One night when Shane was laying in bed talking to Sophia on the phone, she wearily dropped a bomb.

"So it seems my parents had an epiphany. They want to visit the farm."

"What? Why now?"

She sighed. "My cousin, the one with the terminal illness? I guess they're only giving him a few more weeks. My mom and dad weren't exactly close to him, but maybe it was one of those reminders. Life is short, the holidays are almost here, that kind of stuff. I dunno. All I know is that they're visiting the farm for the first time all year, so…"

"I thought you wanted that?"

"Yes, but now that it's here, I'm thinking it was a better idea in theory." A long pause. "And, um, they kind of want to meet you."

"They know about me?"

"That weekend I went to their house and blew my lid? I…may or may not have mentioned that I met someone."

"That was before we were dating."

"Oh, come on. Tell me we weren't already an item then."

As much as he dreaded meeting anyone new – let alone his girlfriend's parents, who would probably hate him – those words felt so good to hear.

"Anyway, they're coming Friday for dinner, and it'd mean the absolute world to me if you came."

"Friday?" Shane panicked. "That's only a few more days…Sophia, there's no way you won't still have a black eye by then – take it from someone who's had a few."

"It's already tingeing funny colors. It'll probably be yellow by the time they come."

"I want them to fucking like me, not think I beat their daughter."

"Shane, it'll be fine. If it's still bad I'll get Emily to help me out, we can cover it with make-up or something – you know Emily of all people would believe us. And the best way to get my parents to like you? Don't swear so much."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"I cussed them out last time and it ended with my mom on the floor with her face in dirt. You really want to witness that in person?"

He sighed. "Fine. I'll watch my fucking language."

"Thank you." A pause. "You'll be fine, okay?"

The only thing Shane knew about Sophia's parents was that they were still in a stage of deep grief four years after the loss of their daughter. That, and they didn't like cussing.

Getting dressed for dinner, he felt an urge to drink like he hadn't felt in months. He shaved, put on his best shirt, and spent more than thirty seconds on his hair – all the while his anxiety creeping in, wetting the armpits of that shirt, drying his mouth no matter how much water he drank. Maybe he didn't look like a hopeless drunk anymore, but Shane couldn't see how Sophia would be able to present him to her parents unashamed.

"That's a big step, meeting the parents," said Marnie when he entered the kitchen, tugging uncomfortably at the tucked in shirt.

"Shit. Tell me about it."

She patted him on the shoulder before going to the fridge, retrieving a green dish covered in cling film. "A fresh cranberry and apple salad, for your dinner."

"You didn't have to make something," he muttered.

"Of course I didn't, but I wanted to. This is an important day for you." Then against all his better wishes, she pulled him into a hug. "Be yourself, Shane. You'll be just fine."

He wished people would stop telling him he'd be fine – that they needed to assure him so much made him think the opposite.

Standing on Sophia's porch with the cranberry salad in one hand, the other on her doorknob, a million thoughts flooded his head. What if he was late, and they were already there? He didn't see a vehicle, but maybe they'd taken the bus. Should he knock? It might look rather presumptuous to waltz in like he lived there. And what if Amber bolted for him straight away, like she usually did? Should he pet her, or put the food down first? Would they be grossed out if he pet her while holdingthe food? Though if he didn't—

Sophia threw open the door. "I thought I heard you! What the heck are you doing?"

She grabbed his shoulders, lifting herself to place a kiss on his lips. Shane's eyes remained wide open as she did, noticing the two people behind her.

Emily and…Haley?

"Didn't realize it was a dinner party," he mumbled as she pulled off of him. He kept his arms clamped firmly to his side to hide the growing wet spots, and it was hard to imagine that for the past two months this kitchen had been a safe place for him.

"It's not! It's just, I asked Emily to come over and help me cover up this sucker since I'm horrible at doing make-up." She pointed at her eye. "But as it turns out, Haley is a million times better than either of us."

Shane stared at them, heart racing. "I swear to god, I didn't fucking touch her."

"Shane, relax, they know what happened."

"We know you didn't touch her," said Emily, then paused, giving a little pixie smirk. "At least, not like that."

All three girls laughed, and Shane began to think that perhaps this was his version of hell. Forget meeting her parents – he wished now that he'd walked in on them.

