I know. I know. I shouldn't have blown Marco off like that. I sent him a text on the way to Caitlin's, telling him that something had come up and I wouldn't be home that night. Yes, I'm a terrible person. He sent a one word reply, "OK". I tried to convince myself that he'd accepted my excuse, not wanting to think that – actually – he was disappointed in me.

"Here we are", Caitlin half sings, swinging open the door to her apartment. It's larger than I'd imagined it would be, and filled with boxes – she'd obviously moved in quite recently.

"You can put your bag and coat over here", she tells me, unzipping and pulling off her boots. I follow suit.

"Are you sure you don't want to swing by your place and pick up pyjamas or anything?"

And have to deal with Marco? "I'm sure. Thanks for letting me crash here."

To her credit, she takes the hint and leaves the subject alone. I wander through the living room, while Caitlin perches awkwardly on the end of her couch. There's an uncomfortable silence for ten minutes or so. I pick up a framed photograph of a teenage girl with two adults. The girl's smile looks fake and forced.

"Is this you?" I ask, holding the photo up.

"That's me." She stands next to me and runs a finger down the side of the frame. "I don't know why I have that picture framed, let alone on display on my coffee table."

I had every intention of using Caitlin solely as a place to sleep for the night, but my journalistic curiosity gets the better of me.

"Why not?"

She takes the frame from me, and sits down on the couch. I follow.

"It wasn't the greatest time of my life."

"You don't look very happy in the photo."

She's silent for a minute. "I wasn't. This was taken a few weeks after I discovered my father having an affair. I was mad at him, and feeling guilty for not telling my mother about it." She laughs bitterly. "Then, when I did tell her, it turned out she already knew. And she was okay with it. I couldn't … I can't understand it. How, why she could be okay with it. How they could stay together." She turns to face me, eyes earnest. "Ellie, I am so sorry. Really. I hate what I've put you through."

"It's okay." And surprisingly, I realize that it is. "You didn't know. Jesse, on the other hand – all the blame should be on him."

Caitlin smiles at me, but her eyes remain troubled. "I never have been able to master the dating thing. Joey – Craig's stepdad – and I have been hooking up and breaking up forever, ever since Junior High. Also, there was a guy at High School who seemed pretty great … until he left me stuck to a fence to get in trouble with the police. Don't ask. A year on he started stalking me, sending me flowers and letters. I kept asking him to leave me alone, and then one day he told me goodbye. I thought good, he's going to back off. Wrong – he was found in a stall in the boy's washroom later that afternoon. Shot himself in the head. At university a guy dates me for three months as – get this – a behavioral experiment for Psychology class. I was engaged once – less said about that, the better. Kevin Smith – again, less said."

I feel a strangely comforting sense of solidarity with her. "My first boyfriend turned out to be gay. Which he discovered while we were dating. He wanted to keep it secret for a while, so we kept dating … Sean, you remember Sean? Skipped town and left me with an apartment I could barely afford. Then C –, this other guy, seemed like he really liked me. But in the end he was interested in the school slut. And then there's Jesse. Who I'm obviously too boring for."

We sit in silence, then Caitlin laughs. "We sure are a pair, huh? Hey, you wanna order some pizza? It's dinner time."

We order pizza and sit there eating and talking, until there's a knock on the door. Caitlin looks confused, but only for a second. "Crap, I forgot. A couple of my friends were gonna come over after dinner tonight. Is that okay with you?"

It's funny that she asks, because it's her apartment, and they're here now, but I nod anyway. She opens the door and in walks Mr Simpson with a woman who I assume is his wife.

"Spike, Snake, hi. Come in, make yourselves at home. This is Ellie, she's visiting for a bit."

"Miss Nash, how are you? How's university?" Mr Simpson settles into an armchair.

"It's … good, Mr Simpson. Really busy though, I can't believe how much more reading there is. It's hard to keep up sometimes."

"Call me Snake. And I'm sure you're doing fine, you've always been a smart girl."

