A/N: I wrote this for an English class assignment about two years ago. I got an A, so I'm pretty proud of it. I don't own Wintergirls or any of its characters.

I was in the middle of a heated hand when her text came through. Coming up on two a.m, the night was still young. I still had so many pros to humiliate, so much money to win. The guy next to me had just folded. I watched as he placed his cards facedown on the table. Even in the otherwise dead of night, the casino was wild with energy all around us. But this table was for the kings; when we were playing, nothing could break our focus.

I had them, all of them in the palm of my hand. No one who played at this table was stupid enough to fall for the amateur's hustle. I didn't bother; I would show them.

I peeked down at my cards, my expression revealing nothing. But I knew. I knew this round was mine. Since the guy next to me had just called, it was my turn. One look at the pot and the other players told me I was one of the last ones standing. We were officially entering a showdown.

The other contender was a burly guy with stringy hair and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looked like the leader of some motorcycle mafia. But under that, he looked confident in his hand.

I felt sorry for what I'd have to do to him, in that humble-brag way when you know you're going to beat them so badly you'll be embarrassed for them. I had the whole game in the bag.

But I looked at the text first.

The sender wasn't in my contacts, but the message was cryptic and captured my focus. It only contained two words: I'm out.

I had a choice to make then. I could go with my gut here, at the table, and walk away from this a few grand richer, pretending I'd never seen the text. Or I could leave right now, go with my gut on the message, and hurtle back into the past to answer the questions I'd been suffocating for a year and a half.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket, locking eyes with my opponent as he smoothly laid his cards out on the table. I had to give credit to his hand. A full house, eight-high. But even his best luck couldn't beat what I had over him.

I offered my cards up, and the table gazed upon my ace-high royal flush. The motorcycle mafia ringleader slammed his fist on the table, and I indulged in a self-confident smirk as the guys begrudgingly paid up.

I had made the right decision. This most recent payout would top me off just enough to get across the country without raking in another dime.

I stored my winnings safely away, aware of the dog-eat-dog night outside the casino walls, and left the table without looking back.

As I made my way to the main doors, Holden caught sight of me making my exit and walked over to me. He worked at the casino overseeing this quadrant of tables. "Whatcha doing leaving so soon, Elijah?" he asked. I was here nearly every night, and everyone knew how uncommon it was for me to leave before the sun came up.

"Sorry Holden," I replied, "but I've got somewhere to be." At that, I pushed open the doors and was swallowed by the night.

For the first time in almost eighteen months, I was going home.

I spent the entire drive home hoping I had left for the right reasons. Hoping the message was from her. It had to be—who else would send me something like that? How did she get my number in the first place? What happened to her after I left?

Last I saw of Lia Overbrook, she was slashed-up skin and bones, held together by a fraying thread, and asking to come with me to wherever I was going. I wanted to help her, but I knew running away wouldn't fix the problem. All I've ever done is run away, and it's made nothing right. I didn't want to rob Lia of the chance to mend her relationship with her family.

The journey back to New Hampshire was long and tedious. When I finally arrived I was dead broke, my busted-up '97 Hatchback on its last leg. I'd traveled as far away from my past as possible only to come right back.

Everything looked exactly the same as how I'd left it, as most small towns tend to, but I was walking into a different situation this time. So really, nothing was the same at all.

I found myself leaving the town, though, and entering Concord. I watched the generic buildings and plethora of trees go by until I saw a larger building cloaked in the foliage with a large stone sign out front. New Seasons Rehabilitation Facility.

And there she was, sitting on top of the sign, watching the cars go by on the road with a look in her eyes that craved the norms of civilization. I stopped the car in front of the sign and wasted no time getting out.

To her credit, she didn't seem surprised to see me. She sat still on the sign, not making eye contact with me at first. Finally she said, "You actually came."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Where have you been?" She drummed her fingers against the lettering of the sign.

"Vegas."

She smiled a little. "Poker, huh?"

"Can't think of anywhere I'd fit in better."

