For a few minutes every morning, the sun beams through the top of our living room window, assaulting the spot on the couch that my head lies whenever I've crashed out there the night before. This is all because the window has an arched top, and whoever fitted the blinds didn't consider that we might have wanted them tall enough to fit the whole window. We haven't done anything about it, because when I fall asleep without setting an alarm, those obnoxious rays are the only way I'm waking up the next day.

Today they are blinding me at 10:40 A.M., and my shift started at 10, and I'm cuddled up to an empty bottle of scotch.

I sit up, which is a mistake, according to my pounding head, but I power through it and trudge to the kitchen. I pour a glass of water under the medicine cabinet, and I don't even have to look to retrieve a bottle of aspirin, which I suppose speaks volumes for how routine this is. My shower takes three minutes, but I don't have time to straighten my hair so I put it up in a bun and throw on my uniform. I avoid the mirror, because if I see how much of a wreck I surely look, I'm not going to make it beyond the front door.

I power-walk to the edge of town and make it to Greasy's at 11:10. For some reason I decide to enter through the side door, like if I slip into the office undetected Lindsay will think I've been here the whole time. She's at the counter, pouring coffee, glaring at me, and that is not a good look for Lindsay, and certainly not a look she has to try on very often. I pass the gauntlet of occupied booths and step behind the counter.

"Sorry I'm late."

"Go home," she says, her voice low. "You're not working today."

"Yeah, I switched my shifts with Beth," I tell her.

"Not what I mean. I told you there would be consequences if this happened again, didn't I?" She goes back to working on the drinks order and I lean against the counter for balance.

"Yeah," I sigh. "I'm sorry, I overslept."

"Nina's away again? Is that it?"

My mouth opens and shuts a couple of times. She's smart. See-right-through-you smart.

"I've told you so many times that my door is open to you, any hour of the night. You have my phone number, you know where I live, and have you ever called? No. I don't know what else I can do. I'm running out of options with you."

Being scolded by Lindsay is a lot different to being scolded by Mom. With Mom it's like, whatever, get out of my face, and I'll blow my fringe out of my eyes because I don't care what she has to say, but with Lindsay? I want to get down on my knees and sob into her apron.

"I'll close up tonight," I try. "You can leave early."

"No."

"I'll take all of these tables right now. You can have a break."

"No. You're not working today."

"So you're angry at me for missing an hour of work, but now you want me to miss the whole day? How are you going to handle every table by yourself? We're packed."

"I will manage, just how I've managed for the last hour without you. And you know this isn't about you missing work, so don't try and twist my words. If you're not going to accept my help, Pacifica, then I'm not going to pay to fuel your addiction. It's as simple as that."

There's a lump in my throat that threatens to burst if I stand here any longer, so I mumble, "okay," and make a beeline for the door.

"Such a shame," I hear Lindsay say behind me.

I'm walking back across the parking lot, squeezing between a red sedan and a pick-up, and a single tear rolls down my cheek. It's like being back in elementary school and doing something so unthinkable that the sweetest teacher snaps and yells at you, it ignites the kind of shame that burns in you all day and doesn't go away until they smile at you again, so you know your relationship hasn't been permanently damaged.

When I'm back at the apartment I go to dispose of the scotch bottle, but decide against it. At AA, they've told me that when my sponsor is away and I relapse I have to be honest with her, so I leave the bottle on the coffee table, a lovely surprise to ruin her weekend when she gets home tonight.

And then I'm just alone with my thoughts, and that's about as dangerous as jamming my hand into the blender and cranking the dial up to max, so I go outside for a run.

There's a carnival set up in town, in one of the big open fields near my old high school, a helter-skelter and a ferris wheel towering over it all, broadcasting one of those generic carnival tunes. I give it a wide berth because it's exactly the kind of place that Mabel Pines might spend a Sunday afternoon. The kind of place she'd try to sneak onto the slide that's strictly for kids twelve years of age and younger.

