m not hiding, I get to keep my name. My parents. Med school and my future.

But I’m allowed no ties to Los Angeles.

To Maddoc Donnelly or my sister.

To him.

Curling into my old, faded quilt, I close my eyes and fall into oblivion.

* * *

When I wake, the house is dark. Through my partially closed bedroom door, I hear the television downstairs and my parents murmured voices.

My eyes are heavy and swollen, my face and pillow wet. I don’t remember what I was dreaming about, but it must have been him.

“Liam,” I whisper.

His name on my tongue, I fall asleep again.

* * *

I sleep the night through, waking up again to sunlight coming through the window above my head. Dawn, or just after.

Dragging myself from bed is a challenge I’m not prepared for. Neither is being awake. There’s an ocean of pain inside me that I don’t know how to begin dealing with.

The smell of bacon wafts upstairs. It’s not hunger that finally gets me on my feet, but the knowledge that my parents are doubtlessly worried. They’ve been beyond understanding—accepting my bullshit about postponing med school, then welcoming me home with open arms when I called on my way to the airport.

I owe them an explanation, even if it’s mostly fabricated. At least part of it will be true—my heart is without a doubt broken.

I change my clothes. Brush my teeth. Throw my hair into a ponytail and pinch my cheeks so I don’t look like a dead person. Liam was careful—there are no visible marks on my neck or arms.

I wish there were.

Downstairs, I find them both in the kitchen. Mom’s standing at the sink and dad’s in his usual spot at the table. He sees me first. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are soft with concern as he stands up and takes me in his arms. It’s like being hugged by a bear.

“I’m okay, Dad,” I say into his Old Spice-scented flannel.

He draws back, hands cupping my shoulders. “I know you are.”

I give him a weak smile—it’s more of a grimace.

“Hungry for bacon and eggs?” asks my mother.

I shake my head. “Is there any coffee left?”

She smiles. “I just made a fresh pot. Sit. Still drinking it with cream and no sugar?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Dad sits back down, and I drop into the adjacent chair. By the time I’m finished with my first cup of coffee, the tension in the room is palpable.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch my dad finish his last piece of bacon and push his plate away. Mom takes it to the sink, then pulls out the chair opposite mine.

Here it comes.

They trade a glance. My mom clears her throat. “Eden, sweetheart, we’re so glad you’re home.”

“Very glad,” echoes my dad.

He reaches for her hand; their fingers clasp together tightly. As they stare at me, I start to get a bad feeling. Like I’m on the Titanic but don’t know it.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Another shared look, this one full of resolve. My mom is the one who speaks, her voice shaking a little.

“Sweetheart, we need to talk to you about your adoption.”

Not the iceberg I’d been expecting.

Not even close.