We strolled toward the water tower after that, hand in hand. I was boarding a plane later this evening. I didn’t know the next time I could come visit. Technically, I could come next weekend, if Mom was okay. But what if she wasn’t? Leaving her side now felt like Russian roulette.

“So. This long-distance shit,” I broached.

We both looked forward, at the water tower, not each other.

“We’ll make it work,” she said.

“We have to,” I insisted. “And not just this year.” I stopped. She stopped. The entire world stopped.

This was hard. And necessary. No man should have to choose between the love of his life and the woman who gave him life. But here I was, in front of some fucked-up Sophie’s choice. The boy or the girl? The mother or the girlfriend?

The love of your life or the woman who gave you life?

“I’m not going anywhere, Luna. I’m staying in Todos Santos to be there with my mom. This year. Possibly next year. Definitely for the rest of her days. And if my mom…” I started, but she put her fingertips to my lips.

A tiny, barely visible shake of her head told me not to continue.

I cleared my throat. “Regardless of Mom, I will need to be there for Levy and Dad.”

After.

“We’ll make it work.” She brushed her thumb across my cheek.

“I’ll need you. All the freaking time.”

“I’ll try to transfer to UCLA. Might work. We’ll see.”

“Thank you.” I was too desperate to do the chivalrous thing and tell her to stay here if she was happy.

How the fuck was I going to survive until then? If she was even going to get the transfer.

She rose on her toes, wrapping her arms around my neck. She touched her lips to mine. There was something about that kiss that promised more.

An I love you.

If she said it, I promised myself, I would stop drinking. I’d hold on to it in my darkest hours. I’d be good. Or at least better than I was right now. For her.

I love you, I told her in my head. I love you, I love you, I love you.

For some reason, it was important for me to hear her say it first. I was so obviously blindly, pathetically in love with her, I needed her to show me this meant something for her, too.

Her mouth opened. My goddamn heart was about to burst.

“Ride or die,” she whispered.

I smiled, my disappointment leaking through the cracks of my soul.

“Ride or die, Moonshine.”

On my cab ride from the San Diego airport to Todos Santos, my fingers closed into a fist around three Xanax pills. I looked out the window, willing them to crush into powder so I could slide them easily into the mouthwash I had in a Starbucks cup. The high was faster when they were powdered.

The hospital.

I was going straight to the hospital.

The cherry on the shit cake, I thought as I tossed the pills into my mouth, was Dad refusing to tell me what was up. The worst possible scenarios rolled through my mind. Mom had sounded so weak on the phone.

She really is dying.

She’s already dead.

She is brain dead.

Dead, dead, dead.

We were rich. We were healthy. We were strong. Invincible, really. So why couldn’t we stop it from happening?

I resorted to texting Aunt Em.

Knight: Just tell me she’s alive.

Emilia: She is.

Knight: Y is Dad being an asshole, then?

Emilia: Have you been taking care of yourself over there?

Uh-oh. She didn’t even give me shit for my nonexistent grammar and for cussing Dad. Not a good sign.

Knight: Tell me what to prepare myself for.

Emilia: Reality.

I hated everyone. Other than Luna, maybe, but I couldn’t talk to her before I had more information. It was the middle of the night in North Carolina now, and she had school tomorrow.

When the cab slid to the hospital curb, I stumbled out, the Xanax and alcohol already kicking it in my bloodstream. I decided it was probably a good idea to alternate between mouthwash and actual liquor when I almost threw up on the front desk while asking for Mom’s room.

The overnight receptionist directed me to the end of the hall. As I zigzagged my way there, my phone began to buzz in my pocket. I took it out, hoping Luna had a sixth sense.

Alas, it was Dixie. I sent it straight to voicemail and texted, All good, speak soon.

My dad was standing in the hallway, looking like a piece of dried toast—crumbling at the edges, completely burned out. The minute he saw me, instead of hugging me, or telling me it was good to have me back, or asking me, oh, I don’t know…how the fuck I was doing, he scowled and threw an accusing finger my way.

“You.”

“Me,” I pretended to yawn, getting near him.

Big mistake. Huge. Now he could smell the mouthwash. He wasn’t stupid enough to think I’d gone all dental-hygiene crazy in the span of a weekend.

“Nice touch, son. Showing up here reeking of alcohol when your mother is hospitalized.”

“Thanks, man. And I appreciate you keeping me in the loop as to what the fuck is going on with said mom.” I collapsed onto a blue chair outside her room.

He was right, though. She didn’t have to be healthy to know I looked like shit and smelled not much better.

“Where’s Lev?” I asked.