And the thought of her reminds me of Zoey, a blur of purple and blue, pink lips and soft skin. I think about how she could have been something new - not permanent - but a flicker of romance, at least, and how I ruined it with perversion and an inability to forget my past. How it's possible that she is figuring out her sexuality, and I'll forever be her first experience with a woman, a disaster, how I might get in the way of her future curiosity because I left my dirty footprint on her mind, because I'm no better than any of the opportunistic men that were prowling the party last night.

My legs feel too weak to run. I bend over on the sidewalk and tighten my eyes shut, willing myself not to be sick, the carnival music and children's laughter mocking me in the distance. It's these sorts of moments that I make vows to myself, promises to make myself better, so that Hurricane Pacifica can't wreak any more havoc, but they're always hollow promises. I never follow through.

Today's going to be different, I decide, and it's a shame the music supporting this epiphany is a carny xylophone and not an epic orchestra. I'm going to take concrete action. I'm going to get my shit together. I'm going to prove to myself and everyone who knows me that I'm a strong, independent woman, a mature adult who tackles their problems head-on instead of letting them fester.

I'm going to... run home to my mom.

By five in the afternoon, I'm standing outside the spacious two-story house where I spent my teenage years. I drop my backpack on the concrete pathway, stand a few steps back from the door, just scanning the overgrown yard, the broken wooden bench. The house itself doesn't look any different, but if you threw a rock through a front-facing window you might think it was unoccupied from the street.

It must be six months since I've visited. Christmas. I have avoided traveling down this street and getting a passing glance at the place, but not consciously. I don't think.

Mom answers the door after two attempts at the bell and thirty seconds, and she looks like she's about to berate her cold-caller about it being Sunday evening, but when she recognizes me, her face lights up in exactly the way I wish it did when I was a child, when I would have actually appreciated that sort of gesture.

"Pacifica," she says, smiling, and I can see she has been practicing her smile, at least. "What a lovely surprise."

"Hey, mom."

"How are you?" she asks, leaning in for a tentative hug which I tentatively reciprocate.

"I'm fine. Thought I'd come and hang out for a while," I say, revealing my backpack.

"Are you staying the night?"

"If that's okay with you, yeah."

"Oh," she says, clapping her hands together. "I'll have to make your bed. I just washed the sheets this morning - you know me, I have to keep everything clean in your room even if you haven't lived there for years!"

"You do? That's... weird," I say, but she's already prancing away through the living room. I follow her through to the sunroom, and notice that the back yard is as overgrown as out front.

"Ever since I fired the maid, I've been working overtime keeping everything spotless in here. I love it, it's so satisfying. Makes me wonder why we ever paid so much to have little men in suits running about doing everything for us."

"Looks like you could still do with a gardener."

"Oh, don't get me started on that. Ridiculous how much they're charging these days. It used to be, we'd come down to the neighborhood and find a couple of Mexicans" - she whispers Mexicans, as if that makes it any less offensive - "and they'd charge five dollars an hour, tops. It isn't artistry, I just want the fucking lawn mowed."

Mom makes dinner, and I try to think back to the last time that happened, and nope, it has not happened in my lifetime. Even at Christmas, she invites Mrs. Weathers, the widowed elderly neighbor to our table, and I try and try to give my mom the benefit of the doubt and tell myself she is being generous to the lonely out of Christmas spirit, not because Mrs. Weathers was once a professional chef. Mom tells me she bought this new cookbook online, over two-hundred recipes. She loves cooking, she keeps saying from the kitchen, but it's the first I've heard of it. I sit patiently at the dining table, half-listening to her, half-scrolling through my Twitter feed for anything remotely interesting. I wonder if Mrs. Weathers will get an invite this year.

Eventually, I am served a plate of vegetable ravioli, a tomato sauce over the top sprinkled with finely chopped chili peppers, and green beans on the side. Probably the healthiest meal I've eaten in weeks, considering I live off of diner food and whenever I'm sensible enough to have a salad I mix in a bag of potato chips, to balance out the lack of flavor. Wendy doesn't understand how I'm not fat, she always tells me.

