After our Vampire Diaries and mint ice cream marathon, I flop into bed, too tired for any more crying. The next few days, as Allan barrages me with texts, every time I think about the app, I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I know what I have to do; I just don’t want to do it.

I ignore Angel’s urges to talk to me. When she finally corners me in the bathroom (as I’m shaving my legs, no less), I avoid her eyes but finally tell her.

“Would our friendship be over if I told you I wasn’t sure I still wanted to go through with the app? If I was thinking of calling Allan up and telling him to count me out.”

Silence, and then a Cheeto is flung at my head.

“Eva Angelica Lynn. What kind of friend do you think I am?”

Next thing I know I’m being maneuvered into an awkward hug.

“Though you’re going to be with me every second of my new job search if that’s the case.”

When Angel extricates me, I shave a clear patch on my leg. She lingers in the doorway.

“Is that the case though, Eva?”

I shave another patch, though I miss a few hairs.

“I don’t know. It’s just a lot, okay? Everything that’s happened—my feelings for Allan, all the lies and then... this.”

I feel Angel’s hand on my arm.

“I know. But to throw all of this away over some jerk guy, some lying douchebag?”

I direct my angry gaze up to her.

“The very same lying douchebag we’re in business with! Do you really want to work with this guy? Be subject to his disappearances, his unpredictable moods? He could ruin everything on a fluke.”

Silence.

“But to not even try—after all we put into this app?”

I say nothing. Angel’s words make sense, but I don’t want them to. I don’t want to think about it, about anything right now.

Angel gives my arm one final squeeze before making her way to the doorway.

“Just tell me that you’ll think about it some more, okay?”

“Okay.”

And then, thankfully, she’s gone, and as my thoughts flash back to Allan and me, the way he looked at me as we were lying in bed, I realize I shouldn’t have let her leave at all.

—

THE WALLS ARE YELLOW. Yellow is a nice color—one of sunshine and rubber ducks, happy days and lemonade. This is not that kind of yellow. This is a faded, dirty sort of yellow, an unintentional yellow, a yucky shade. This is white gone grimy, dirt built up. The walls of my father’s nursing home should not be yellow, and yet, in a way, they’re perfectly fitting. Just right for the kind of place this is, the kind of place I sent him to stay. I didn’t have any choice.

I remind myself of this as I walk down the hallway of flickering lights and drawn-out stares, into the belly of this visitorless prison with a different name. Brooklyn Care Clinic isn’t for loved relatives, for people who have any other choice.

My father’s set up in the activity room as usual, sitting with a sort of memory of a smile. He points it at me when I approach. The TV’s on behind us, two old men flicking the channel back and forth—cartoons to history, history to cartoons. Maybe Dad’s smiling at that, or maybe it’s me.

I sit down across from him, wave.

“Hi, Dad.”

He nods, keeps the smile on. Something like recognition flickers in his eyes.

“I have some big news for you. Some really big news.”

No response.

“Though I don’t know if I should tell you. I don’t think it’s going to happen after all. I’m not sure if I want it to.”

Again, no response. The air here is stale pee and disinfectant; even the lights overhead look worn-out. There’s something like interest in Dad’s eyes, or maybe I’m imagining it. I take his hand and squeeze the collection of bones.

“I got this opportunity. A really great opportunity. I came up with an app—for cooking, of all things. It can make a recipe out of just about anything, and anyone can use it. Funny, right? If it goes through, if this all works out, I owe it all to you.”

Another nod, the smile hanging. I’m inches away from his face now, speaking right into his glassy eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Because the man I’m working with, I don’t know if I want to work with him. I mean, he’s a liar and a cheat, and, I don’t know, he may even be stealing the app from under me.”

Dad’s gaze is steady, steadier than mine is, at any rate.

“I know, I know. Okay, maybe he isn’t, but you don’t understand, Dad. I don’t want anything to do with him. He tricked me and lied to me, and if I never see him again, it’ll be too soon.”

Another nod and that never-ending smile. Maybe it never leaves these days.

“You’re right, it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t, but it does. He hurt me, Dad, he hurt me and I don’t want to build my future tied to him.”

And, reflected in Dad’s glassy eyes, I see it. My own determined face.

“It does matter, and yet, there’s something that matters more. Do you know what it is?”

I squeeze his hand, but there’s no response, of course.

“You. You, Dad. Because if I go through with this, if this gets as big as Allan claims, it’s going to mean big changes for me and you. I’ll finally have some extra money, a lot of extra money. I can get you out of here, to a good place. Where they can help you get better even.”

Now his placid smile has become mine.

“Because you will get better, Dad, you will. The nurse said it when you got checked in; you just need the proper care. You’re a fighter, Dad. Always was and always will be, and you know what? Screw Allan and screw what happened between us. I’m doing this.”

I stand up, releasing my father’s hand.

“Screw everything, because you are what’s important to me, Dad. You. You are the one who’s stood by me through everything, through Mom’s death, through my tricky teen years. Through culinary school and this chef pipe dream, you never stopped believing in me. So, you know what, Dad? You better say goodbye to this ugly, stinky old building, because you’re not going to be here for much longer. No, the next time I see you, I’ll be taking you out of here. Mark my words.”

Now my Dad’s grinning my same face-wide smile, the two of us smiling dopily at each other like the biggest crazies in this place. And maybe we are, but as I stride out of the stale-pee room and down the flickering-light hallway, past the dead-eyed receptionist and out the jerky automatic doors, one thing is for certain: I’m going through with the app. I’m going to try.