Morning. Was it really morning already? How it could be morning? It seemed like she'd just gone to sleep.

Maria stirred, careful not to stir too much. At this point, she'd grown accustomed to sleeping with her son beside her, and even though most of the time an earthquake wouldn't even be enough to wake him, she didn't want to chance disturbing him.

Rolling over on her back, she yawned, then struggled to open her eyes. She hadn't slept well. Not by a long shot. Her mind had been racing, even in dreams, mostly because she'd been dreaming about . . .

She sat up. Michael. Was he still . . .

Glancing down at the floor, she saw him lying there, fast asleep. He'd taken one of the pillows down off the bed and was lying flat on his stomach. Apparently he'd changed before going to sleep, because he wasn't wearing what he'd worn at dinner. Instead, he was now wearing that white tank that prominently displayed all those bruises from that last football game.

What was she even doing there? It felt so wrong, in that moment, being in his bed while he was relegated to the floor. He'd probably slept even worse than she had.

Only because her bladder was the size of a peanut, she forced herself up and out of bed, carefully stepping over Michael's body and tiptoeing her way out of the room. She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, then went downstairs to see if anyone else was awake. Didn't seem like it. It was early, and the Guerins weren't early risers. Plus, two of them had stayed up late, fighting.

Breakfast, she thought. When Michael woke up, the least she could do was have breakfast made for him. Or maybe she could clean the kitchen for Krista, do the dishes. It still wasn't . . . it was still how they'd left it. She could fix that. Easily. She could help out the people who were helping her.

Unfortunately, even though she wanted to, she didn't get the chance. A loud, insistent knocking came from the front door, and she tensed, worrying that maybe Michael's jerk of a grandpa was back. But when she peered out the peephole and saw Isabel standing there . . . well, that didn't exactly make her feel any better.

It's not like you're wearing a towel or anything, she thought. You don't look guilty. There was nothing to feel guilty about. So she and Michael had slept in the same room. Didn't matter. They hadn't even slept in the same bed.

Gathering up her courage, she opened the door and greeted, "Isabel!" as cheerfully as she could.

"Where is he?" she demanded, storming inside. "Is he here?"

"Who?" Didn't hurt to stall.

"Michael. He was supposed to meet me at 4:30 a.m."

Maria frowned. "Why?"

"We were gonna go Black Friday shopping. He promised."

"Oh, um . . ." Too bad there was no way to get him out of this one. "I think he's still asleep."

"Seriously?" Isabel stomped her foot frustratedly, then glanced into the living room at the couch. The couch where nobody was sleeping, and where, clearly, nobody had slept last night.

"Actually, he might be out back," Maria corrected. "I don't know. You could go check."

Isabel huffed and trundled towards the back door, muttering under her breath something about Michael being a complete idiot. Except she used some huge, smart Princeton word.

The second she was outside, Maria ran back upstairs into the bedroom. "Michael," she said quietly, shaking him to wake him. "Michael, wake up."

He groaned, rolling over onto his back. "What?"

"Isabel's here?"

"Huh?"

"She's really mad. I think you were supposed to do something with her today."

He yawned, his eyes still closed, and moaned, "Oh, crap."

"You have to get up." He was going to be in even more trouble if she saw him up there.

"Okay, okay." He forced himself up into a sitting position, squinting his eyes against the morning brightness. He started to stretch his arms, as if he had all the time in the world.

"Go downstairs," she urged, pushing gently on his shoulder.

"Oh . . ." He yawned again, struggling to his feet. He staggered out of the bedroom, clearly not all the way awake yet, and headed downstairs.

Maria shut the door to the bedroom, leaning against it, pressing her ear in close. It took a moment, but soon, she heard Isabel's voice rise up from the lower level. "Where were you?" she demanded in an accusatory tone.

Michael's voice was quieter. She couldn't hear him. But she kept hearing Isabel, kept hearing how upset she was. Eventually, Michael got a little louder, too, telling her he hated when she was a bitch to him in the morning. That only made her madder. Eventually, they sounded almost exactly like his parents had last night.

"Fine, I'll go by myself!" Isabel finally decided.

"Fine!"

Maria flinched when she heard the front door slam, followed seconds later by the sound of something shattering. Something small. Probably ceramic. Probably something Michael had just thrown at a wall. Another broken thing in a house full of broken things.

