I want that light to stay red. I want it to keep me here. I want to stay stuck at this stoplight forever so the only thing I'll ever have to think about is riding home. But the light turns green and I speed away, the giant Bushwell Apartment building growing smaller in my side mirrors. The light turns green and Carly's plane lifts off the ground, bound for the other side of the world. The light turns green and, in the emerald glow of neon light reflecting off Seattle's perpetually rain-soaked streets, I cry.

It's been so long since I've slept in my own bed at my own house. Nearly a month. It feels weird to be winding down these streets again, gliding over the Interstate-5 overpass again, turning right onto my shabby little street again, and parking up against the chain-linked fence of a yellowing baseball field—again.

And as I kick the stand down and pull the keys out, draining my new bike of it's warm, glowing lights, I wonder how many times I've made the trip from Carly's to my house, and I wonder if I'll ever make this trip again. I wonder if I'll ever have the nerve to go back. To face him. To face them both. Because without her, I don't know who I am.

When I was little, my house was a fortress. The house itself is not impressive, and actually borders on embarrassing. The shutters are crooked and falling off and the second porch step collapsed in on itself a few years ago. No one bothered to fix it so now we just hop past it and take the stairs two at a time. My mom's justification for caring so little about upkeep is that the house itself is completely hidden from the street by an enormous weeping willow tree. Long, droopy branches hang across the roof like curtains and radiate out from the thick, splintery trunk, enclosing the entire front yard in a green terrarium. Nowadays it seems less like a fortress and more like a venus fly trap. But I'm soaked from the rain and a stranger's car is parked at the curb and the light is on in my mother's bedroom and I'm not sure if I'm ready to go inside yet, so I sit down with my back to the tree trunk, trying to remember what it's like to call this place home.

I'm shivering, soaked to the bone, with a tree root digging into my shoulder when I'm suddenly blinded by the light of my cell phone, ringing next to my head. I pick it up without even bothering to see who is calling.

"Hello?" I say.

"Sam? Hey, I just wanted to make sure you got home safe." It's him. It's Spencer. And I'm afraid to talk to him right now because I want to be done crying for the time being but it's just so hard when—

"Sam?"

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm home. All's good."

"Good."

"Good."

"So I'll see you tomorrow then." He asks so earnestly and it almost breaks my heart when I ask—

"Why?"

I wait as I hear him falter on the other line, as if the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Now that Carly is gone, why would I be coming over?

"Because you're always here. What do you mean 'why'?"

"I'm sorry, Spence."

"Why?"

I hang up the phone. He doesn't need to hear me cry.

The light is off in my mother's room when I finally give in to the cold and walk inside. I hide the motorcycle keys in my back pocket. I don't know why I don't want her to know about it yet, but I need a moment…or a day…or a week, before I can talk to her. It's been a while. I don't see my mother as much as the average under-18 should.

I'm not prepared for what I walk in to, but It's not an unfamiliar scene, so I slap on my Puckett charm and wipe the tears from my eyes.

"Who're you?"

There is a man in my kitchen that I have never met. What else is new? He appears to be drunk. His pants are unbuttoned, hanging from his boney hips. Judging by the tan on his finger, he's married. The pockmarks along the insides of his hairy arms give him away as a drug addict of some sort, just mom's type.

"Who are you?"

His voice is grainy and rough and sexy and I can see why my mom is fucking him. If you just shut your eyes, he sounds like a sex god. Must be a smoker. Or a big fat jazz singer underneath the skinny druggie get-up. But underneath the obvious sex appeal of sleazy-stranger-in-my-house, there's an inherent sliminess that makes my skin crawl. This seems to be another recurring theme amongst mom's boyfriends. They have a habit of making me uncomfortable. In numerous ways.

"I happen to live here. If you're done screwing my mom, I'd appreciate it if you left."

"No can do, sweetheart. I've already moved in." He winks and I bite my tongue to repress a gag. If he went into my room or so much as breathed on any of my stuff—

"And now you're moving out, so get your bags and leave." I demand, jutting a finger toward the door I'd just come in from. He only smirks and walks forward.

"Feisty. Just like Pam." His voice is softer, almost a whisper. A sultry whisper. He disgusts me. I back up as his toes touch the tips of my flip-flops and I try to move around him.

"I am not in the mood for this." I say, but his fingers are wrapped around my wrist and his lips are suddenly by my ear, whispering:

"I bet I can get you in the mood."

"Oh god, here we go." I roll my eyes and jerk my elbow back, digging it into his shoulder until he releases his grip on my wrist. I'm halfway across the room and halfway to the freedom of my closed bedroom door when he makes a last half-assed attempt.

"C'mon. Your mom's asleep. She won't have to know. It'll be our little secret."

"I can't tell you how many times I've heard that. Goodnight."

"What, no goodnight-kiss?"

"Fuck you!" I yell, disregarding my sleeping mother.

"I'd like that!"

My door slams shut in his face and the bolt slides over the lock. I need my best friend.

If you've known me for five minutes and I told you I wasn't hungry, you would know right off the back that something was majorly wrong.

I have not ate or left my room or moved from the dark confines of my empty closet for the past two days. My phone is on the other side of the door but I'm pretty sure it's dead. My mom hasn't tried to come in, so I'm guessing what's-his-face didn't tell her I showed up a few nights ago. I have no problem with that. My head is pounding and every part of me, right down to my toes, is throbbing. My eyes are dry and itchy and I haven't slept since I hid myself away in here. I could kill for a drink of water, but the act of getting up is too exhausting.

So clearly, something is terribly, terribly wrong.

And I don't think I'll ever be able to thank him enough for what he is about to do for me.

"Sam?" His voice drifts through the house like a slow, rolling fog. At first, I think I'm imagining it. Just the dehydration speaking. But when the closet door slides open and I'm thrown into a world of bright lights and smells and loud noises, his face is the first thing I see.

"Sam."

And then something in me breaks and I can't do this anymore. I'm exhausted. I don't have the energy to slap on my Puckett charm. I don't even have the energy to drag myself out of the closet. Only now do I realize how pathetic I must look. But his arms wrap around my legs and my back and I'm being carried out to the car and I don't care how pathetic I look. I just care that He's here. That Someone's here. That Someone still cares enough about me to worry, even when She isn't here to do it any longer.

I wake up on the Shay's couch…which I guess is just Spencer's couch now…next to a ham sandwich cut into animal shapes with cookie cutters and a tall glass of iced tea, but no Spencer in sight. I eat, figuring an empty plate is the best form of thanks when the deserving party is nowhere to be found.

Oh my god, you read all that? Thank you so much you make me smile super big!

CONFESSION TIME: This is my first story and while I'll try to be good about updating every week, I will make no promises. Feel free to badger me over PM or reviews to update and let me know what you think. All and any feedback is appreciated.

~Et L'Univers Implose