So remember when I said two chapters ago that that one was the longest chapter I'd written for this story thus far? Yeah, this one is about three pages longer than that.


The attic is cluttered and musty, and Natara marvels at the fact that they can even walk around at all. The sunlight streaming in through a grimy window at the far end of the room turns everything a strange yellow-ish color, which only makes everything look messier. Tracing her fingers over a box that bears the name Jacob, she wonders briefly how she got roped into helping Mal clean out the attic.

"How long has all of this stuff been up here?" she asks, eyeing the other boxes stacked on top of each other.

"A while," she hears Mal answer, though she can't see him. "I think some of them have been here since I was a baby. Maybe even before that."

"And you guys just never came up here to get rid of stuff?" She edges around another stack of boxes and finds Mal kneeling on the ground with an open box.

"We never really had a reason to, I guess," he says. "But my mom said she wants us to go through them and clean them out."

"Yeah, 'us' being you and your sister," she says sarcastically, but she sits on the floor next to Mal. "Where is Cynthia anyway?"

"Not sure," he says as he digs through the box in front of them. "She just said she had to do something and left a while ago."

"And you're okay with that?" she asks. Mal looks up and frowns at her.

"Well, yeah," he says. "Even if it's not something important, I think she deserves some time away from the house. She's the one who's been taking care of just about everything. When our mom was in the hospital, she's the one who sat there all day and all night with her." Natara mulls that over for a second, and Mal turns his attention back to the box.

"What is all this stuff?" Natara asks as she looks through the box with him.

"I think this is all Cynthia's," Mal says, examining some papers bound together with string. "My mom's a total pack rat when it comes to me and my sister's childhood things. This is her school journal from when she was in first grade." He flips though it quickly and laughs.

"What's it say?" Natara asks. Mal holds it out to her and she takes it from him. It's open to a page with a sloppily drawn girl smiling next to a misshapen rectangle. Inside the rectangle is a smaller person crying. Beneath the drawing is a caption that reads, 'I have a baby brother who is really annoying. He cries a lot and I want to throw him in the trash can.'

"Wow," she laughs. "I remember that stage when Neha was born."

"The difference was we were in middle school," Mal says, taking the journal back. "And you didn't try to actually throw her in the trash."

"Did Cynthia?"

"Yeah," he says, shaking his head. "She almost succeeded too, until my mom caught her." He places the journal back in the box, then closes it up. He knows his mom will want to keep that one, at least, so he sets it aside and grabs another. He pries it open and picks up the item that's on top- an old baby onesie.

"Is that Cynthia's too?" Natara asks, picking up another onesie. Mal shrugs.

"No idea." He digs through the box and finds only old baby clothes. "I guess this can be donated, right? No one in my family has babies."

"Probably," Natara agrees, placing the onesie back into the box. "We're gonna need to clear some space for different piles of boxes.

"Or," Mal says, picking the box up, "I can just bring the donations downstairs."

"You could also do that," Natara says with a light laugh. "I'll open up another one."

They work out a reliable system together- Natara pulls boxes from the stacks and opens them, she and Mal go through each one's contents and decide what to do with it, and Mal sorts the boxes into piles based on that. The donations go downstairs in the hallway for now, while the boxes to keep get pushed to one side of the attic. They slowly begin making a dent in the boxes, but she knows it'll take days to get it fully cleaned out. Maybe even weeks.

It's a little strange, being allowed to help out with cleaning out the attic. Most of the boxes are like time capsules, and she gets glimpses in to Mal and Cynthia's childhoods that she never thought she'd get to see. She watches and listens as Mal tells her stories behind some of the items. Like the tee ball bat he threw at the umpire at the age of five, or the ceramic figurine Cynthia made for their parents one Christmas that she insisted was a dog and everyone else insisted was an elephant. Or the box of old puzzles their family completed throughout elementary and middle school.

The problem is that, because of all the stories and the memories tied to the items, Mal wants to keep everything. They argue about a fair few of the boxes and what piles they should go in, and more than once she nearly picks up the box they're sorting through and brings it downstairs herself.

"What do you need all of this for?" she demands with a smile, holding up a child's baseball glove.

"For my own kids," Mal says defensively, grabbing it from her hand and hugging it to his chest.

"Oh yeah? How many kids do you have?" she asks him.

"Well none right now," he says, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at her. "But I will, someday. And I can give this to them and teach them how to play baseball."

"Or," she says, plucking the glove from his hands again, "you can donate it to a child who actually exists right now." She deposits the glove back into the box and closes the flaps before he can pull it back out.

"But-" he starts to protest.

"No buts!" she says firmly. "And you call your mom a pack rat. You're just as bad as she is."

"Am not," he grumbles, but he picks the box up anyway and heads for the stairs. She listens to his footsteps fade then grabs a box that has Mal's name on it, carefully cuts through the tape on the top of the box, and opens it. Inside are things that are very obviously from his childhood. Things like old drawings, letters to his parents, his fourth-grade report card that describes him as an "active and outspoken child", and Natara translates that to mean he was a pain in the ass who never stopped talking.

