“Hi, Mom,” I say, picking up her call. “How are you?”

“Are you okay?” Mom asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to make my voice sound like I’m fine.

“You sound upset.”

“No, I’m good.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”

“Did you go to class this morning?”

“Yup. Environmental law followed by employment law. Plus, I worked a full shift last night at the hotel before my classes and studied at the school’s library in between. I’m about to take a quick shower and head off to bed before starting it all over again tonight. Welcome to my glamorous life. So what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m just calling to say hi.” Mom proceeds to tell me she’s decided to redecorate the lake house again and that she’s agreed to organize a charity gala for a hospital.

“Sounds great,” I say, my eyelids heavy.

But Mom’s not nearly done talking. She goes on for a while about how the new maid she hired to replace the old one—who retired after eleven years of loyal service—is sweet as can be but doesn’t seem to possess enough attention to detail for her liking, which is a real pity, seeing as how Mom’s got particularly high standards for cleanliness.

“Sounds like a first-world problem, Mom.”

“Well, I didn’t say it was a tragedy. I’m just giving you a rundown of my life.” She pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a bit off.”

“I’m fine.”

“So are there any handsome future lawyers in your new classes this semester?”

“Yes, a few, but nobody I’m even remotely attracted to,” I say, and instantly regret it. Shit. Why do I constantly poke the snake? I’m pathological.

“Abby,” Mom says, years of exasperation with me instantly boiling to the surface. “Please try to give nice boys a chance for once. Would that be so hard?”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I’m just cranky because I’m tired. The truth is I don’t have time to date anyone these days, whether they’re a ‘nice’ future lawyer or a diabolical rock star.” Unless the rock star’s Lucas Ford, of course, and then I’ve got all the time in the world.

I can almost hear my mother’s furrowed brow across the phone line. “Well, that’s not healthy, either. You’ve got to have a little fun. Have you considered making an appointment with Dr. Carlson, just to check in?” she asks. “A little tune-up might be in order.”

“I don’t need therapy, Mom. I haven’t had an issue in years.”

“What would be the harm in a little check-in? Better safe than sorry.”

“It’d be a colossal waste of my time and money, both of which are in short supply these days.”

Mom makes a sound of complete exasperation. “Oh, Abigail, let’s please not talk about the money thing again. You know Daddy’s and my thoughts on that.”

“Mom, I wasn’t talking about money. I was only trying to say—”

“One day, you’ll thank Daddy and me for not giving you a handout for your education. Daddy didn’t get a handout from his parents and look what he wound up doing all on his own. It’s like Daddy always says, people value a thing so much more when they scratch and claw to pay for it themselves.”

“I wasn’t implying I need or want your money,” I say evenly. “I was simply trying to explain why I don’t need more therapy, that’s all. It’d be a pointless exercise because I already know exactly what we’d both say in the session. I’d say, ‘Hi, Dr. Carlson. Yes, I still lead an excruciatingly boring life. Yes, I’m still making healthy choices. Every day. Yes, I’m still fully committed to respecting myself and my body and I understand my sexuality isn’t a weapon that should be brandished to conquer men, especially not unattainable or unavailable ones. Rather, sex is something special that should be engaged in by two adult people in order to create intimacy as part of a committed relationship.’ I’d say all that and Dr. Carlson would reply ‘Wonderful, Abigail! Keep it up!’ and then I’d pay her an exorbitant amount of money and leave. I truly can’t fathom what would be the point of going to all that trouble when I can give myself an hour’s worth of therapy for free.”

“And here we are right back to money again.”

“What? Mom, no. That’s not what I meant. Are you listening to me at all?”

“Well, regardless, you know what Dr. Carlson says. You have triggers, Abby. Hit one of them hard enough on any given day and the floodgates might burst wide open on you.”

“My floodgates are firmly battened down, Mom. Don’t worry. They can’t possibly open even a crack when all I do is work, study, and sleep. Gimme a fucking break.”

“Abigail!” my mother gasps. “I will not tolerate that kind of language from you.”

I really am pathological. Why do I constantly do this? “I’m sorry, Mom. It just slipped out. I’m sleep-deprived. Forgive me. Please, don’t start thinking one F-bomb is a sign the ‘floodgates’ are opening. They’re not, okay? I’m battened down and buttoned up and making healthy choices every day of my life.”

There’s a long, awkward silence.

“Mom, please don’t worry about me. I know I put you and Daddy through a lot, and as I’ve said a thousand times, I’m genuinely sorry about all that. But that was a long time and many therapy sessions ago. I’m twenty-four now, not nineteen. I’ve got my head on straight, I promise.”

Mom sighs with relief. “I’m glad to hear it.” Her voice breaks. “I only worry because I love you so much.”

A lump rises in my throat. “I know. I love you, too. And Daddy. Will you tell him I said ‘hi’? I texted him yesterday and he hasn’t replied.”

“Oh, that’s because he’s in London on business. I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s got a minute.”

“That’d be great. Okay, well, I’d better get some sleep. I’ve got to work another full shift again tonight.”

“All right, darling. Sweet dreams.”

“Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

I hang up the phone and bring my half-empty plate of eggs into my kitchenette. I wash and dry my plate and put it neatly away, take out the trash, scrub my counters and pan, and then drag my tired ass into the bathroom for a shower.

Hot water pelts my sore shoulders and back, and my mind wanders. I don’t mean to do it, but I start thinking about how much pain I’ve caused my parents in my short lifetime. How much embarrassment. And then I think about how tired I am. How tired I always am. And, finally, I think about the tortured expression on Lucas’s face when the audience at his Denver concert demanded he perform the one song he simply doesn’t feel like playing ever again.

When I’m done showering, I slip into my pajamas and fuzzy socks, pull down the shades in my bedroom to block out the glorious, sunny day beckoning me, and lay my weary head on my pillow. Finally, I’m snuggled nice and cozy in my bed. I put an eye mask on, push earbuds into my ears, and press play on the first song on Lucas’s third album, letting Lucas’s beautiful, soulful voice usher me into blissful sleep.