I tell my mom everything I know, which let’s face it, isn’t a lot. She listens carefully but doesn’t say much other than a gentle nod or murmur of agreement.

It takes my mom over twenty minutes to convince me to take a shower. I finally agree but only if she promises to not change the bed sheets, because they still smell like him. She agrees, but when I return to my bedroom, the bed is freshly made and the old sheets—Jesse’s sheets—are gone.

“Mom,” I cry, already walking toward the kitchen to where I hear water running. “Mom. Where are my sheets?”

She stands in front of the sink, hands encased in rubber gloves as she scrubs the mountain of dishes that I’ve neglected to clean. “In the wash.”

“You promised!” I scream, surprised by the anger flowing through my veins.

She turns off the faucet and takes off the gloves. “Riley.”

“How dare you?” I slam my fist against the table. “You had no right to do that.”

She holds her hands up as she approaches. “Riley, sit down.”

“What?” I yell. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not a child!”

My mom’s voice rises considerably. “You’re acting like a child.”

“This is my apartment.” Technically, it’s hers, too, since my parents help me pay for the rent, but whatever.

“Sit down.” She speaks more firmly as she loses her patience. When I don’t immediately sit, she narrows her eyes.

Begrudgingly, I pull out the stool and drop my head onto the counter.

She sits on the stool next to me. “I talked to Ms. Collins.”

I jump forward. “What? When? What did she say? Is Jesse okay?”

My mom closes her eyes. “Yes, Jesse is okay.”

The relief hits me all at once, and I begin to sob, ugly, loud cries. My mom pulls me into her embrace and rubs my back, soothingly. “Honey, he’s fine. He’s with his dad in North Carolina.”

I lean away. “Why? What’s he doing there?”

My mom takes both my hands in hers. “Honey, he’s living there. He’s arranged to complete his one-year probation using his dad’s address.”

“No.” I snatch my hands away. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would he do that?”

She releases a long, slow breath, and it whispers across my skin. “I don’t know.” She purses her lips. “Did you two have a fight?”

I shake my head. “No, Mom, we didn’t fight. The night before, we—” I stop myself before I say had sex. “When I woke up he was gone.”

Her brows pull together in thought.

“There has to be an explanation.” I stand and pace around the small, circular island. “You don’t just decide to drop out of someone’s life forever.”

My mom nods her head. “Maybe you should give him some space. The assault charges are serious…maybe he’s scared.”

She might be right, but if he’s scared, why did he run away? He had me. I was there for him. I’d support him no matter what.

“Just give it a little time.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sure it will all work out.”

* * *

My mom is like an infectious mold—I can’t get rid of her. She stayed with me the next four nights and agreed to leave only because Mikayla has dance class and my dad doesn’t know how to arrange her hair in a bun. Mikayla cried for ten minutes straight last night on the phone when my mom suggested she wear it in a ponytail.

I envied Mikayla and her frivolous problems. One minute you’re a kid, crying because your mom won’t style your hair, and the next you’re an adult whose heart is ripped into a million pieces and your mom wants to help but she doesn’t know how. And neither do you.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure her, as I follow her onto the hall landing. “I only have one class tomorrow.”

She smiles and nods. “I know, I checked your schedule.” I suppress an eye roll as she continues, “A few more weeks and then you’re done. Hang in there.”

“I will.”

“And I’m only a phone call away if you need to talk or vent or…”

“I know.” I wrap her in a hug. “Thanks for everything.”

She meets my gaze. “I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but you’ll find your way.”

I nod even though I don’t agree.

Jesse isn’t going to call. He isn’t coming back. He’s gone forever.

Her cell phone buzzes in her purse and she scans the screen. “That’d be your sister wondering where her stylist is.”

“You better go.” I shake my head. “Duty calls.”

“Love you,” she says as she descends the stairs. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

“Okay.” I make my way back inside the doorway. “Love you, too.”

When the door’s finally closed, when the deadbolt slides into place, when I hear the sound of her car engine roar to life, only then do I allow the fake smile to slip away. I allow my shoulders to round, and allow my hopelessness, my despair, to bleed through.

No pretending that I’m okay.

Because I’m not.

And I don’t think I ever will be again.