I slept well past one p.m. the next day. It was a deep, coma-like sleep, thankfully dream free. It was over twelve hours of nothing but pure, unbreakable blackness. But as soon as I woke up, the bright afternoon light blinding me the second I opened my eyes, a mad head rush of dirty memories nearly knocked me back into oblivion.

I groaned, pressing a hand to my throbbing head, my eyes widening in shock when I distinctly felt the large vein pulsing through the skin of my forehead. I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled my way to the bathroom for a much needed shower.

One glance in the mirror sent me sprawling to the blue tiled floor in fright.

I looked like the Bride of fucking Frankenstein. On crack. After a night of heavy drinking. And quite possibly some sexual exploits of a questionable nature.

And there was the faintest of bruises beginning to take shape where Derek had pimp-slapped me.

When I finished scrubbing the throaty Derek filth from my body I staggered downstairs and into the obscenely sunbathed kitchen where my even more obscenely sunny mother was crumbling bread crust into some spicy smelling concoction that sat boiling on the stove.

"Well, welcome back to the world, Sunshine." She cooed at me.

The sun must've been out to get me that day. It was becoming a rather undesirable running theme.

I grunted at her and reached up to rummage through the cupboard in hopes that I would find something as simple as a poptart to satisfy the cramping, growling hunger I had recently discovered was Nazi-ing my insides.

My mother watched me curiously through her peripheral vision, probably freakishly aware that I was avoiding meeting her imploring brown eyes with my own bag-rimmed, bloodshot ones.

I sat myself down heavily at the table, two slices of plain bread substituting for the nonexistent strawberry poptart I had gotten a nasty sliver from the ripped up shelf searching for.

"So." My mother chirped, trying for Martha Stewart's sake to manage a multi-task of cooking and mother/daughter bonding without bursting a brain vessel.

I nibbled tiredly on my bread and let out a sigh, glancing up to see her stirring her pot of spices, her attention balance seemingly tilted toward making sure nothing boiled over.

"So." I responded, my voice a distant monotone. My mother shot me a sideways glance, as if my lack of enthusiasm for small talk originated from some deep seeded distaste for her personally, as opposed to the hangover I was struggling to pretend I didn't have.

My mother reached up to her homemade spice rack, picking up various bottles and reading their labels before settling on one and sprinkling some over the surface of her creation, the motion reminding me far too much of crop dusting.

She appeared to be losing her train of thought in the mixture, most likely because the smell, which was steadily growing more and more intense with each new addition, was slowly killing off all of her brain cells. However, just when I had resigned myself to the silent brunch I had been hoping for all along, she cleared her throat, "I haven't seen Percy in a while."

I turned back to the bread in my hands, "Yeah."

"He been busy lately?" She asked.

I shrugged, "Sure."

She stopped stirring long enough to study me in a very patient, motherly fashion, "With what?"

I was momentarily stunned by her ability to make her prying sound like casual conversation.

"He's the Homecoming King." I mumbled dejectedly through a mouthful of bread, "It's possible that that has something to do with it."

"Really? Well, that's exciting." My mother gave a mildly impressive impression of indifference, "Why didn't you tell me that sooner?"

Another shrug, "Slipped my mind."

Another pause in her all-consuming stirring, "Slipped your mind?"

I looked up at her, forgetting, in my agitation, to conceal my 'bad-behavior-revealing' eyes, "Yea, it slipped my mind."

"Slipped your mind?" She repeated once again, this time, accompanying the apparent disbelief with a patronizing hand on her hip.

"That, " I paused for dramatic effect, "is what I said."

In response to my sudden snarky tone, my mother pulled a very parental face and turned back to her simmering pot, "I heard you loud and clear, Lillian." She made a few vast, round strokes with her spoon, "So what happened?"

I glared up at her, "What?"

"With you and Percy."

". . . what?"

"Well, something happened." She stated matter-of-factly, "You're acting all weird and spazzy."

