At breakfast the next morning, Nona says nothing about my puffy eyes, though two aspirin magically appear beside my plate when I leave the table to refill my coffee.

After we eat, she hands me a straw hat and puts me to work in the garden. We plant vegetables beginning with beans, beets, and carrots. Then cucumbers, summer squash, and the mandatory tomatoes. Finally, we plant basil, oregano, thyme, and sage.

Over the next four weeks, I spend a portion of every morning in the garden. Hunting weeds, aphids, and caterpillars, monitoring the drip sprinklers, and guiding tiny shoots of tomatoes, pole beans, and squash up their trellises.

At midday, I share lunch with my father and Nona in the big house. My father never asks why I’ve decided to stay in the guesthouse with Nona, and I don’t offer a reason. He’s gone a lot, anyway—playing golf, tennis, meeting friends for cocktails, lunches with old business associates. I don't know if he's seeing a woman, and I don’t ask.

The nights are the only challenging times, because when I close my eyes… Sebastian. The reason I haven’t moved into my old room is that I’ve become attached to sleeping in his bed. To the thrill of fictitious memories.

In the darkness and quiet, I torture myself with risks never taken, of a different past wherein I used to sneak into the guesthouse and into his bed on nights he was out late. In my fantasy, he comes home, buzzed and maybe already aroused from kissing a girl at a party. He finds me sleeping. Naked. For him.

I touch myself in the dark, climaxing fast every time. And then, as my body hums from his imaginary touch, I remember the things he said. The Candace I want doesn’t exist. And I wonder if he's right.

As more weeks pass and the weather begins warming, I spend afternoons either swimming, napping in the shade, or walking through the woods. Sometimes Nona joins me on my walks, but we don’t speak of Sebastian. We hardly speak at all, in fact, but it’s a peaceful quiet, without demands, deadlines, or expectations. The silence is important. Healing.

Slowly, I begin to search within for the thread that withered as my mother’s illness unfolded—the once-carefree version of myself. Candace of the skinned knees and midnight chocolate missions, with no worries outside of homework, homecoming, and soccer practice. The me that walked in the woods at night in a white gown.

I search, but I don’t find her.

* * *

The first week of June, I finally muster the courage to open the door of my mother’s art studio. Inside is a time capsule to the past. Paint-streaked tarps, half-finished canvases, palettes caked with layers of hard acrylics, and old brushes frozen and useless. Sponges, trays, knives, and the huge cabinet full of expired paints.

After opening the drapes and cracking the windows, I sit before a blank canvas in the corner of the room and think about how, in the summers, my mother used to try to wrangle all us kids into the studio to express ourselves. Despite her noble intentions, it quickly became clear that she couldn’t teach us anything except how to do whatever we wanted in whatever medium was appealing.

The boys invariably went for spray paints and acrylics while I loved charcoals. The classes—such as they were—never lasted more than a week before she threw up her hands and kicked us out. Until the next summer, when she’d try again.

Movement tickles my peripheral vision. I look over at my father, standing in the doorway.

“Here you are,” he says, smile faltering as he gazes around the space. “Wow, this sure brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say shortly, and stand, brushing the dust off the back of my shorts.

As I walk over to close the windows, he says, “Leave them open. It’s pretty stale in here.”

“Sure,” I say, and beeline for the door. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

His gentle hand on my arm stops me. “Are you okay?” he asks worriedly.

I offer a bright smile. “Great, thanks.”

I can tell he’s not convinced, but he smiles back at me. “I won’t be here for dinner, actually. I wanted to let you know. I’m meeting a friend in the city.”

I stiffen, holding my smile with effort. “Okay, have fun. I’m going for a swim.”

Ducking past him, I walk quickly down the hallway, down two flights of stairs, around a corner, and through the living room to the back door. Once outside, my heart rate slows and I can breathe again.

A half-hour later, I’m on a lounge by the pool listening to Vera bitch about the man she’s been dating for the last three weeks. We chat every few days, and based on the pettiness of her complaints, he’s actually a pretty nice guy.

“Seriously, he takes longer to get ready in the morning than I do,” she says, finishing out the latest round of whining.

I smirk. “He’s a model, Vera. What did you expect?”