And shit, make-up took a long time. He sat on Sophia's couch for what felt like an hour, scratching Amber, stomach rumbling at the smell of the turkey that was already cooked and keeping warm in the oven. Sophia sat in one of the kitchen chairs, Haley bent over her like a beautician while Emily stood back with her arms crossed, appraising the situation and wandering from side to side to make sure it look good in all angles of the light.

Tonight Sophia wore a long, loose sweater over a pair of white leggings, hair tumbling over her shoulders. Something about the way she sat in that chair while the other two fussed over her was captivating – like she was the star in a play, like it was her special day – and he could tell in her own modest way that she enjoyed the attention. A small smile played at her lips, even as Haley patted over her closed eye with a make-up sponge.

She was so goddamn beautiful. With a stab, he realized he'd never told her that. He'd thought it of course – oh god, so many times – but he'd never told her, and wondered if it ever made her sad.

Eventually the girls finished up and Sophia called Shane over to look. Even knowing nothing about make-up he was impressed: she looked brand new, and no one would be able to tell.

"It's – really good," he said, still supremely uncomfortable to be in the same room as Haley.

Sophia looked in her handheld mirror, beaming. "It's perfect. Thank you guys so, so much."

"Any time," said Emily, and after they'd gathered their things the two sisters waved and walked out the front door.

The moment they left Sophia flung herself at Shane with all the energy of a coiled spring being released; she pushed him against the refrigerator, kissing his face with an enthusiasm he still couldn't understand being mustered on his behalf.

Except she was being sloppy. Sloppy in the sexiest way, but sloppy nonetheless—

"Sophia – stop—" He tried to push off her kisses, succeeding only in redirecting them to his jaw. "Come on, don't fuck up your make-up before they even get here…Sophia!" he repeated, louder, when she moved to sucking his neck.

Like dinner wouldn't be uncomfortable enough; why not throw in a throat hickey?

She sighed, releasing him. "Fine, you win. But the whole time they're over here, I don't want you to forget how fucking bad I want you."

And god, he wanted her too, but she was so damn feisty and Shane was too tired to reciprocate her enthusiasm. Lately, everything had been so exhausting. His job, with its alternating bouts of stress and boredom – a job that had him walking past shelves of liquor every day, whispering how easy it would be to get a few minutes reprieve. Jas, who'd become accustomed to the Uncle Shane who sat at the dinner table every night, who played with her after, and then started her bath and read stories with her before bed. He let her expect certain things of him now, and that was dangerous for someone with his track record. And fuck, trying to uphold those expectations day after day, when they sucked him dry of energy he didn't have, and then keeping up his responsibilities on the ranch for Marnie…

It was exhausting, waking up and being present in life. Sometimes he wished so badly that it could just be him and Sophia, dropping the rest of the world behind.

His arms were loose around her waist now, and her expression reminded him of the gridball match – the way her smile slowly came to a standstill, her energy turning softer before his eyes.

"Shane?"

"You're beautiful," he said quietly.

She blushed. "Only because they fixed my fucky eye…"

"No."

She blushed again, laying her head against his chest. Her fingers hooked into his back belt loops, and the pressure pulling on them filled his chest with the strangest sense of longing. It wasn't even a sexual longing, not exactly. Well...maybe. Maybe a little bit…

Fuck. He really liked her fingers in his belt loops. It was a good pressure. It was a good spot. And he needed to say something right this second, before this seemingly innocuous act gave him a goddamn erection right before dinner.

"When did you learn how to cook a turkey?" he blurted.

Sophia didn't seem to notice the agony she'd produced twisting her fingers in those loops; she just smiled innocently, tucking her chin. "I cheated. Pierre's has most of this stuff ready-made at this time of year. But it counts if I had to heat the oven to keep it warm, right? And the jam for the rolls, that's homemade…"

It was one of those idiosyncrasies Shane found stupidly endearing – that she dragged her feet at even preparing toast, yet throughout the summer had filled the pantry floor to ceiling with homemade jams, pickles, and sauces. But before he could respond there came a sudden loud rumble, and then the cut of an engine.

"Shit," she said, jerking back. "They're here." Immediately she let go of him and began pacing the room. "Remind me again why I wanted them to come?"

"To see the farm?"

"Exactly – and it's the start of goddamn winter. Everything is shriveled and awful. Motherfucker… should've just told them to come in the spring."