"What do you have now?" Mal asks from behind her, and she jumps. She hadn't heard him come back up the stairs.

"You mom really does keep everything," she comments once she gets over the surprise. She hands him a stack of papers from the box, and he smiles fondly at them.

"I never really understood why when I was younger," he says. "But looking at all this stuff now, it's kind of fun to remember some of it."

"Like what?"

Mal hands her an old class photo from second grade and taps it lightly. She almost immediately spots Mal in the second row, surrounded by many other familiar, albeit younger, faces. Amy is in the front row, sporting the biggest grin she's ever seen on a kid. And Kai Kalaba is all the way on the end of the second row, fingers in his mouth as he sticks his tongue out. She finds she can't help but smile, too, as she looks at it.

"Can you believe this was eleven years ago?" she asks, looking at the year.

"Feels like a lot longer, sometimes," Mal says.

"I actually thought it felt like a lot shorter," she responds. "Sometimes I can't even believe we graduated high school."

"Weird," is all Mal says as he digs through more papers in the box. He suddenly yanks a piece of paper out and laughs. "Hey, look at this!"

"What?" He holds the paper out to her, and she takes it.

It's an old coloring book page, yellowed with age, and it feels incredibly thin between her fingers. It's got a picture of two kittens playing with a ball of yarn, colored in haphazardly with crayons. Down at the bottom of the page is a message in a child's handwriting that reads, 'to Mal, from Natara'.

"You kept this?" she asks incredulously, tracing her fingers over her own handwriting. It's crazy to think that she held this exact page in her hands as a child. "I mean, knowing what I know now, I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. But what is this from?"

"In third grade I got you a coloring book for Valentines' Day," Mal says. "Or really, your secret admirer did. But we spent all of recess coloring in it, and then at the end you ripped this page out and gave it to me."

"I don't remember that," she practically whispers. "You actually remember that?"

"I remember a lot of things," he says. He gently takes the paper back and tucks it back inside the box. "And also, I think I kept everything you gave me."

"It's funny," Natara comments. "I think I kept everything you ever gave me, too. Even if I didn't know it was you at the time."

Mal places everything back in the box and slides it over next to Cynthia's. "We're definitely keeping that," he says. "I'd want to, even if my mom didn't for some reason." Natara laughs and rolls her eyes.

"Again, I say: and you call your mom a pack rat," she teases.

She grabs another box without looking at the name and cuts the tape open. There's not much in this one, mostly just a few old leatherbound books that look like they might be journals, but Mal freezes as he sees what's in her hands. He quietly scoots over to the box and just stares down into it.

"What is it?" she asks.

"This is all my dad's old stuff," he says quietly. Natara immediately pulls her hand out of the box and stares at the items as well. She glances over to Mal, but finds she can't read his expression.

"I'm guessing it's been up here for a while, then, right?" she asks. She's not sure if it's the right thing to say, but Mal nods.

"About five years, probably," he says. He reaches into the box and pulls out an old polaroid camera she hadn't seen before, turning it over in his hands. Natara bites her tongue, though she longs to fill the silence with something.

"After he was arrested, we boxed all of his stuff up," Mal finally says. "I didn't want to look at it, and I think my mom wanted to make things easier for me."

"Did packing it all up make it easier?" she asks, resting her chin on his shoulder. Mal sighs.

"I don't know," he says truthfully. "I just wanted to forget about him. I guess I thought getting rid of his stuff would be a starting point. It's embarrassing to be his son, and sometimes I'm scared I'll never escape his shadow." Natara sits up straight and raises her hand to his face, turning his chin so he looks at her.

"I may not know much about your dad," she says, looking straight into his eyes, "but I do know you. You're not an extension of him. You're Mal. You're your own person."

Mal lowers his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder, though," he says. "I can't change the fact that he raised me. I might not be like him now, but what if I grow up to be just like him?"

"You won't."

"How can you possibly know that?" he asks, looking back up at her.

"Because you know you don't want to become him," she says plainly. "Your father made choices that led him to become what he is. Knowing that, knowing what he did, you'll avoid making those same choices he did."

"I don't know if it's that easy," he murmurs. He looks down again, his eyes falling on the camera that's still in his hands. He examines it with more attention than is necessary. It seems to be in fairly good condition, considering it's been sitting in the attic for years. A bit dusty, perhaps, but maybe still in working condition. He raises it to his eye without a word, trains the viewfinder on Natara, and presses the button.

"Mal!" she complains as the flash goes off.

The camera spits the picture out at the bottom, but he ignores it in favor of snapping another photo of Natara. She throws her arms up to cover her face, but she laughs as she does it.

"Stop it!" she cries. Natara manages to grab the camera from Mal's hands and holds it up to her own eye. The flash nearly blinds him as she takes a picture, then another.

"Hey!" he complains. "That's not fair!"

"You started it!"

Natara snaps another picture of Mal, and she thinks that one might actually be a decent photo. She plucks the polaroid from the opening and holds it behind her back as it develops. As she does, Mal grabs the camera back and raises it to his eye once more.