“Ugh, I don’t know. Anyway, enough about me. How’s the nervous breakdown going?”

I laugh. “Fuck you.”

She chuckles. “How are you really?”

“I’m good,” I say, and strangely, I almost believe it. “It must be all this smog-free air. I’m sleeping better, drinking less coffee, walking and swimming a lot. Haven’t had a panic attack since I got here.”

Not a major one, at least.

“That’s awesome,” she says with rare solemnity. “I’ve been really worried about you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry about—”

“Stop apologizing,” she interjects gently. “You were out of your mind, and obviously Sebastian is a huge emotional trigger for you.” A pause. “Have you talked to him since the night you got there?”

“No. He made it pretty clear he wants nothing to do with me.” I take a deep breath. “You still haven’t told me about the gala last night.”

“Oh! Jesus, I’m sorry, you must be dying to hear. It was beautiful. Perfect. Bethany and the committee told me to pass along their thanks. They raised all the necessary funds and then some.”

I grin. “That’s great news. Did the governor make it?”

“Yep, and Alex and Thea were there. They're so freaking cute. I kept purposely running into them, shamelessly plugging my friendship with you.”

I frown. “Huh? Why? They know we’re friends.”

“I was angling for an invite to the wedding! You know, in case you find a plus one in the interim.”

I almost fall off the chair. “What?” I shriek.

Silence, then, “Oh fuck.”

A discomforting mix of hurt and joy slices through me. “Oh my God, my brother’s getting married? Was she wearing a ring?”

“Oh yeah. A solitaire, nothing extravagant. But it was blinding.” She clears her throat. “I think he asked really recently. Maybe even yesterday. Sorry, Candace, I didn’t think—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly. “I’m thrilled for them! I’m sure Alex will call soon.”

“He definitely will. Hey, before I forget, he mentioned something about Nona’s birthday that I thought you’d want to know.”

Thinking of the small, surprise dinner party I’m hosting tomorrow night for her, I ask, “Did he say he was coming? I texted him about it but he never got back to me.”

“I don’t think so, no, but he said someone might be flying back from Cambodia for it.”

For the second time, I almost fall off my chair. I sent the email invitation to Sebastian, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he might actually show.

“Are you sure that’s what he said?” I demand.

“Pretty sure. Alex mentioned that he was bummed he didn’t think he could make it, but hoped Sebastian could get the time off from filming.”

As if the man in question might suddenly appear poolside, I wrench my head around and survey the backyard, then stare at the house for signs of movement. Seeing nothing, I relax back into the chair, swallowing against the pounding of my pulse.

“You okay?” asks Vera with thinly veiled amusement.

“Great,” I say dryly, “except for the heart attack I just had.”

She laughs. “Not surprising. The few times I’ve been in the same space with the two of you—when you’re not being sedated for screaming at him—the sexual tension is off the charts. Are you going to sleep with him again?”

“No,” I say immediately, while my thighs quiver at the prospect. Then my rational brain kicks on, reminding me of our last conversation. And this time, I mean it when I say, “No, I doubt it.”

“Okay,” she says skeptically. “I’ve gotta run. Sorry about spilling the marital beans. Love you.”

“No worries, V. Love you, too.”

We hang up. I turn again, staring at the house until my eyes burn. Finally, when I’m convinced no one’s lurking inside, I walk to the edge of the pool and dive in. Twenty-five laps later, I’m sane again.

The rest of the day passes without fanfare, save for a phone call from Alex late afternoon. After squealing my head off, I run into the guesthouse and put him on speakerphone. Nona and I happily listen to a play-by-play of the proposal. By the time the call wraps up, we’re both teary. If there’s anyone who deserves a happily ever after, it’s Alex.

Since my dad is out on the town, Nona and I don’t bother with the big house for dinner, instead sharing pasta primavera and warm, crusty bread at her kitchen table. After, we watch trashy television for a bit, and when my eyelids start sinking I trudge upstairs to bed. I pass out within minutes, curled in the bed that’s become mine, and it doesn’t cross my mind—not freaking once—that maybe I should be sleeping in my old room tonight.

Which is why, when a male body slides under the covers with me several hours later, I scream bloody murder.