Her eyes drifted to the building behind her, the one that must've held her until a few weeks ago. But she still came back. "I never got to thank you," she started, "for leaving me here."

There was no resentment in her voice. I shrugged. "You're welcome, then. I had a feeling things would sort themselves out once I left."

"They're trying. But they're tangled, and trying to pull them apart is like…like trying to slide the Jenga block all the way on the bottom out of the tower without the whole thing toppling down. It's a process, and the smallest misstep sends everything back to square one."

"So you aren't sick anymore?"

"Not to them." She gestured to the hospital behind her. "But I don't think I'll ever recover from this."

"It won't be easy, but you've come so far to get here. You were at death's door when I left you, and yet here you are, still fighting."

I noticed immediately how much better she looked when I first saw her. She'd filled out a little, and her skin wasn't as pale. She seemed…I don't know, alive. That place had done more for her than maybe she realized.

Lia shook her head. "Things are still getting sorted out. I hit my weight requirement for discharge a few weeks ago, and for the first time I wasn't faking it. This is all me," she said, picking up her arm and letting it drop to her side. "And I'm seeing my therapist twice a week."

"And you want to get better?" I ask solemnly. I must strike a nerve, because tears spring up in her eyes.

She nods. "I do." The words come out as a whisper, but I don't think they were meant to be. Lia drops her head and presses her lips together. "I haven't seen Emma since I was admitted to this place. If anything, I'm doing this for her."

I let the silence linger until I've found the right words to say. "And the rest of your family? How are things going with them?"

She doesn't respond, doesn't look at me—yet I know exactly what she's trying to say. I sigh. "Lia! You haven't made any progress with them? At all?"

"My mom and dad came to the hospital to sign some papers so they could discharge me, but we didn't talk. I haven't been home yet."

"Where have you been, then?"

"In the motel," she says. "In your old room."

I press my lips together and nod, fighting the frustration. I almost had Lia arrested because she refused to talk to her parents. I didn't take her with me so she could heal her relationship with her family; so she wouldn't make the same mistake I did—that was the only reason. And I came back to see it didn't matter.

Sighing again, I motion to the car and call back to her, "Get in."

She hops off the sign and follows me.

The Gateway Motel is in as poor repair as the last time I saw it. We walk in silence to 115, Lia refusing to look at me once. I wonder if she can feel the tension as well.

115 looks different now that my stuff isn't haphazardly strewn everywhere. The room is almost entirely bare, except for a small suitcase in the corner and a jacket hanging on the back of the pilly desk chair.

"Home sweet home," Lia croons unenthusiastically as she plops down on the bed.

"What about Cassie? Isn't it weird that you're next door to the room, where..." I'm wary of finishing that sentence.

Lia looks at the wall separating 115 from 113. "Not anymore. I helped her out after you left. Turns out she was just stuck, between being a ghost and being all the way dead. I haven't seen her since." I feel like telling her that's probably the work of New Seasons, but now isn't the time.

"And you're sure you're eating? If I gave you, like, an orange, right now, you could finish the whole thing and feel fine doing it?"

Lia wrinkles her face. "Maybe not an orange. I'm not supposed to be eating anything that acidic. But if it was like, bread, then yeah." She nods. "I'm only allowed to eat a certain amount of food at certain times per day for the first month, to get my body back on track." She goes over to her jacket and pulls out a small piece of paper from one of the pockets. "Breakfast: 400 calories. So if I ate, say, a bagel with cream cheese and a banana, boom, that's at least 350 right there."

"You know the calorie count off the top of your head?"

She shrugs shamefully. "Old habits die hard." She looks back down at the card. "Lunch, 200 calories, Dinner, 400 calories. No snacks. I can only drink water, and my meals can't have more than 25 grams of sugar in any given capacity."

"Damn. That's a lot of rules."

"If it means I get to see Emma again, then call it my religion." She sits back down on the bed and fiddles with a hole in her jeans. After a few beats of silence she looks up at me. "I haven't eaten lunch yet. Up for going to the diner?"