I'm so sorry, Michael, she thought, slumping against the door, unable to wonder if he'd still be dealing with so much drama if she hadn't been staying there.

...

Black Friday. Screw that.

There wasn't one part of Michael that wanted to be fighting his way through any crowds at any stores, so he didn't feel bad at all for staying home. The Friday after Thanksgiving was a day meant for relaxing. And watching football. Plenty of it. Kyle came over, and they watched game after game. Didn't matter who was playing. Every game was a good one, so he stayed for the night games, too.

His mom left early that morning to try to do some Christmas shopping, promising she'd be out late. Probably because she didn't care to be at home. And his dad . . . his dad went out early, too, most likely to one of those twenty-four hour strip clubs or something.

It was nice when the only yelling in the house was coming from Kyle and him as they yelled at the TV screen.

"Come on!" Kyle growled when the TCU defense gave up another first down. He wasn't a TCU fan, but he'd bet that they would pull off the upset and win against Baylor.

"Nice." Michael, on the other hand, was loving it. One step closer to winning ten bucks.

"What the hell is this? Their defense is as bad as ours."

"Worse. Man, you gotta love Big 12 football."

"Why?"

" 'cause it's all offense." They weren't even to halftime yet, and already the teams had combined to put almost forty points on the board.

TCU called a time out, drawing a commercial break, and Michael was considering going into the kitchen to pop some popcorn really quickly when Tina came rushing downstairs. "Michael!" she called. "I need your help. It's Dylan."

He immediately sat up straight. "What's wrong?"

"He had an accident."

"Is he okay? What happened?"

"He . . ." She whirled her hands about dramatically, just repeating, "He had an accident." When he just stared at her confusedly, she flapped her arms against her sides and practically yelled, "He pooped!"

"Oh." So it was that kind of accident.

"Yeah, and now he's crying 'cause he's so embarrassed."

"Well, what am I supposed to . . ." Why was she coming to him with this? He didn't know what to do. "I'll go get Maria," he decided, handing Kyle the remote. "Don't change the channel." When all was said and done, they were going to watch this game in its entirety, and at the end of it, he was going to gloat over his sweeping victory and collect on the bet.

He went upstairs and knocked lightly on his bedroom door. "Maria?" Pushing it open slowly, he found her sitting at his computer. She had one of many Metallica songs playing in the background, but she muted it when he came in.

"Hey."

"Hey. We need your help. Dylan had a, uh . . . an accident."

She immediately sprang to her feet, looking panicked. "Oh my god, what happened? Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he just couldn't make it to the bathroom in time."

"Oh." She breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. I'll go handle it. Thanks."

"Yeah." He stepped aside so she could get past him. When she opened the door to Tina's room and ducked inside, he heard Dylan crying. Poor little guy. It wasn't a big deal. He was a toddler. Toddlers shit their pants a lot. They'd all been there, done that at one point.

Since he had a rare moment alone in his bedroom, he decided to change into some comfier clothes. He took off his jeans, kicked them over to the closet, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants instead. He then took off his t-shirt and was about to throw on a beater when he looked in his mirror and noticed something . . . odd. He saw his computer screen, saw what she'd been looking at, and it didn't look like his music collection.

Turning, he made his way back over to his desk, bending forward to get a closer look. She was online and had several Internet tabs open, each one showing a different apartment complex right there in Roswell, New Mexico.

Apartments? He frowned. Why would she . . .

No. No, no, no.

He sat down in his computer chair, unable to think anything but that one word.

No.

He waited for her to come back into the room, which, fortunately, was only a few minutes later. "Okay, false alarm," she announced. "It wasn't poop. He just spilled his pudding cup. He's okay now."

"Good." He spun the chair around to face her, wondering how long it would take for her to realize he'd connected the dots and knew why she wasn't hanging out downstairs with him and Kyle, watching that damn football game.

"He just gets so worked up sometimes," she said. "He's really emotional."

"Well, he's two."

"Yeah." Her eyes drifted down to his chest for a second, and she said, "Are you . . . is there a reason why you're sitting there without a shirt on?"

Oops. "No reason." He stood up and walked over to his drawer, pulling out the first t-shirt he saw. He tossed it on, just because he felt like he should, and waited for her to say something about all those Internet pages. But she didn't. So finally, he had to. "Why're you lookin' at apartments?"

She lowered her head and mumbled, "Because. I can't stay here forever."