"Smile," he says. "For real." She obliges and tries not to blink as the flash goes off once more. Mal takes the photo from the opening, then looks down at the other photos that fell to the floor, all in various stages of development.

"Look at the mess you made," Natara says.

"We made," he corrects her. "You helped." Still, he leans down to gather up the photos. They're all terrible, he can already tell. But looking at them makes him smile.

"I kind of like this one," Natara says, holding up the picture she had hidden behind her back.

He glances at it and makes a face. It's not a terrible photo. Definitely not the worst photo of him that's ever been taken. But he's definitely not fond of it either. He's only sort of smiling, mostly because he's in the middle of telling Natara to knock it off, and one of his hands is raised halfway.

"I showed you mine, now you show me yours," Natara says with a smirk. Mal holds the still-developing last photo out so she can see. She leans closer to him to get a better look.

That one's actually a good photo for real. There's just enough sunlight streaming in through the window to illuminate her face, but not enough to tell there are boxes behind her. It almost looks like she's melting out of the darkness, her hair not quite blending in with the background. She looks almost magical, and he finds he loves the photo.

He looks up at Natara to gauge her reaction. Her head is tilted slightly to one side as she looks at it. A second later she looks up at him as well, and he realizes how close she is to him. He's about to scoot away to give her some personal space when her hand reaches up behind his neck and she leans forward to meet his lips with hers.

He startles for only a moment, his entire body freezing as his mind kicks into overdrive. It's only the second time he's ever kissed someone and he's suddenly terrified of doing it wrong.

In the next second Natara's other hand comes up to his face, and his mind goes blank. He follows her lead, his hand unconsciously reaching up to cradle her cheek. He can feel his heart hammering against his chest and idly wonders if she can hear it. Even if she could, he doesn't think he would care. He doesn't think he could care about anything except the girl he's currently kissing.

When they pull apart Natara looks a bit dazed, and he's pretty sure he doesn't look too different. He stares at her for a second, his hand still on her cheek, then leans in and kisses her quickly again.

"Sorry," he mumbles as he pulls away again.

"Don't be sorry," she says with a sheepish grin. "I didn't mind." He sits back on his heels as his mind catches up with him. He can't believe what just happened, and he stares at her as his mind works on processing it.

"Are you okay?" she asks, reaching for his hand.

"I think so," he says a bit breathlessly. They both look down at their hands, their fingers woven together. He gives her hand a small squeeze, as if trying to assure himself that he's not imagining things.

"Are you sure?" she asks. He looks up at her and offers her a smile.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Good," she says, leaning in once more. "Then I feel fine about doing this."

And then she's kissing him again. This time the shock has worn off a bit and he doesn't hesitate. His mind goes blank again as Natara's mouth moves against his, and his hands come up to run through her hair. Some part of his brain marvels at how soft it feels against his fingers, but it's quickly eclipsed as Natara's lips part and her tongue flicks against his bottom lip. His mouth opens as well just as her hands come up to his face. She leans forward even more, nearly causing him to lose his balance and stumble backward, but he manages to steady himself, his one hand moving to her neck and pulling her closer to him-

"Mal! What are all these boxes doing in the hallway?"

They jump apart at the sound of Cynthia's voice at the bottom at the attic stairs. They just look at each other for half a second, both a bit bewildered. Natara's hair is downright messy compared to its normal sleek, put-together look, and she tries to smooth it down as best as she can.

"Uh, they're stuff to be donated," Mal answers, trying to hide how breathless he suddenly is. "It's mostly, like, baby clothes and toys."

"Is there somewhere else we can put them?" Cynthia calls back.

"I guess so," Mal says. "Give me a second and I'll figure it out."

"Alright." They listen to her walk away, then look at each other again.

"So-"

"That was-"

They both break off to allow the other to speak, then laugh.

"That was unexpected," Mal says, still laughing a little. Natara grins back at him.

"Maybe for you," she says. "Confession time?"

Mal cocks his head. "Sure," he says.

"I've been trying to build up the courage to do that for hours, now." She smiles at him sheepishly, and he has to laugh as he shakes his head.

"Come on," he says, standing and holding out a hand to help her up. "We should probably go move those boxes before Cynthia comes up here." Natara grins and takes his hand. Together they begin picking the photos they took and place them and the camera back in the box. Mal pauses as he picks up the photo of her from before, his favorite one.

"Do you mind if I keep this?" he asks her, holding it up.

"Only if I get to keep the one of you," she says.

"Deal."

He slides the box to the side- they'll figure out what to do with it later- and reaches down for Natara's hand, pulling her toward the stairs with him. They reach the top and are just about to go downstairs when Natara stops and give his arm a small tug backward.

"Wait," she says, and he starts to turn back to her.

"What is it?" he begins to say, but he's cut off by her kissing him again. It's quick and soft and doesn't last nearly long enough before she's pulling away. He's still pretty sure he's smiling wider than he ever has in his life.

"Just wanted to do that one more time," she says, and then she pulls him down the stairs after her, their hands still intertwined.