My parents’ flight is mid-afternoon the following day. I spend the morning with them, putting on a brave front and studiously ignoring their concerned looks. They know I’ll tell them the reason for my puffy eyes when I’m ready. They won’t push me for details or judge. And they love me enough that they don’t once mention him, the party, or the Mercedes we returned this morning.

Instead, we talk about my plans for the future. The room near campus I’m subletting until I can find a job and get a place of my own. The long drive from Los Angeles to Oregon and where I’ll stop halfway for the night. Things I want to do while I’m at home before my final move date of August 15th.

By the time I drop them off at the airport, I’m exhausted, and by the time I get home, I can barely keep my eyes open. Stumbling into my bedroom, I fall onto my bed and bury my face in a pillow with lumps that only remind me of the perfect pillows in Liam’s bed. And Liam.

He hasn’t tried to contact me since the party. A few texts from people who were there informed me of what happened after I left.

Nothing.

Liam had walked out of the bedroom a few minutes later, told everyone to enjoy the property until dawn and the cars until the following day, then left. No tires had squealed. No bottles had been thrown. He was, as always, in control of himself and his surroundings.

I think of the traces of me left in his home. Flowers on the kitchen island. Clean underwear in the corner of a dresser drawer. A toothbrush sharing a cup with his.

What will he do with the pieces of me? Better yet, what will I do with the pieces I have left?

Tears come, hot and silent. Knowing that this moment was inevitable doesn’t lessen my pain. In fact, it’s magnified from what it might have been.

We’d never explicitly discussed our relationship past August first, and I’d allowed myself to hope that he would want to try long-distance. The flight from Seattle to L.A. was a short one; we could spend weekends together here and there. I’d fly down on every break. Spend the summers with him.

I’m a fucking idiot.

None of this would have happened if I’d said no. If I hadn’t in that pivotal moment thought of the woman who, in my inebriated state, I’d decided looked like me. If I hadn’t wanted the fearlessness I’d ascribed to her.

She’s a stranger I’ll never see again.

And so is he.

* * *

Karina and Raul show up at five with Thai food, a bottle of rum, and a beauty case with contents that remain a mystery until I’m drunk.

Among Karina’s many artistic talents is hairstyling; she’d gone to cosmetology school right out of high school, worked for a year in a salon, then decided she’d rather stab herself with shears than cut hair.

I tell her to do whatever she wants.

To my surprise, she only gives my long hair a trim and some flattering layers. The actual shock comes when she mixes a bowl of dye, applies it with a color-brush and foils, and washes it out fifty minutes later.

“Parting gift from the land of plastic tits,” she says, our eyes meeting in the bathroom mirror as she finishes blow-drying my hair.

“I’m blonde,” I say, hiccuping.

Raul pops his head in, grinning when he sees me. “Oh shit, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Karina rolls her eyes. “Do you like it, Eden?”

I nod. I actually do like it—she didn’t bleach me so much as brighten my existing color. But I still look different. Me but not me.

A new me.

“It’s perfect.”

Raul checks his watch. “Ready to roll, K? We’ve got twenty minutes to get to work.”

They leave me with the rum, leftovers, and promises to check in on me tomorrow.

I fall asleep on the couch watching Seinfeld. I dream of hands in my hair and a kiss on my forehead. The sensations are so real, I even smell his cologne.

I wake the next morning to a hangover from hell, blonde hair, and a postcard of the Santa Monica Pier resting in my lap.

With shaking fingers, I lift the postcard and turn it over. Three words. His slanted handwriting.