I grin. "Always."

It's an amazing thing to watch this girl who, less than two years ago, couldn't even look at food the right way, devour an entire plate of waffles (with one tablespoon of maple syrup—doctor's orders) in under ten minutes.

"Cassie loved waffles," she says absentmindedly between bites.

"How could she not? Waffles are the best," I agree, digging into my own. "Especially from here. Waffle House who?"

Lia laughs. She's pretty when she laughs; she doesn't look as empty and depressed. "Absolutely. It was one of the things Cassie took with her when she committed to death." That confusing and rather unsettling sentence seems funny when paired with Lia's face half-stuffed with waffles, and I do a bad job of trying not to laugh. Which ends up making Lia laugh, and before we know it we're doubled-over laughing for virtually no reason and drawing the attention of everyone in the diner. And the best part is, we don't even care.

I find myself almost regretting leaving her here. But no. I did the right thing. This is my chance to finish what I started. Once we regain control of ourselves, I put on my best serious face. "What are you going to do about your family?"

Her smile goes away, and she fiddles with her fork. "We're way past that."

"No, we're not." I look her dead in the eyes. "You will talk things out with them, Lia Overbrook, and I'm going to help you."

"We've tried and tried again for years, and it always ends in a screaming match. It's not talking, it's just noise, and yet somehow no one manages to be heard."

"I know exactly what you mean. I never could fix things with my dad, and look at me now." I gesture to myself. "I'm a mess. Do you want to be like me?" I ask, and Lia giggles a little.

"I'm already a mess, Elijah. Non-messes don't spend eighteen months in rehab. I came to terms with my family's situation a long time ago."

"But I think it could be better. I know it could be better."

Her eyes want me to be right. But the rest of her won't even try. "No," she says firmly. "No. We've been through this a thousand times. I know how it ends. We'll both be wasting our time."

Around and around we go. Lia drinks all the water she can hold and gives every excuse in the book. After another five minutes I lean back in my seat and exhale. "Wow. I've met goats less stubborn than you."

She laughs once. "We talked about moving to South America one day and raising goats. Remember that?" She asks, biting her smile.

I sit up. "Yeah. I do. Talk to your family first. Then we'll see."

Lia sighs in defeat. "All right, fine. I'll give it one try. And when it ends horribly, definitely expect to hear, 'I told you so.'"

I shake my head. "You're so sure. Why don't you try doing something different this time? Change the tactic, change the approach—whatever you want. Trust me, we're going to make this work. Somehow."

She nods—hesitantly, but at least she's a little more amiable to the idea. I think I'm selling it—her eyes really, really want me to be right.

Lia is reluctant to let me come to the intervention, likely for very valid reasons. But if I'm not there, she could very well lie and say she did it when really she chickened out just like before. I'm not letting her get away with it this time; it's too important.

Lia shuffles slowly up the walkway to her father's house, her eyes darting to her mother's Lexus parked across the street.

We called Dr. Marrigan earlier today and asked her to come to the house. Lia was the voice, but I was the words. I told Dr. Marrigan through Lia that "there were some things we needed to discuss. As a family." One thing I knew for sure about Lia's mother was she would do just about anything to be in her daughter's life. Maybe for all the wrong reasons, according to Lia, but if her desire to help her daughter heal was as strong as I thought it was, she would come. And she did.

Lia seems surprised as she spots the Lexus. "Didn't think she'd show up," she mutters coldly.

We stop at the front door, and Lia takes a deep breath of summer air. She turns to me, dead serious. "This is the point of no return, Elijah. Once we enter the snake pit, there's no coming out."

"I'm aware. No stalling. Let's just get it over with."

It's clear she still thinks I'm crazy to believe this will work, but she knocks on the door anyway.

Her father answers it, and he's taken aback when he sees me standing there. "Hello," he greets us cautiously. In his defense, we were very vague on the phone with everyone about the point of this meeting. "Come on in."

