For me? I dread home. Every bit of it.

I haven’t faced my mother since I ran out of the house during my last episode. Fear of what will be waiting for me pulls at my chest.

Charlie reaches for my hand and brings it down from my face. I didn’t realize, yet again, I’ve been chewing the inside of my cheek. “Do you want to stay at my house? You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” she says softly.

I shake my head, let out a long shaky breath, and force a smile as I face her. “No, but thank you—for everything.” I reach over, wrap my arms around her, and squeeze her in a hug.

“Of course,” she mumbles into my hair. “Always, Jenna. If you need me to come pick you up, I’m only a phone call away. Okay?” I nod and pull away.

After collecting my luggage from the trunk, I wave good-bye to my friend and walk up the pathway toward the double wooden doors. The entire time, my mind races with various scenarios of what to expect on the other side. I freeze once I reach the first step of the porch. My hand grips the handle of the black luggage. My teeth skillfully maneuver the raw meat of my inner cheek, gnawing away. My heart thump thumps in slow motion, yet every nerve in my body is sensitive, on high alert.

Take a step, a soft voice in my head urges. I’m not sure if it’s mine, but I do what it says. Another step. I do it again. One more. Now at the top, I move forward to the door. Grab your keys. I reach in my purse and dig them out, searching for the right one. I place it into the keyhole.

Click.

It unlocks. Cautiously, I tap a finger against the door. It swings open. I blink a few times and look straight ahead. It’s exactly the same, except the black and white marble tiles in the foyer are shinier. The large round table is still there; the only difference is the color of the fresh-cut roses in the center. These are pink. It’s quiet. Eerily quiet. Swallowing back my anxiety, I step in, close the door behind me, and quickly run up the stairs.

* * *

One Day Later.

“Hello?” I answer the call on the first ring.

“Hello, Jenna. It’s Tiffany.”

“Hi, Tiffany,” I respond to my father’s assistant for the last ten years.

“Your father asked me to call you. He wanted you to know he received your text, and it just so happens an opening for tomorrow is available. Would you like to have lunch with him at noon at the restaurant Moon?”

“Okay.”

“Great! I’ll schedule you in. I’ll have a driver pick you up around an hour and a half prior. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great. Thanks again.”

The call ends.

* * *

Dresses are not my thing; I hate them. I just feel out of place and boyish when I wear them, which is weird, actually, since dresses are the most feminine attire women can wear. Most women feel sexy in them. I just don’t. Yet here I am, standing before a tall mirror in my bedroom, wearing a pale yellow knee-length, strapless sundress. I could change into something a bit more comfortable, but since it’s lunch with my father and I want to look my best and Moon’s such an upscale place, my usual ripped-up jeans, loose T, and flats probably wouldn’t be received too well.

I take in a soothing breath as my eyes scan over my reflection. My hands pat over the loose waves of my hair to smooth down any flyaway strands. There’s nothing else I can do to perfect my appearance. It is what it is. I turn on the heels of my nude open-toe shoes and tread out of the room and down the stairs—very carefully, since heels aren’t my friend either.

For the past two days, I’ve made sure to stay locked in my room to avoid my mother. I’m not ready to face her yet. Even though it’s been four days since our last disastrous encounter, I just can’t bear to see her. I know what will happen anyway. It’s not the first time we’ve had an argument. When it happened before, we’d either ignore each other, as if the other didn’t exist, or she’d ask me a question about something irrelevant, like the newspaper or the weather, when the silence between us became strangely awkward—anything to spark a conversation. Depending on my mood, I’d ignore her or respond with a low one-word answer. And then the next day, she’d act as if nothing had happened.

My mother and I never discuss our feelings or talk out our issues. We leave them behind us and move forward. Some say it’s good for the soul to leave your troubles in the past, but I think that’s bullshit. If you can’t resolve it in that very moment, or even try to, how is it good for the soul? For me, moving on and ignoring the animosity that exists between my mother and me only darkens my soul and reaffirms my mother’s rejection.

Well, screw that. I’m not dealing with her today.