"No offense Sophia, but you've seen me in front of strangers. You should probably hold it together."

"Yes, you're right, of course you're right." She paced some more, until there was a knock at the door. She took a deep breath, drawing her hands down in front of her face like she were doing some kind of yoga or meditation, and then walked with poise to answer it.

God, the way she could turn it on and off like a switch. Shane would've done anything to have a similar switch for his own anxiety.

"Hi!" she said, swinging the door open and graciously ushering her parents inside.

Her mother looked vaguely like Sophia might, if she were thirty years older and had lost all will to live. Her father reminded him of a sad clown, a pleasant looking man who ought to be cheerful but was weighed down by the lines of his own face. Shane was glad to see them in sweaters and jeans at least; he'd been afraid of being underdressed.

Except the next thing out of Sophia's mouth was, "Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Shane," and fuck, his palms immediately grew sweaty, knowing he was meant to shake their hands. He couldn't wipe them on the front of his pants without looking like a nervous idiot, so tried to inconspicuously blot them on the sides as he walked over.

"Hey. It's – uh, nice to meet you both."

Hey?

There it was, the fuck-up on the first sentence.

"And you," said her mother, shaking his hand first. Her expression remained neutral, unreadable. Her father came next, and though he didn't say anything he did lift the corners of his mouth, just enough that Shane felt reasonably sure it was meant to be a smile. Sophia waited off to the side, eyes anxious.

Her mother frowned once the introductions were over. "I left your centerpiece in the backseat, Sophia. I'll go get it now." Then she left, the three of them standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

Sophia gave her dad a timid smile. "Dad, Shane lives on the ranch south of the farm – Marnie Daniels is his aunt."

Her dad's tufted white eyebrows lifted slightly, and for the first time since arriving he spoke. "You're Marnie's nephew?"

"Yes, sir," said Shane, certain he sounded like an imbecile.

"My father…he always spoke very highly of your aunt. Is she doing well?"

"Er – yeah, she's good."

"And you work on the ranch?"

"Oh, uh…" Shane licked his lips. "Not exactly. But I help out with stuff. The chicken coop, the horses sometimes…"

It looked like Sophia might butt in to save him when the door reopened and her mother returned, holding an arrangement of burgundy flowers with a tapered candle in its center.

"Oh, Mom, it's beautiful," said Sophia, taking it from her. But the moment it was in her hands, a shadow fell over her face. She rushed it to the table, dropping it in the center and then – unexpectedly – yanking out the cream-colored candle, depositing it on the far side of the counter behind a coffee canister.

"Sophia, what –"

"It's a gorgeous arrangement," she said mechanically. "But Shane is terribly allergic to anything scented. We can't light it."

Huh?

Shane swallowed. "Uh, yeah. Sorry to ruin your arrangement…"

Fuck. What were you supposed to call your girlfriend's parents? Were first names disrespectful? Was Mrs. Wakeshire appropriate, or would it make her feel old?

"Of course. Nothing to apologize for."

"Shall we get the food?" said Sophia, apparently already free of whatever weirdness had overtaken her for those few seconds. She opened the oven to reveal a small roasted turkey and several side dishes in white Corningware; Shane helped her bring it to the table, grateful for something to do, and once they sat down things remained peaceful as everyone filled their plates.

Once the meal started Sophia began to prattle on about the farm, saying how she wished they'd come sooner, how beautiful it had been in the autumn. She described the sunflowers amid the rows of eggplant, corn, and amaranth. She talked about the pumpkins she sold at Pierre's, that later ended up as decorations at the Spirit's Eve Festival. Then she began to describe all the work she'd done with Shane, the chopping and pruning and cutting, the sprinklers installed, buildings gutted, the pond cleared – mentioned that they currently spent Saturdays repairing the greenhouse, and how close it was to being done.

Her parents nodded quietly and politely throughout, but Sophia was clearly getting more and more excited as she talked – when getting to the parts with Shane, she was beaming and bragging so much that his face grew hot and he found it hard to look up from his sweet potatoes.

And yet – after fifteen minutes where her pride flooded joyfully from her lips – her mother set down her fork and looked at Shane. "You two are dating, then?"

His heart broke for her, for that look on her face: she only wanted her mom to acknowledge all her hard work. It didn't last two seconds however, before it was replaced with one of fierceness. Shane had barely opened his mouth to respond when she said, "Yes, Mom. Very much so."