"You can stay."

"I know, but . . . Michael, this is supposed to be temporary."

Screw temporary, he thought, shifting around nervously. "Did somebody say something?" he asked. "Was it my dad? Did he say somethin' to you?"

"No, he hasn't said anything."

"Did my mom?"

"No."

"Then why're you-"

"Because," she cut in, "I've probably already stayed too long. I think I've kind of worn out my welcome, don't you?"

He frowned. How could she think that? What had he ever done or said to give her that impression? Had he done anything at all? "Is this 'cause of yesterday, all that stuff my grandpa said?" he asked.

"No, I just think I need to find a place of my own."

"Can you afford any of those places?" he challenged outright. She still only had a part-time job.

"I can try."

No, he didn't like the sound of that. She'd get desperate. She'd end up doing something she regretted, just like she'd done with James Winston. He wasn't going to let her go through that again, not if he could help it. "Maria, just stay here."

"But I'm causing problems."

He took a few steps towards her, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Your family, your girlfriend . . ."

"Oh, so this is about Isabel comin' over this morning?" Okay. At least that made sense. "Maria, it's nothin' new for her to be pissed at me. She's pissed at me all the time."

She raked one hand through her hair, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. "No, it's just . . . it's not just that. It's everything, Michael. I'm a burden. Dylan and I . . . you shouldn't have to worry about taking care of us. You've got plenty of your own stuff to think about."

"Like what?"

"Like your family, your little sister, football."

"Football's over."

"Okay, so college then."

He groaned at the mere thought.

"School."

"That's not a priority."

"Well, it should be. You shouldn't be distracted."

Didn't she get it, though? He was always distracted, one way or another. But when she was around, he was more distracted by her and Dylan than he was by booze and parties. And wasn't that a good thing? "Maria, please," he begged. "Please don't go."

"I have to."

"No, you don't have to. And I don't want you to," he admitted in a rare rush of honesty. He couldn't explain it, but standing there with her, he felt like she'd be taking part of him with her if she left. Which part, he wasn't sure, but it would definitely be one of the few good parts.

"Michael . . ."

"It's better when you're here."

She inhaled shakily, her eyes locked onto his. "This is better?"

He laughed a little. "Yeah, actually." Sure, last night had been bad. Horrible, really. But most of the nights since she'd been there hadn't been. "Look, I know my family's really messed up . . ."

"Michael, I adore your family. Your mom, your sister . . . you . . . you've all been so great to me."

"And we all want you to stay." His mom hadn't said anything to him about getting her to leave, so . . . that must have meant she didn't have a problem with letting their arrangement go on longer than she'd originally intended. "And look at Tina. She loves Dylan. Do you know how much better she's been since he's been here? It's like she's her old self again."

"She's a good girl."

"Yeah, and I'm . . ." He stopped abruptly before allowing himself to say something ridiculous, to say that he was a good guy. Because he wasn't. Not in the traditional sense, at least. But with her . . . he didn't feel quite so bad. "I'm better . . . when you're around."

She started to look teary-eyed, and he could tell she was giving in. Maybe she'd never really been that set on leaving in the first place. She looked down at her feet, sniffing back tears.

"Hey." He put his hand under her chin, tilting her head up to look at him. He just stared at her for a moment, silently daring her to look away. But she didn't. "Iris," he blurted. "Goo Goo Dolls."

Her forehead scrunched together in utter confusion. "What?"

"That's your favorite song. I heard you humming it yesterday."

She smiled shakily, just a little, barely noticeable one. "That's not my favorite," she informed him.

Damn. Oh, well. Didn't hurt to guess. "See, that's why you gotta stay," he said. "You gotta give me time to figure it out."

Her smile grew a little bigger, and the tears in her eyes went from looking sad to happy. And he knew he'd gotten his wish: She wasn't going anywhere.

...

Isabel's body language was such an indicator of her mood. Whenever she was in a good mood, she was relaxed, she smiled, flipped her hair. Whenever she was in a bad mood, everything about her was tense. Her mouth was drawn down at the sides, and her arms were always close to her chest.

She was definitely in a bad mood on Monday. Michael could tell just by watching her as she stood at her locker, getting out all her supplies for the first few class periods.

He bravely sauntered up to her, not a doubt in his mind that he could get the more relaxed version of her back. "Okay," he said. "What do I have to do to get back on your good side?"