"This is delicious," I say after one mouthful, more as a gut reaction than anything.

"You like it?" she says, glancing up from the opposite end of the table, her eyes bright. "I'm so glad. I never get the chance to cook for other people. You'll have to come to dinner more often."

There, in that last sentence, lies the overarching quandary of our relationship. She lives here alone, in this vast space, and yeah, maybe it would be nice if her daughter paid her a visit that wasn't to ask for a favor, every once in a while. But every time Mom says things like this, something within me ignites and I want to spit back at her that maybe she should have come to my piano recitals more often, or my swim meets, or maybe she shouldn't have gone entire days without saying a word to me or asking how I was, simply because she was so wrapped up in her own life. Just because her loneliness has broken her doesn't mean I have to be around to pick up the pieces.

I roll my shoulders and focus on the food. No need to start an argument now, because I'd be running up the stairs to grab my backpack and then I would be out of here, no closer to the goal of fixing my life. I divert the conversation to the reason I'm sat here in the first place. "Mom, you need to stop sending me money."

"What? How come?"

"Let's just say... I haven't been spending it very wisely. I buy a lot of things I don't need."

"What about the apartment? How are you going to afford rent?"

"Well, uh, that's still coming out of Dad's money, isn't it? We still need that. I just mean the money you transfer to me every month."

She frowns and sets down her knife and fork. Never a good sign. "Are you sure you can get by without it? And are you sure that woman at the diner is paying you enough? I looked online, and I'm fairly confident that the minimum wage for-"

"My pay is fine, Mom. I make enough to live on with tips. I might have to switch to a less expensive shampoo, or something, but I'll be fine. Please trust me on this, it'll be good for me to gain a little independence. Just, you know, I still need Dad to pay for the apartment."

She chews on the pasta, eyes drilling into me, trying to figure me out. We have sat in these exact seats in the opposite situation at least once before, when I was asking for a raise. I was most likely drunk. "Well, if you say so, dear. Just let me know the moment you start to struggle, okay? If that happens. I don't want you starving up there just to hang on to your pride."

In spite of everything, I smile. "Thank you."

And totally out of nowhere, she says, "any young ladies in your life?"

I swallow my food too quickly and grimace, waiting for it to squeeze through my throat. "Not at the moment, no."

My bedroom is exactly the way I remember, and I can't work out whether that's a good thing. It's midnight, and the moon is bright, so every little feature, every little trinket, every memory is coated in pale light, and it's keeping me awake. Every time I shut my eyes, my mind takes over, playing scenes that happened within these four walls, and most of them feature Mabel. In some, we're dancing. I'm playing the piano. She's knitting. Or we're just lying here, in my bed, talking about the future, neither of us knowing at the time what fate would have in store for us.

I jump out of bed and guide myself to the piano in the corner. A strip of moonlight from a gap in the curtains cuts across the sleek black exterior. I sit at the stool and my fingers naturally assume the stance they took thousands of times in my childhood. I think about Mozart, A Little Night Music. My hands tap the keys like it's second nature, but my mom is asleep so I'm not actually playing the notes, so, who knows, I could be getting it totally wrong. She really has been obsessive with cleaning; there isn't even a layer of dust on the keys to show that this is just another aspect of my life I abandoned a long time ago. About three years. When I started drinking, I guess.

While the ghost of my former self and the girl I used to know dance around my bedroom, I go downstairs and sleep on the couch.

Over the week, I gradually rekindle Lindsay's love for me by coming to work early and staying late, to help keep the place clean. I tell her that all of my tips are going straight into the piggy bank and that I'm not replacing the bottle I had stashed under the sink, and I'm not lying. Nina knows about that spot now, anyway.

I also tell Lindsay that I might have found somebody to fill the job vacancy, but Mabel doesn't show up at the diner all week.