Her foot grazed Shane's leg under the table but he was afraid to move, sure that Jacqueline Wakeshire would know, would sense it somehow. Why was she so intimidating? He couldn't put his finger on it, only knowing that three people currently sat at the table, with the unspoken shared goal of doing nothing to displease the fourth.

"What is it you do," she asked, "other than help my daughter on the farm?"

His mouth went dry. "I, um. I work at JojaMart."

"JojaMart? Like Sophia did?"

"Er – no. Just sales floor. Filling shelves, that kind stuff…"

Christ, this sucked – telling her parents he was a fucking stock boy.

"He also helps his aunt on her ranch, Mom," Sophia interjected. "Every Saturday he works with me on the farm literally the entire day, and on top of all that, he's got a kid to take care of."

Shane gawked at her.

Why would she bring this up now? Not that he was ashamed of Jas, of course not, but his gut told him it was the worst possible time, that it wouldn't land at all gracefully—

"A kid?" Her mother's eyes narrowed.

"She – she's not mine," he stammered quickly. "I mean, she is, but – my goddaughter…"

Sophia's father continued to politely eat his stuffing; the way he stared at his plate reminded Shane very much of himself, and what he'd prefer to be doing this moment.

"Still." Her mother wiped her hands on her napkin. "A child. That's a big responsibility."

"Her name is Jas, Mom. She's seven years old, and Shane is incredible with her. She even drew the picture on my fridge – "

"Seven? Sophia, you're only twenty-three."

"I'm twenty-four! And what does that even matter?"

Oh no.

Shane knew that tone. Whatever simmered under Sophia until now had suddenly cranked to a boil – he'd been in that line of fire enough times to know an explosion was very well imminent, and braced himself.

Her mother, however, remained focused on him. "What are your plans for the future, Shane?"

His nerves finally overwhelmed his ability to remain mannerly, and he stared at his plate, pushing around a piece of corn with his fork. "Um…well…"

"With a child, surely you must think about other avenues? Have you gone to college? What's your skill set?"

Sophia's face was turning violently pink. "What is this Mom, twenty questions?"

"I'm trying to get to know your boyfriend."

"You're drilling him!"

"It's okay," Shane muttered, knowing damn well it was falling apart.

"No it's not," said Sophia, indignant. "She's attacking you."

Her mother's voice trembled. "I am trying, so please don't yell at me for taking an interest."

"Then talk to me about the farm! Ask Shane what he likes to do for fun. Don't sit over there and fucking judge him."

"Sophia, for goodness' sake, your language."

For the first time not caring that it was in front of her parents, Shane took her hand. "It's fine Sophia, just stop…"

She swallowed hard, eyes glistening, and the hand that wasn't holding his formed a loose fist to rub away the frustrated tears.

But then—

"What is that?"

And oh, fucking hell – she was rubbing her make-up right off. Shane watched in horror as the sickly yellow bruise was revealed, and the line of purple that hung beneath it like a single dark eye bag. She looked at her hand, at the flesh-toned pigment now smeared on it, and Shane felt her take a deep breath. She closed her eyes, composing herself, then calmly said, "I promise you, it's not what it looks like."

If her mother's movements were stiff before, now they were downright robotic. Those previously dead eyes glared at Shane as if with lasers, and her words sounded like tin. "It looks, Sophia, like you have a black eye."

"I do. I did. It was an accident, Mom."

Jacqueline Wakeshire gripped her spoon hard against the table, knuckles going white.

"Mom."

"An accident."

"Yes, an accident! I stood over him, I startled him and he stood up too fast— "

The hand gripping the spoon shook ever so slightly. "If you ever touch my daughter—"

Shane was just beginning to feel nauseous when Sophia jumped to her feet, bumping the table with her legs and making all three of them jump. Her water glass tipped over, clear liquid spreading over the tablecloth. "Mom, I want to talk to you in the bedroom. Dad, Shane, please excuse us."

She stormed off. Her mother sat rigidly at the table for several seconds, then slammed her spoon on the table with force and followed her daughter.

Shane sat at the table with Sophia's father, both silently staring at their plates and listening to the strained conversation behind the closed door. Eventually he righted Sophia's water glass, and with a deep, shaky breath looked up.