She grunted and stared at him incredulously. "Are you kidding me? Like it's that easy?"

"Well . . ." Usually it was.

"You totally ditched me on Friday."

"I forgot about shopping. Come on, Is. We both know I've done worse."

"So you think I'll just forgive you?"

"I know you will." He didn't intend to sound cocky, but . . . well, it was kind of hard not to. He had a way with this girl. "Come on, we both know how it goes: I do something wrong, you get pissed, it kinda turns me on, and the next thing you know, we end up back in your bed." He glanced down the hall and grinned, adding suggestively, "Or the eraser room."

She slammed her locker shut and adamantly proclaimed, "That was a one-time thing. I'm not doing that again."

"Why not?" It'd been quick, but fun.

"Because it was . . ." She glared at him as she rifled through the dictionary of her mind for the right word. "Degrading."

He smirked, seeing nothing wrong with that. "Yeah. I thought so, too."

"Ugh." She rolled her eyes and pushed past him, clutching her books and binder tightly to her chest as she headed down the hall.

He quickly caught up to her, not about to give up so easily. "Okay, forget I said that last part. Let's start over: What do I have to do to get you to not be pissed at me?"

Her lips were pressed tightly together when she asked, "You really wanna know?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Suddenly, she stopped, turning to face him, and pulled out a hot pink piece of paper from her binder. She handed it over to him, a challenging look on her face.

"What is this?" he asked. "You want me to hang this up or something?"

"Read it."

He sighed. Reading. Great. He hated reading. He skimmed over it, just enough to get the basic gist. "Study Buddies," he pronounced. "Tutoring?"

"Yes. If you'll recall, when I was elected student body president, I promised to set up a tutoring program around here. And unlike some people, I follow through with what I say I'm gonna do." She grinned smugly.

"Hmm. Okay, great. But I don't get it. You want me to tutor a bunch of annoying kids or something?"

"No." She pointed to a registration form attached to the bottom and revealed, "I want you to get tutored."

He just stood there, slack-jawed, completely speechless as she continued on her way. He'd been expecting her to say that he could take her out for a nice dinner, or maybe to a movie or something. Simple. Not this. Not . . . tutoring?

"What the hell?" he roared, once again catching up to her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a side hallway that led to the computer lab, because he didn't want to have this conversation in front of people. "Study Buddies? You think I'm a retard or somethin'?"

"Michael, I know you're very smart. But I also know you don't apply yourself."

"Fuck, Isabel, America knows that."

"This whole college thing is still up in the air for you, so your grades are more important than ever."

"My grades are fine," he reminded her. "I'm passing all my classes."

"Michael, you have straight D's."

"So? I'm passing."

"It's not good enough!"

For who? he wondered. Colleges? Or you? The answer was pretty clear in his mind, so he grumbled, "Sorry I don't measure up to your high standards."

"No, I just want you to have high standards for yourself. That's all. Face it, Michael: You kept your grades up so you could play football and have a great senior season with Kyle. But now football's over, so your grades are probably gonna plummet again."

"Well, it's nice to know you have so much faith in me."

"I do have faith in you," she insisted. "That's why I'm trying to get you involved with this. Listen, I know this guy named Alex."

What, so now there was another guy involved? "Alex."

"Yes. He's an English major at Carlsbad. I got in touch with him recently, and he's the one who helped me set this all up. He and some other university students have this tutoring program, and they're gonna come here once a week to work with students."

"And they're just gonna do this out of the goodness of their hearts?"

"Well, it gives them opportunities to recruit, too. Volunteer experience for their résumés. It's a win-win situation for everyone involved, including you."

He shook his head, not seeing it that way. Fuckin' Topolsky had gotten to her or something, because she was harping on him more than ever. "This is stupid. You expect me to get tutored by your ex-boyfriend?"

"He's not . . . I met him at a leadership conference years ago. He's a friend. Like a distant friend, but nice. And someone who could help you."

He grunted. She sounded so . . . patronizing. Like more of a parent than his actual parents were.

"Fine? You don't wanna do it? Then I'm still mad at you." She seized the flier back from him and whirled around, stomping back out into the main hall.

He groaned, craning his neck back, wishing he'd just remembered to wake up and do that damn Black Friday shopping. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be in this situation.