"She sure is." Caitlin joins us, sitting next to me.

"I know The Grapevine is really missing you. The paper hasn't quite been the same since you finished school. Have you kept up writing at university?"

Right, things may be about to get awkward … "I … tried to. I was writing for my university's paper, The Core, but it was cutting into my study time too much. Maybe I'll be able to pick it up again later."

Thankfully, Mr Simpson's wife joins us at that point, with a bottle of wine and glasses in hand. He introduces the two of us, and she pours everyone a glass of wine. I take mine hesitantly, thinking of Mom, and sip it slowly throughout the evening. Someone suggests a game of Pictionary, which Caitlin retrieves from a moving box. We split into teams – Caitlin and Mr Simpson, and Spike and me. (Husband and wife would know each other too well, and have a distinct advantage.) I find myself having fun and the evening passes pleasantly.

"Snake, how is that supposed to be Africa? It looks like a Duck!"

"How can you not get that it's Africa? Look, there's Egypt, there's Madagascar –"

Caitlin tries to stop laughing and breathes slowly. "Oh really? I thought that was the duck's tail."

Spike and I smile at each other. We're well ahead at this stage.

Mr Simpson – Snake – picks up the bottle of wine. "Top up, anybody?" I decline, still having half a glass left. Spike holds her glass out for him to refill. "Caitlin?"

She waves him off. "I better not, with my epilepsy."

"More for me then."

"I hope that's going to help your drawing skills, Snake."

"My drawing skills, Miss Ryan? It's not my fault that you can't recognize Africa when you see it."

"Not when it looks like a duck, no!"

Spike and I end up winning by a large margin, and Caitlin and I say goodnight to the couple. She hands me some pyjamas and I get changed in the bathroom. She's making up the couch when I come out.

"I can do that, Caitlin."

"Don't worry, it's fine – I feel bad that I don't have a bed to offer you."

"The couch is fine … I'm just glad to be out of my flat for a bit."

Finishing arranging a couple of pillows, she sits down on the made up couch and pats the spot next to her. I sit down cautiously.

"I hope tonight wasn't too horrible for you? I'm sorry, I'd forgotten that Snake and Spike were coming over."

"No no, it was fun." And it had been. It had felt … homely. I tried to think of the last time I'd had a night like that. Home, with my parents, was tense and had been ever since Dad got news of his deployment. And before then, come to think of it – I'd just kept waiting to hear of his next trip overseas. And at my flat, well, there was Paige. So I always had my guard up.

I wish things could be different. I wish I could always feel as happy and as comfortable as I had the past few hours.

Caitlin's hand is on my cheek, and I realize that I'm crying. Damnit. Stop it, Ellie. Now. Stop. It. More tears fall as quickly as I can brush them away. Unfortunately, as I'm reaching up for the twelfth time my sleeve slips, exposing a patch of marred skin. Knowing that it's too late, I push my sleeve down. Caitlin deftly catches my arm in her hand. I look away, trembling, as she rolls the sleeve up towards me elbow. Her fingers brush across my wrist and I shiver.

"Sorry", she apologises. I turn back and see her trace the marks on my arm. Old, white scars. Raised scars. Newer pink and shiny scars. Even newer red, still healing cuts.

Caitlin had never known that I cut. Not while I was interning for her, when I first started. Not in the years to come when I'd call her for journalism advice. Never. But she seemed to be taking it better than anyone else had upon discovering my dirty secret. Still holding my arm in one hand, she gives me a hug with her free arm. I'm disgusted to realize that I'm now desperately sobbing.

"Ellie … Ellie … Sweetie. You're okay."

We stay like that for a good ten minutes before I pull away. "Sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about, sweetie. But I'd really like it if you talked to me about whatever's bothering you."

I cave and tell her. About Dad, about Mom, about living in my flat. She listens, without judging, giving unsolicited advice, or getting emotional herself.

It was kind of nice.