"It really was an accident. I swear to god, I'd never hurt her. Ever. You have to believe me."

But Shane wasn't sure he did, because though the older man's expression remained mild, he suddenly got up, walked across the room, and without a word descended the steps to the cellar.

What a fucking nightmare.

Sophia's kitchen wasn't tall and open like the ranch's, but he'd never felt claustrophobic in it either – until now. Like the walls were slowly sliding toward him; his heart picked up speed at the thought that he might have a panic attack, and he'd almost convinced himself it was happening when the creaky footsteps came back up the cellar stairs.

Then the walls stopped moving. Everything stopped moving. Time froze, because her father returned and set an unlabeled bottle of wine and a corkscrew on the table.

He found the cupboard with the wineglasses, grabbing two, then sat down with the bottle between his legs to uncork it. "My father loved to make wine. He grew the fruit himself. Plums, apples, strawberries." The bottle opened with a vibrant pop, a wisp of smoke rising sensually from its mouth, and he poured several inches of burgundy into each glass.

Shane closed his eyes. This wasn't happening. It was a cruel trick of the imagination; he'd open his eyes and the wine would be gone. He'd be back in his own bed, her parents had canceled, there'd been no dinner…

Instead he opened them to a wineglass, mere inches from his face. Afraid of offending if he didn't accept – or worse, looking suspiciously like a recovering alcoholic – he followed her father in taking a drink. Then another. And another. The wine was bitter at first but sweet on the finish, and Shane's heart raced.

It tasted like failure. Like disappointment. Like relapse.

It also tasted like relief.

This was not good – this was not good at all. He wanted this drink out of his hand. He wanted the whole goddamn bottle.

"Sophia looks happy," said her dad suddenly, breaking the silence. "Truly happy. I haven't seen her look happy in a very long time, and if you're any part of that happiness then I'm extremely grateful."

Shane had expected either admonishment or silence; anything but praise. He took another drink, hating it and loving it – hating that he loved it – when her dad spoke again.

"Sophia and her mother can't seem to talk without fighting the past few years." He took a contemplative sip. "Her mother…she doesn't know how to see good things anymore. But I believe you, and I'll tell her. I'll tell her I believe you treat Sophia very well."

Shane could predict nothing about this night, and listening to Sophia's father tell him he was good for her, sharing a fucking glass of wine with him? That felt more surreal than anything yet. He was still processing, trying to figure out how to respond when the voices behind the door began to rise, like a volcano rumbling in preparation to explode. And then, to Shane's horror, they could hear every word – at least of Sophia's.

"I don't understand this! I don't understand why you can't just believe me when I tell you things. I tell you Rick's a piece of shit and you give him my goddamn number. I tell you Shane's perfect for me, and you treat him like crap. It's bullshit!"

A pause, presumably where her mother answered. Then:

"What do you mean, a man with a kid? His best friends fucking died and he takes care of their daughter! That is selfless and admirable and who the shit cares if he doesn't have a degree—"

Shane cringed; he knew Sophia, knew that in an emotional outburst like this she had zero awareness of how loud she could become.

"Newsflash, Mom, life out here doesn't cost what it does in the city! He supports Jas just fine!"

He drained the rest of his wine; her father did the same, then poured them each another glass. Shane could already feel the warmth in his cheeks; felt that hook in his brain that already anticipated the next glass, even though his current one was still full. The two men drank in silence as the women continued to argue behind closed doors.

Loudly.

"That's just fine, because after you guys leave, Shane is staying– he's been my best friend since moving out here, and now he's my boyfriend, and if you can't accept that—"

And for the first time, her mother's voice was loud enough to hear. "Sophia, that boy is a mess, he does not deserve you—"

"He's a mess because you were giving him the third degree! God, so stupid of us, to think we could have a nice goddamn dinner…"

Shane stared at the glass in his hand, the crimson liquid rippling slightly.

"I can't do this," he declared, standing up. He spoke to himself, but couldn't stop how loudly the words tumbled out. "I can't do this – I can't be doing this…"

Glass still in hand, he grabbed the wine bottle and headed to the sink, where he began dumping both of them out.

He felt Sophia's father approach from behind. He braced himself for it, for being yelled at, for being asked just what the fuck his problem was. Instead, he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Are you all right, son?"

