On Saturday nights, Junior preferred to stay in.

Her vanilla cinnamon wax cubes had melted completely on her scent infuser, and her bedroom turned into a warm, spicy cocoon. She brushed off her copy of Pride and Prejudice, pulled up her layered comforter, and curled her toes.

She thumbed through the first page and was about to devour Austen's timeless prose when the shrill of her cellphone pierced into the peaceful haven.

The ringtone was some arbitrary Drake song, which only meant one thing:

Jake.

Junior stared at her phone, wondering if her hands would make a decision without her thinking, but they remained stagnant, paralyzed, hesitant.

She thought briefly about the time he selected that ringtone, remembering how he secretly stole her phone and purposefully chose that tone, it knowing that it would make her blush. He liked making her blush, at one point in their friendship.

Junior desperately missed that Jake.

She thought about which Jake was on the other line. Was it the Jake that would give her a copy of Sense and Sensibility and Seamonsters as a gag gift and give her incredibly helpful feedback on her research, or would it be the Jake that would only sometimes acknowledge her while at work, pretending that she was an acquaintance, if anything?

Did it matter?

"Jake," she pronounced his name carefully.

"Junior," his voice sounded exasperated. "I need your help."

She couldn't count the number of times he said this to her, but this time it sounded very different. "Yes. Anything," she breathed.

"I need you to bring my father to the lab," he rasped into the phone. "As soon as possible."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes," she said, and immediately hung up. Effortlessly, she leaped out of her bed. She pulled on her ratty Nikes while simultaneously slipping her bag over her shoulder and was out of the door in minutes.

Junior had completed plenty of Jake "rescue missions," from serving as his DD at high school parties to covering up for him whenever he missed their shared classes in college because of his "rough night" before, but there was an unshakeable urgency in his voice. It made her heart feel sore.

Ten minutes later Junior arrived at Jake's parent's house.

"Junior, it's almost midnight. Is everything alright?" Larry, Jake's father asked, genuinely concerned.

"Please, come in," his wife, Angela, urged Junior and motioned for her to enter their inviting household, but Junior was impatient.

"It's Jake," she blurted out loud. She felt her hands shaking and clasped them together. "There's something wrong with him and he's currently at the lab. He called me and asked me to bring you there, Dr. Arbogast. I don't know what's going on but he needs us."

Larry ran a hand across his balding head, trying to take in every word of Junior's speedy delivery.

"Oh, my…" his mother said, her hand covering her mouth.

"When did he call you?"

"Ten minutes ago."

"Did he mention anything specific?"

"No," Junior remarked. "I'm really worried about him."

His parents looked at each other for a brief moment, scanning their faces to make sense of it all. Finally, Larry looked at Junior and nodded. "Angela, please get my coat."

In the car, Junior and Larry said few words. Dr. Arbohgast was never short of jokes or crass anecdotes, but he was surprisingly mute. Junior tried to concentrate on the road but was too preoccupied with what she would see at the lab; she felt confident that Dr. Arbogast was thinking the same thing, too.

"How has Jake been? I mean, he's been kind of a hermit recently but we've talked over the phone," his dad asked Junior.

Junior couldn't answer that question honestly. The past few weeks weren't tense, per say, but they kept their distance. Through this unorthodox tango they continued a peaceful existence, ignoring each other's presence to eliminating the possibility of discussing their past history or Jake's erratic behavior. It made working at the lab somewhat bearable; Junior managed to go several minutes without thinking about him.

"He seems preoccupied," she replied softly.

"That's not how he makes it sound," Dr. Arbogast remarked, and Junior felt his eyes on her.

"What do you mean?" she cleared her throat and burrowed her brows.

"He speaks fondly of you. Made it seem like you spent a lot of time together. I figured if anyone knew what was going on right now it would be you," he said, and sighed.

"He and Quentin pretty much keep to themselves," Junior said, and was thankful that the darkness inside the car concealed her reddening cheeks. Did Jake really talk about her to his dad? This implied that he still thought about her, still found her relevant to mention to his family. That thought alone made her feel ridiculously and pathetically hopeful.

"Quentin. Never trusted that shmuck," he said with disdain. Junior wanted to voice an agreement but they were about to park outside the lab. It was starting to rain.

With a quickened pace, they approached the doors to the building. Junior used her card to swipe in for access, and together they meandered through the hallways until they reached the lab.

"I don't think anyone's here," Dr. Arbogast said, clearly panicked as he scanned the cubicles. "He's not here. Jake's not here," His imploring eyes bore into Junior's, desperately asking for help.

Junior, however, did not share this same sense of urgency. "Come with me," she instructed, and lead him to the one place where she keenly watched Jake mysteriously enter and leave for weeks, wondering what on Earth he was up to, but more importantly why he wouldn't tell her.

The lights to the bathroom flickered on as it detected movement from two very frazzled loved ones.

"Jake!" his father called out. They heard a moan from the last stall.

When she flung open the door, she gasped. Jake lay in fetal position, clutching his stomach. He acknowledged their presence with a groan. He looked very, very pale.

"Jake, what's wrong?" Dr. Arbogast pleaded as he approached his son, who barely opened his eyes.

"We're here to help," Junior said in a kind voice, and began cleaning the vomit from the side of his mouth. As she was tending to him, she spoke softly, lightly touching his face, doing anything to revive the old Jake.

"Junior," he said as his eyes fluttered open. His face cracked into a smile, which made her laugh with relief. "I miss –" he began, but then turned his head to vomit.

There was blood.

"Dr. Arbogast, we need to call 911," she ordered.

"No," he replied.

She faced him, appalled by his inability to see the gravity of the situation. She noticed he was cradling a small vial of blue liquid with a white cap between his fingers, a look of bewilderment and shock occupying his aging face.

"But Dr. Arbogast—," she tried to say, but he cut her off.

"Junior, we really appreciate your help, but I think I need to be with my son right now, alone, to assess the situation," he said, still looking at the vial as if he was trying to discern some secret code from it. "It can't be," he whispered to himself, then put the vial in his coat pocket.

Slowly, Dr. Arbogast lowered his rotund frame to tend to Jake. "Thank you for everything, Junior."

Junior bit her lip, and nodded. She felt uncomfortable, standing there, knowing that she was unable to assuage her friend's agony. More importantly, she felt uncomfortable seeing Jake in such a vulnerable state.

Jake.

The Jake with a build closely resembling to Thor.

The Jake who quietly logged the most community service hours in his fraternity for three consecutive years.

The Jake whose nonsensical humor made her laugh from the purest part of her heart.

Jake.

"If you need anything, let me know," she told them. Dr. Arbogast took his hands in hers and said thank you again.

Junior walked back to her car. By now the light showers that had begun earlier turned into a torrential downpour. As she sat in the driver's seat, she realized how grateful she was for the pounding rain, which stifled the echoing of her powerful, powerful sobs and aching sense of lonesomeness.