"Weird and spazzy?" I repeated her choice of words as if they left a sour taste in my mouth.

She nodded, lifting her spoon to her mouth to taste, "More so than usual." She offered the spoon to me, I grimaced and shook my head. She shrugged and took another taste herself, moving her tongue around for a moment before reaching for the spice rack and adding just a little more of something dark that smelled an awful lot like cinnamon.

As she blended this new addition into the pot, she glanced at me, "So?"

I sighed loudly and tossed my bread across the table, "What?"

She gave me a 'don't-you-take-that-tone-with-me-Sophia-Rose' look, "Fine, play dumb. But whenever you're ready to talk just come find me and I'll be more than happy to listen."

"There's nothing to listen to, mom." I said quietly, letting my head fall into my hands.

"Mhm."

I glared at her, daring her to oppose me. She didn't say another word, just continued stirring and tasting and stirring some more. After a pause so long one would think a new topic of conversation would be justly customary, I let out a groan and thumped my head on the table.

"We had a fight. It was stupid. I was wrong, and in a few days everything will be back to normal, and we can all be hunky-dory-dairy once again."

"What was it about?"

With my face still pressed against the cool table top, I mumbled, "What?"

God bless my mother and her seemingly bottomless pit of patience, "Your little fight."

I lifted my head and propped it up with my fist, "Something stupid."

"Yes, you said that."

"So why won't you leave it at that?" I asked edgily, growing more and more frustrated with each syllable that left her mouth.

She gave a nonchalant shrug and reached back to turn down the heat under her pot, "I don't believe you." She answered simply.

"Why not?"

"You have a tell, Sophia."

"A tell?" All I could imagine was playing an intense game of poker where emotions sufficed for chips and the cards were razor sharp.

My mother snatched a towel from the handle of the refrigerator behind her, "When you're sugar coating the truth is the only time I ever see you scratch at your cuticles."

I looked down at my hand. My thumb had taken on a mind of it's own and was pushing at the cuticle of my middle finger.

I yanked my hand back and tucked it under my armpit, "Sugar coating?"

"Of course, " My mother smiled at me as she wiped at the excess liquid that had dripped onto the counter from her taste-testing, " because my precious little daughter would never straight out lie."

Now I understood where my constant desire to be utterly sarcastic, even to the point of obnoxiousness, came from.

I shook my head and closed my eyes, "It was a huge fight, Percy was unbelievably wrong, and I'm not sure things will ever be okay again."

In an instant, my mother was sitting across from me, her hands folded in front of her, the remnants of my bread shoved to the side, and the sizzling blend of pungent spices left alone to get cold on the unignited stove top.

"Listen to me, Sophia Rose, " She said imploringly, "Whatever he did, know that I have never seen two people as perfect together as you Percy." She paused to reach over and hold onto my hand in that comforting way that only mothers can, "One of you will come around." She insisted softly, "You always do."

Despite the almost hopeful feeling her fervor gave me, all I could do was shake my head, "I don't think so, mom."

"Why not?"

"I've never been hurt like this before." I told her honestly.

She studied me for a minute, perhaps waiting for the whole story, but when no elaboration came, she pursed her lips, "That bad, huh?"

I sighed, "Decidedly worse."

"Well, " She sat back in her chair, "Consider all the rest. Are the past fourteen years worth sacrificing?" She gave me moment to let her words sink into my exhausted brain before adding the customary, "Think about it."

I nodded and lowered my eyes to the table as she stood and returned to her cooking, "But take this advice, because it's the best I will ever give you."

I looked directly at her, "Okay."

"The kind of connection that you and that boy have is beyond rare." She licked some deep, red sauce from the end of her spoon, "No matter the shape it takes, its special."

She made a sound of approval before holding the spoon out to me again. This time, I leaned forward and tasted the food she offered. It was spicy, but pleasant, with an after taste that left my mouth watering and craving more.

It strangely reminded me of Percy.

I smiled up at my mother, "Thank you."