Until Saturday night, about a half hour before closing time. We're completely empty, so I'm winding down with a milkshake and a newspaper at the counter, Bob Seger on low volume from the digital jukebox in the corner. The bell above the door chimes and I see her sink into the closest booth, her fiancé and two other guys following suit. It takes all of two seconds to spot that they're all wasted.

But as much as I may want to, when I'm working alone it's impossible to avoid customers, so I take a couple of steadying breaths and march over to the booth. I have to wait for Jason and the goon opposite him to stop talking before they all shift their attention to me. Mabel smiles; I do not.

"Good evening, can I get you guys some drinks?"

The third guy, opposite Mabel, has black bangs that partially obscure his eyes, but they look like somebody has spilled a vat of grease over his head. I try not to twist my nose at the beer breath as he asks for four Jack and Cokes and a bottle of red, which the other men at the table think is a riot.

"We don't serve alcohol here," I say, the rehearsed line for every joker that has ever thought that would be a cute thing to ask.

They talk among themselves like they've forgotten I'm here, or that they're even in a diner, until Jason says, "I'll have some of that... what's that thick bread called that you have with syrup?"

"French toast?" says his buddy, the good-looking one.

"No, that's not it, it's, uhh..."

"It's called French toast, dude."

"Yeah, I'll have some of that."

None of the others say anything, and Mabel is much more interested in her fingernails, so I leave them to shout at each other over the silence, and reluctantly set down a plate of French toast in front of the Neanderthal that Mabel has apparently decided to marry.

And not five minutes later, I'm standing over the vacated table, half-eaten French toast left behind, searching for the six dollars it should have cost. I check the seats, the floor, the napkin dispenser. To my right, out the window, the four of them are just crossing the parking lot towards the trail that leads into town. I consider letting it go. But something is boiling in my chest. We'll call it fury, or just that I'm downright confounded as to how somebody I once loved to bits has ended up with a baboon like Jason.

I burst out the door, a gust of cool air attacking my fringe, and across the empty lot yell, "hey!"

They all turn around in unison as I strut across the gravel in my blue high heels, which isn't easy, and I'm sure my occasional wobble from side to side makes me look as intimidating as a Labrador pup.

"Generally, you're supposed to pay for food," I say. "This isn't a homeless shelter. Though a couple of you look like you could pass as tramps." My mouth stops there.

Mabel looks up at her boyfriend and her jaw drops open. "You didn't leave any money?"

"It was crap food," he slurs, running a hand through his hair. "They should have paid me to eat it."

"I'm sorry," I say, hands on hips. "If you wanted free food you can feel free to rummage through our dumpster. Like I said, you wouldn't look very out of place."

His friends laugh and taunt him for a second and then turn to retreat into the woods. Jason's face turns more serious. "Alright," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a scuffed leather wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

"Five ninety-nine," I tell him, and as I go to reach for the bill he drops it to the ground on purpose.

"Whoops."

"Oh, what is this, middle school? Do you wanna go back inside and dunk my head in the toilet, too?"

"Hey, if that's what you're into."

I grimace and turn to Mabel, whose arms are folded. Her face softens as I glare at her, like she's trying to apologize with her eyes but isn't sorry enough to do anything.

"You're just gonna stand there?"

One of the douchebags calls out of the darkness, "are you guys coming, or what?"

"Figures," I say, directly to Mabel. "You always were spineless."

"Mabel, how do you know this chick?" Jason asks her, eyeing me from head to toe.

"Can we just go, please?" she says, grabbing his arm, her eyes fixed on me. I see a flurry of shame and humiliation behind them.

I stand there in the empty lot, frozen still, watching their backs fade into the pitch black woods. The ten-dollar bill rests at my feet, unmoving in the still night. Without really thinking about what I'm doing, I lift my heel and stomp it into the gravel, over and over, until my leg is tired and the weight of my frustration is lifted. I look around; no passers-by to witness my meltdown. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance. I pick up the cash and go back inside to close up.