Clearly there are a lot of cracks in this family, but their house covers them all up fabulously. The aesthetic atmosphere inside is warm and inviting, with antique furniture and family photos decorating the walls. It smells like fresh baked goods. Snickerdoodle cookies, I think.

In contrast, the tight, grim faces of the people sitting around the living room are not warm or inviting at all. They are the complete opposite, cold and closed off. I see Dr. Marrigan, whom I met the day they put Cassie in the ground. She sits stock still in a linen-upholstered armchair, with her hands steepled over crossed legs.

On a small crimson velvet sofa I see a little girl, who must be Lia's precious Emma. She looks scared to be around this many grown-ups who are about ready to tear each other apart. She sits close to a woman I don't recognize, who must be her mother and Professor Overbrook's new wife.

The brunette woman's face scrunches up in confusion. She gestures to me. "Who's that?"

Lia lets out a shaky breath. "This is my friend Elijah. Elijah, this is my stepmom Jennifer, and her daughter Emma."

Emma's pained brown eyes meet mine. Please bring her back, they seem to beg. She has no idea how hard I'm trying.

"Oh. Nice to meet you," Jennifer says awkwardly. Professor Overbrook moves to sit next to her on the couch. Then there's silence. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. Finally, Lia speaks.

"I called you all here because I have a few things to say." She looks at Emma, and I can practically hear her heart crying out. She composes herself and starts again. "I want to start by saying I'm sorry. Even though I know those two words can't begin to make up for the things I've done, and how stubborn I've been, and how little respect I've had for my own life, they're a good place to start. I'm sorry. To all of you."

"It's all right, Lia," Dr. Marrigan starts in what she must think is a gentle voice. "We know you're sorry."

"But this time I want you to hear me out," she shoots back. "I know you're hesitant. Dad, I know you don't want me living here. But I'm not the same Lia from two years ago. I'm getting better. I'm actually talking to Dr. Parker about my problems. And she's helping me straighten them out. I never want to go down that road again, now that I see how far gone I was. I'm committed to turning my life around, but this is probably the only place left for me to make amends." She pauses, and her eyes land on everyone in the room in turn.

"You could always live with me," Dr. Marrigan pipes up, breaking the silence.

Lia clenches her teeth. "Conversation for another time."

"I want you to get better."

"I am getting better!" She shouts. "And I'm doing just fine without you." Her words clearly hurt her mother, and she tenses her face.

"Lia, don't take that tone with me."

"Chloe, let her speak," Professor Overbrook cuts in.

"Don't encourage that attitude, David. If you had been more firm with her she wouldn't be here in the first place."

"What was I supposed to do? She wouldn't listen to anyone!"

"You were supposed to try harder!"

"Oh, like you made so much progress with her."

"I made more than you did!"

"HEY!" Lia screams. "Don't you dare try to make this about you." Her stare could cut through stone. "You both missed the mark with me. I didn't call you here so could place blame for all the times you've screwed up. You do that enough already." She breathes, and we start from the top. "Dad, I'm only asking you to reconsider letting me live here."

He sighs, drained. "How do I know you won't relapse?"

She shrugs. Her voice is small as she responds. "I can't promise you that I won't. But I can promise you that I know how to get help now. That I'll check myself back into New Seasons if I feel like I need to. If you let me live here, I'll eat everything you make, as long as it follows the hospital's plan, and I'll take the scale up to the top floor and throw it out the window because I never want to stand on that thing again. I don't want any more reasons to feel like I'm not enough. Or, too much, I guess."

"Lia, I really think it would be better for your recovery if you lived with me," Dr. Marrigan says again. Wow, the woman can't give it a rest, can she?

Lia glances her mother's way sharply, cheeks flushed in anger. "Seriously? Mom, what don't you understand? If you would just listen to me, you would realize that it doesn't matter what you think, because I'm the one who's recovering."