Shane dropped the bottle in the sink with a clatter; he leaned against the counter on the heels of his hands, still shaking. And fuck, that simple touch on his shoulder – it was like it'd knocked the wind out of him.

"I shouldn't be around this stuff," he finally choked. "At all."

Least of all when Sophia was shouting at his defense in the other room.

Her dad patted him on the shoulder again. "I'm sorry – I'm so sorry. I wish you'd told me, when I brought it out."

Shane shook his head, still staring into the sink. "She's right though. She's right. I don't deserve her." He gripped the edge of the counter. "But I'm trying really goddamn hard."

A long silence, and when her father spoke again, it was the quietest he'd spoken yet. "Sophia thinks you do. And I think it's time we all started to believe her."

As if on cue the bedroom door burst open, Sophia storming out. Her mother was right behind her, grabbing her jacket, purse and car keys and walking straight through the front door, letting it slam behind her. Sophia stopped in the middle of the room, breathing hard, and when her father cautiously approached her she glared as if challenging him to say a single word.

Ignoring the glare, he placed a stiff kiss on her forehead. "I trust you, Sophia," he said in his frail voice, then picked up his coat and followed his wife out the door.

Sophia stood with her shoulders pulsing in and out. She stared at the door, her eyes – a moment before furious – now heartbroken and confused. She turned those eyes to Shane and he walked straight toward her, wrapping her in his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, falling into him, her throat sounding clogged. "I'm so goddamn sorry, Shane."

"Maybe you'll feel better if you shower," he said, purposely ignoring what she was apologizing for.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Yeah. Okay."

While she washed up Shane cleaned the kitchen: putting away the food, doing the dishes, destroying any evidence of the wine. After wiping the table clean he found the candle behind the coffee canister and stuck it back in the arrangement. He wasn't sure what that was about earlier, but thought maybe if she came out to a clean kitchen, dimmed lights and a lit candle that it would be soothing for her.

After finishing he sank onto the sofa, elbows on knees and head in hands, the tannins of the wine still sharp on his tongue and the buzz of alcohol touching every raw nerve in his body. He wished there were more to clean. As it was, he could only try to think of anything but the cellar below the stairs, all those unopened bottles, and the fingertips that anxiously dug in his hair because they so badly craved a third and fourth glass.

"Shane?" Sophia was now in pajamas, a flannel blanket wrapped around her, fingers gripping it in place at her neck. She leaned against the doorframe to her bedroom, looking and sounding so small. "Will you come to bed early?"

He blinked, smoothing his hair as he stood. "Yeah, of course."

Then her eyes flickered to the kitchen, the gleaming table and dim lights and candle. Shane watched what little color she had disappear from her face like she'd seen a ghost, and she drew the blanket over her nose and backed into the bedroom.

"Sophia?" He quickly followed.

She lay curled in bed in the fetal position, wrapped in her blanket. Staring at the pillow she said, "Please blow it out."

Shane didn't question her; he blew out the candle, then returned to her room and closed the door. Stripping to his boxers and t-shirt he climbed into bed, wrapping his body around hers and covering them both with another blanket. And god, she smelled like Sophia, like coconut shampoo and warm skin, but she was so listless and Shane felt helpless as he held her.

They must have fallen asleep like that, because the next thing he knew she was sitting up and trying to untangle herself from the blankets, frantically kicking a foot that was wound into the sheets.

"Soph – what?" His eyes were barely open when she freed herself, bolting to the bathroom, and he scrambled out of bed to chase after her.

She was curled over the toilet, dry-heaving. Shane knelt beside her, holding her hair from falling in the bowl, awkwardly rubbing her back as new thoughts flashed by, blurring like headlights on a dark road: the paleness, the sensitivity to smell, the need to vomit.

Jesus Christ, is she pregnant?

He continued rubbing her back, inwardly panicking. She only threw up a little – mostly saliva – but sat with her head tucked for a long time, giving little hiccups that might've turned into more. At long last she wiped her hand across the side of her face, pushing back the sweaty hairs that stuck there and looking at Shane like she'd just noticed him. He helped her to her feet, then filled a paper cup with water, letting her rinse out her mouth.

Still standing beside the sink, she looked at him with empty eyes. "It was vanilla."

"Vanilla?"

"Amy. When I found her, she lit a candle…it was vanilla."

