Obviously, Vic has not stopped drinking, because Heath is not home, because that would be insane and crazy and it’s just so clearly not true.

“Fuck,” Bella says, eyes wide after I tell her the whole thing.

“I know,” I say.

“Like, extra fuck,” Bella says again.

“Concur.”

“Extra fuck with guac on the side—“

“Yeah, got it, Bella,” I say, and sigh. “Did Jack say anything?”

“Nope. He didn’t know. If it’s true, anyway.”

“I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse. If he was back and told people but not me, I’d be mad, but at least I’d know it’s because he doesn’t care about me. But if he didn’t tell anyone…then maybe it isn’t true at all. Or maybe he can’t tell anyone and Vic just ratted him out.” I put my head down on the worn wooden table of the coffee shop. “What do I do?”

“I think…” Bella bites her lips. “I think you should ask your mom.”

“Uh, no. Because if I ask her, I’ll have to explain everything to her. And it’ll turn into this big thing, and she’s doing so well, Bella—“

“I know, I know,” Bella says, and places her hands over mind. “I get it. But for starters, your mom is only going to keep doing better if you stop treating her like a glass figurine. You did it when she was a shut-in, and you’re sort of doing it now too.”

I frown. “Wait, you really think that?”

“I do. I mean, I don’t think you’re shitty for it or anything, I just think that you and your mom…you were sort of the parent there, for a while, and it wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world for either of you.”

I make a face. “Heath said the same thing, you know. Well, sort of. That was kind of what we argued about…relationships with our parents.”

“It sounds like he’s mending his,” Bella points out. “Maybe it’s your turn.”

“Okay, okay— but can’t you give me your opinion too, before I get Mom’s?” I ask pleadingly.

Bella laughs. “My opinion? Do whatever it takes to get that piece of ass in bed again, because he was hot.”

“You’re no help,” I say, sticking my tongue out at her but laughing all the same.

I drive to my mom’s house, pleased to see that she’s finally opened all the blinds on the second floor of the house. The first floor is still shut up, but it’s progress. She’s in the backyard despite the cold, pointing at places for Simon to dig. True to his word, he’s come over once a week or so to help her replant her garden. Fear is a powerful motivator in teenagers, I guess— though I think he’s secretly enjoying it, and I can tell my mom is too.

“What could you possibly be planting in this cold?” I ask as I trudge through the backyard, scarf wrapped tight around my neck.

“Transplanting,” Mom calls out. “The fig bush that was over on the side yard gets too much shade now, so I’m moving it to where it’ll get more light. If it does well this spring I’ll make fig preserves again! If I remember how…”

“We’ve got two apple trees on order too,” Simon adds. “You’ve got to have two for apples, since they don’t self-pollinate.”

“I had no idea,” I say, grinning.

They finish up and we head into the house, where my mom immediately locks the doors behind her— old habits die hard, I guess. My mom then puts tomato soup from the fancy sandwich shop downtown (she was brave enough to go the other day and get some) on the stove before heading upstairs to close the blinds. I use the time to think on how to bring up Heath. She knew he was more than just a good friend that time he came over before, and I told her about him deploying, but she certainly doesn’t know we were…what we were.

Though to be fair, I don’t exactly know what we were either.

I hear her feet on the steps and exhale, then turn to face her. “Hey Mom, you remember Heath?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding at me. I frown— her face is hard and paler than I remember it being five minutes ago. She looks worried and anxious in a way she hasn’t looked for almost a month. The conversation about Heath is immediately swept from my mind as I hurry toward her.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“I’m fine— just having a little anxiety attack,” she says, voice faint.

“Oh— wow. Come on, sit down,” I say, ushering her toward the couch. “Did closing the blinds cause it?”

“No, I don’t want to sit,” she says, shaking her head almost frantically. She brushes my hand off her and gives me a firm look. “I’ll be alright. I think I ought to go to bed, actually.”

I stop, tilt my head. “It’s barely seven o’clock.”

“I know, but I think all the outdoor work today was just too much for me. I’ll call you tomorrow first thing, honey.”

“You want me to go?” I ask. She never wants me to leave when she’s having an attack. If anything, she wants me to sit with her in the locked bathroom until the feelings fade or the imagined danger is gone.

“I just think I need to get some sleep,” she says, and then she meets my eyes. It isn’t until her eyes are on mine that I realize just how hard she was trying to avoid looking directly at me. She quickly looks away, and I wonder— and then I know— that something is very wrong.

This isn’t anxiety. This is fear.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You want me to leave.”

“Yes,” she answers.

My mom is giving me an intense stare, and I can tell she’s trying to communicate something about whatever it is that’s going on— but hell if I know what.

“Okay— I’m heading out. See you tomorrow! Feel better,” I say, and hug my mom tightly. Then I walk to the front door.

The second I get outside I plan to call 911 and make sure the police are on their way. But just as I reach to turn the doorknob, someone speaks.

“Don’t fucking move another inch,” someone says flatly from the top of the stairs.

The black barrel of a handgun appears, held in a shaking hand. A manicured hand. Red nails, ringed fingers, the long sleeve of a blouse. The intruder takes a step and comes into full view. I never expected it, but in retrospect, I probably should have. I probably underestimated her.

I close my eyes to force a deep, long breath, then speak. “Hi, Aunt Lisa. I didn’t expect to see you here.”