With my clutch in hand, I open the front door and step out into the sweltering mid-June heat. My skin begins to prickle from the sun immediately. I continue down the pathway, at the end of which is my father’s driver and a limo. In one hand he’s holding the back door open for me, and in the other, a gorgeous bouquet of yellow roses. I can’t contain the smile tugging at my lips. Every time Dad took Brooke and me on one of our father-daughter dates, he always had one of his drivers meet us, and they always had our favorite flowers: red tulips for Brooke, yellow roses for me.

A loud thump draws my eyes to the right. Logan is jumping off the back of his pickup truck when I spot him. He tosses a stack of two-by-fours over his shoulder and carries them across the lawn. My stomach twirls as I appraise him. His Phillies baseball cap is pulled down low, obscuring his eyes, but I can imagine the clear blue of them just fine. My tongue darts out, wetting my dry lips as I watch his sketched, bulging arms flex through his sleeveless shirt. He looks good with tats. Really good. For the better part of the weekend, we were up close and personal, but I still have no idea what kind of ink he’s sporting. I couldn’t risk him catching me studying his arms. There was just no way to do it surreptitiously, and it would have felt too personal to ask him about them. I didn’t want to give him the idea I was interested after all.

Logan’s head turns my way. He catches me staring and flashes a white, toothy grin. My heart skips a beat.

Shit.

“Hey, Jersey,” he shouts. Then he drops the wood down in front of him and lightly jogs my way. Why am I so damn nervous? We had a good weekend together, but I shouldn’t feel this fluttering in the pit of my stomach. “Hey,” he says again with a smile. Small beads of sweat glisten on his upper lip and neck.

“Hey,” I respond.

“You look really nice. Hot date?” he jokes.

I peek over to the driver, and then back to Logan, who follows my gaze. His smile falls a bit.

“Something like that,” I respond. What the hell possessed me to say that? It’s not like I’m trying to make him jealous or anything. But then again, it’s none of his business. Maybe if he thinks I’m dating, he’ll get the hint and won’t ask me out again.

“Oh. Well, he must be one hell of a guy,” he says. Then he fidgets with the rim of his cap, pulling it lower.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I mean, it’s obvious. Look at me. If you passed up on something like this, the tool must be a hell of a guy, that’s all.” He’s joking, but something tells me it’s a cover-up. Either way I laugh because he has this amusing side of him that makes it difficult not to smile or giggle or find his charming sense of humor intriguing.

“You know, I’ve never met such an egotistical man.”

“Pfft. Imagine how I feel. I have to live through it. It’s not easy being me, Jersey.”

“Jersey? Is this a new name for me?” I ask, amused.

“Yeah. I figure two friends like us should have nicknames for one another.”

“I see. I don’t like nicknames, but I think I can come up with something for you.” I smile.

“Make it good, Jersey. You only get one shot at this. If it sucks, then you lose.”

“I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”

He leans in, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I didn’t think so either, since I’m not so keen on playing games. But there’s nothing wrong with a little fun.” His voice is low, rough. He’s not talking about the nicknames anymore; he’s talking about us. Before I can think of a witty response, Logan looks over at the car waiting for me. He straightens up and adjusts his cap again. “Well, I don’t want to keep you,” he says, suddenly upbeat.

I breathe in the chemistry wrapping around us. I feel it. I see it in his grey-blue eyes and right now, I want him to keep me. I want him to continue his attempts at flirting. I want him to make me smile, make me laugh, and bring back the side of me I’ve missed for so long. But then reality sets in. It whirls back around to the forefront of my mind, sweeping away any hopes I have of normalcy, of affection, of…love. Again, I’m reminded of all the reasons why Logan and I can’t be more than what we are. I let out a slow breath, one I’d been holding since he leaned in close enough to kiss me. “Okay. Well, um, chat soon?” I ask nervously.

“Yeah, sure.” He nods and turns away, walking back to the stack of wood assuredly. I watch as he bends over, picks it up, and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back.

* * *

The drive into Manhattan is better than I had anticipated, except for one thing—the entire drive all my thoughts trail off to Logan. I question whether I should just come clean and tell him about my “issue.” At least that way if he wants to back off, he can. It won’t bother me. I’ve only known him for a little more than a week. And we haven’t shared anything more than what we’ve shared, which isn’t much.