When she found her? For all the times Sophia brought up Amy – even talking about her suicide as if it were normal, as if she'd long accepted it – she'd never talked to him about specifics. All Shane knew was she'd cut her wrists. But Sophia found her?

With awkward movements she extracted from Shane's support and left the bathroom, holding the wall while walking to the kitchen. There she pulled a chair to reach the highest cupboard and took out a carton of cigarettes, then looked down guiltily.

"Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad, Sophia, I'm worried…"

Then he pulled on his pants and followed her outside, grabbing the blanket off the sofa and draping it over her shoulders. He sat next to her, huddled in his own jacket, breath coming out in tiny puffs.

She lit the cigarette and smoked in silence for several minutes, then ashed it over the side of the steps and looked at him. A little of her color was back, her expression calmer. "It's the only time I smoke."

"You don't have to explain."

She inhaled deeply, tilting her head back and sending a funnel of white into the air. "Do you know the last words I said to Amy? Or at least, the last words I said when I thought she was still alive?"

Shane just watched her.

"I said, 'I think the chicken salad just fucking winked at me.'" She shook her head, still looking at the sky. "I'll be ninety years old and never forget that. And you know the last thing she said to me?"

He kept watching quietly.

"It was in a text message. 'I love you more than life itself.'" A pause. "Just fucking like her too – double meaning, being all stupidly poetic." She took another long drag. "Rick sent me a message that said that."

"What?"

"That day you came to my house, when he messaged me? Sent me that, word for word."

"And he knew?"

She rested her elbows on her knees, staring into the darkness. "Yeah. He knew."

Shane's chest grew hot. "Fucking bastard."

Sophia gave a single, mirthless laugh. "Yeah."

There was a long silence, Shane watching the clouds of smoke slowly disperse one by one into the air. "Your dad believed us," he said at last. "About your eye. Said he's going to tell your mom that I treat you well." He swallowed hard. "Do I?"

She became very quiet. "You shouldn't even have to ask that, Shane." Then she snubbed out her cigarette, turning her knees to face him and looking straight in his eyes. "How much did you hear, when I was with her?"

"I don't know."

"Everything?"

"Well…" He hesitated. "A lot."

"It wasn't about you," she said, an almost pleading look on her face. "It was about me and her. She just…she's a different person now, she never used to act like this. She shits all over my happiness because she doesn't know how to be happy anymore – I don't think she believes it exists. I swear to god it wasn't about you, and I want you to forget anything you heard."

"Doesn't help though," he muttered. "Being a stock boy. Having a kid. I mean, she's not wrong, Sophia."

"No. Shut up."

"It's—"

"Shut up, okay? Shut up. Whatever you're about to say, it's not fucking true."

She grabbed his hand, both of hers gripping it tight. Their eyes hooked under the frosted moonlight, and Shane was startled by how intensely she looked at him – a look that pierced right through his chest.

"You have to know," she said, fingers kneading his knuckles. "You have to realize by now." The movements grew deeper, her eyes wide. "I love you, Shane. I do. I love you. I'm in love with you… sometimes so much, I don't know what to do with myself."

Her grip on his hand tightened more, and the same sensation gripped his heart. He opened his mouth but the words stuck in his throat and nothing came out, and he stared, caught in her headlights.

"You don't have to say it back, if you can't. If – if you don't," she continued, a desperate edge to her voice. "But say something. Tell me it's okay that I feel this way –tell me it's okay I feel this strongly. I've never been here, I've never felt this before. Please tell me it's okay."

He couldn't do it looking in her eyes. Heart hammering, feeling like a coward, he ran his free hand over his face and stared at the bottom porch step. "Sophia," he choked, and the tightness in his chest grew tighter. "I've loved you since fucking summer."

There was a long, full silence. Then, in the faintest voice:

"Will you look at me?"

He rubbed his mouth once more, looking up.

She smiled. It was the softest kind of smile, the kind where her lips barely moved, and then she whispered, "I love you."

So, so softly.

And yet, even as she looked at him, saying those exact words, he felt certain she had the wrong person. For a moment he was again cognizant of that shadow beneath the surface, and he loathed it – loathed it for being there to witness this moment that was meant to be only the two of them, for bringing that sense of doubt he could never escape from.

He pulled her fiercely into a hug, his face in her hair, the scent of smoke mingling with her coconut shampoo.