The kicker of it all was that she was right, though. His grades were going to change dramatically now that football was done. And even though that didn't really bother him . . . he was still waiting to hear back from Alabama, and there were slim chances that he might even apply somewhere else. Like maybe at that school that was recruiting him. Maybe.

Even though he hated the idea, hated every single part of it with every fiber of his being, he ran after her, catching up with her right as she was about to get in the breakfast line. "Hey," he said, grabbing her arm.

"What?"

He sighed, trying not to think about how humiliating and painstaking it would be, trying instead to just envision her having sex with him, because she probably would if he agreed to this. All would be right in their little world. "Sign me up."

...

Burying his face in the pillow, Michael groaned. "Oh . . ."

Beside him, lying on her stomach, Maria couldn't help but laugh. His little tutoring predicament, on some level, was funny, just because he so badly didn't want to take part in it.

"Oh, this is awful," he lamented.

"I can't believe you agreed to it."

He held one hand to his forehead and looked at her in distress. "Study Buddies, Maria. That's what it's called. Study Buddies."

She smiled, admitting, "That's cute, though."

"It's not cute. It's awful."

Again, she laughed. "Okay, maybe she's right, though. This could help you."

"I don't care about my grades, though." He turned over onto his back, putting his right arm behind his head. "I know I should, but I just . . . don't."

He looked so comfortable, so casual lying there. Even though she was trying her best to act the same, it was driving her crazy, having him so close to her, in the same bed. "But you care about Isabel," she pointed out. Had to remember that.

He closed his eyes, angling his face away from her, and muttered, "Yeah, sometimes."

"What?"

He sighed, starting to sound tired. "No, I do."

"That's why you're doing this. Because you love her." It filled her with bitterness to have to say that. When he didn't agree readily, she was almost glad, but prompted, "Right?"

His eyes still closed, he whispered, "Yeah."

"Yeah, so . . ." She looked down at the bedspread, picking at a loose thread, wishing she could move in closer to him. But when he'd come up there and just laid down beside her after dinner, she'd immediately told herself to put up an invisible wall between them, and not to cross it.

He opened his eyes again, looking back in her direction. "You know, I could just play basketball, or wrestle," he thought out loud. "Then I could say, 'Hey, look, Isabel, I'm doin' a winter sport. Guess that'll motivate me to keep my grades up.'"

She smiled, shaking her head. "Nah, she'll see right through it."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"Damn." He closed his eyes again, turning his head in the other direction.

"Do you even know how to wrestle?" she asked.

"Yeah. I went to State my sophomore year."

"Really?" Suddenly, she was picturing him in those tight outfits wrestlers wore and . . . good God, that was something.

"Yes. I'm very athletic."

"And so modest," she teased, resting her head on the pillow in front of her. Oh, it would have been so nice to just close her eyes, too, lie there beside him, fall asleep. Maybe even curl up next to him in the middle of the night if she got cold. But she didn't have that privilege. Isabel did.

"I'm tired," he murmured, his voice starting to sound ever more dazed.

"Don't fall asleep," she warned, picking her head back up again. "You can't."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not." And he knew it wasn't okay. He was just tired, so he didn't want to move. If he fell asleep and she had to go downstairs and be on the couch for the night, she'd do it. Because there was a boundary. There really was.

"Michael."

"Just push me off the bed or something," he told her, his words all starting to blend together.

"What?"

"Yeah, just push me."

She laughed a little, shaking her head. Well, he'd asked for it. Pressing one hand to his shoulder, she halfheartedly attempted to roll him off the edge and onto the floor. He was a big guy, though, so moving him wasn't easy.

He smiled, apparently enjoying her struggle, and said, "Push harder."

She did, but still, he wouldn't budge. "Michael, seriously." She gave him one more little push, and this time, he helped her out by rolling over onto his side. He rolled a little too far and landed on the floor with a thud.

"Are you okay?" she asked, leaning over the side of the bed.

"I'm good," he said, holding up his hand. "Hand me a pillow."

She grabbed the fluffiest one and passed it down to him.

"This is good," he declared, bunching it up underneath his head. Curling up on his side, he decided, "I'll just sleep here."

She smiled as she peered down at him, an adorable, almost childlike version of him, and she felt unable to make him move anymore. In a strange way, he really did look comfy. And besides, this wasn't crossing any boundaries. He was on the floor, and she was in the bed. There was plenty of space between them.