"Now hold on a minute–"

"NO!" She shouts, so loud that Emma gasps and curls up a little. I notice Jennifer's been silent this whole time, but even she looks afraid. Lia's eyes land on her, and I see how close to tears she is.

"Jennifer, Emma, I'm sorry. I thought we could discuss this like a normal family, but maybe we really are broken beyond repair."

She storms out of the living room without another word.

Not eager to be alone with her stewing family for one more second, I follow Lia out to the front porch. "Hey, wait up!"

"I told you so," she replies dryly, but there is no triumph in her voice. I shut the door behind me, and she watches it close like she'll never walk through it again. Like her last chance was tonight, and she failed.

"Lia, I'm sorry. I thought you could make things better."

"I knew it would end like this. I wanted to believe you so bad. Stupid, so stupid," she huffs.

My voice hitches in desperation. "Don't give up! Lia, please don't give up. Maybe try one-on-one next time. It seemed like the problem was everyone being in a room together at the same time, and the collision space was restricted."

She shrugs. "Maybe. But it's always been like this."

"It doesn't have to be."

She eyes me with pity. "You keep saying that. But you're not on this side of the issue."

I stick my hands in my pockets and look at the ground. "I guess I can't help you," I say. "But that doesn't mean I think this is it for you." I start walking towards my car. "I'll see you later."

I sleep in my car that night. I almost went to the motel, but I didn't want Lia to think I was helicoptering her. The next morning, though, I pay her a visit.

She's in her room, cross-legged on her bed, eating her hospital-approved breakfast and watching the news through glazed eyes. I wonder if she slept at all last night.

"Hi," she says without looking at me.

I stand in the doorway until she motions for me to come in. I sit in the pilly desk chair and wait to see if she has something to say.

"My mom called me last night," she finally says. Her voice is quiet. I reach for the remote to mute the TV so I can hear her. "I really didn't want to pick up, but I can't seem to ghost anyone since…" Since Cassie, who called her 33 times before she died in the room next door.

"Anyway," Lia continues, "she said she wanted to talk to me, and not about me moving in with her. She said she was sorry about her outburst last night, but ever since the divorce it's been this way. I told her I just wanted to kick off the process of improving my relationship with them, but that I was going about it all wrong. She said she understood and wanted that too, whatever that means to her." Lia shrugs. "Maybe that means I have to keep my mom and dad separate, but if I can be civil with them both now that we've eliminated the anorexia factor, then I will."

"That's great," I say genuinely. "You're on the road to success." I reach out to pat her hand, but am surprised when she takes it in her own and squeezes it.

She leans back against the headboard. "Hopefully."

I'm not surprised when a week later Lia's dad offers for her to move back in. She seems so relieved, and I'm glad she has a place to go now other than the motel. Her mom hasn't talked to her since, like usual, but in a way she and Lia are no worse off than they were before. In my mind that has to count for something.

Once I realized Lia was finally doing what she should have all along, I also realized my job was done. But something was still nagging at me.

I'd been so adamant about Lia finding a way to resolve things with her family because I'd never had that chance. My mother is dead, my father is who knows where, and I'm left wondering if I ever had a shot. I knew Lia would kick herself forever, like me, if she didn't at least try with her family. And now she doesn't have to.

And maybe I don't have to either. My whole life I've run from my problems, lived as a jack of all trades, been many different things to many different people because I was so afraid of anyone seeing me for me, seeing how broken the real Elijah is. I've never had a friend like Lia before, who doesn't bother to see any of the masks I wear, who goes straight through to reality and has no judgement about what she sees. She's doing the same thing. She's walking on eggshells with recovery and her family and life in general, but she's done trying to convince the world that she's fine. Instead of lying, she's finally doing something about her mess.

So I'm going with my gut on this, like everything else, staying in New Hampshire. Maybe I too will make my peace with the world. Maybe Lia's newfound problem-solving confidence will rub off on me.

I know now that I don't need to pretend anymore. But it's a long road to coming to terms with your past, untangling the present, and figuring out the future. So the sooner I get started, the better.