Nina's waiting up for me on the couch when I get home, which is odd. Whenever we go out in the evening she's adamant that she gets back by 10 P.M., for her eight hours of sleep to be up at 6. It can be irritating, but I admire her for it. It takes commitment to stick to a routine like that, and that's one of the reasons I asked her to be my AA sponsor.

She leans over the back of the couch. "Hey, how was work?"

"Good," I say slowly, "up until the end."

"What happened?"

I lift up her legs and flump into the couch, letting her feet land in my lap. She's in her pink pajamas, her hair all messy, her eyes wide, and my heart thumps a few times because this is how our spontaneous make-outs always used to begin, the sober ones, anyway, before she ran off with a boy. I clear my throat. "Mabel Pines graced me with her presence again, with her dickhead fiancé in tow."

She scrunches up her face. "Yikes. They're still here?"

"They'll be here all summer, apparently. Maybe I should quit."

"Maybe I should wait 'til tomorrow to spring my bad news on you."

I let out some kind of involuntary sigh and lean back further. "What's the bad news?"

Nina sits up, taking her feet from my lap and crossing her legs. "Kyle and I have been talking about something for a while, and, well, last weekend, we came to a decision."

"You're moving in with him."

She tightens her lips for a long second, then nods. "How'd you guess?"

"Because it's everything I've been afraid of since you came home after that first weekend, and galloped around the apartment like a schoolgirl."

She draws circles in the fabric of the sofa with her finger. "It wasn't an easy decision. And it isn't just because of Kyle. It's... everything. I have to get out of this town, P. I can't go another month washing dishes in that hellhole bar. There'll be so many more opportunities for me out in Portland, and while I figure out what they are, I can work on my writing." Nina's been writing short stories and poetry since she was fifteen, and she publishes them all to this blog with five-thousand followers. They're really, really good, and I must have cried at about a third of them, and although I cry a lot, I'm convinced that one day she'll blow up and I'll call to remind her I was the first follower on that blog, and I'll tell her how proud I am. "Of course," she continues, picking up my hands, "I owe you so much for letting me live here rent-free, and all the nights you've stayed up listening to me rant and ramble and cry. And if you don't want me to go, I'm staying right here. Really."

"Nina, don't be stupid. It sounds like you have a perfect opportunity to get out of here. If you're sure about this, I'm behind you one-hundred percent."

Her eyebrows arch, like she can't tell whether I'm joking. I don't blame her. I can be very sarcastic. "Yeah?"

"Of course."

A squeal escapes her mouth as she flings her arms around me, and I squeeze her back, tighter than I ever have before. She kisses my cheek and whispers into my ear, "I love you."

"I love you too. Just tell me one thing?" I draw back and put my hands on her shoulders. "Tell me he's good to you."

"He is," she says, nodding ardently. "He really is."

I draw a deep breath. "So when is this happening?"

"I'm not sure. A few weeks, maybe? I want to stick around for July 4th, so we can spend that together."

"Like a last hurrah?"

Nina grabs my hands again. "I'm still gonna be around, like, all the time. It's only Portland, I can make it down here for a weekend at least every month. If Kyle argues against that I'll just tell him, hey, dude, you made me abandon my girl every other weekend, now it's your turn. We'll probably even end up spending more time with each other."

That makes me smile, even if it does sound like something she would promise to soften the blow.

"Now, um, the other thing: I'm still happy to be your sponsor, I always will be, but I don't know how easy that's going to be if I'm not here."

"Right. Case in point: Last week."

"Mhmm."

I sigh. "Lindsay. It'll have to be."

"I thought so. I still want to be, like, your unofficial sponsor. And I'm going to show up here at random and raid the cabinets, I'm warning you now, and if I find so much as a drop-"

"I know, Neens. You're gonna kick my ass."

"I'm gonna kick your ass. And I'm gonna start hitting the gym up in Portland, too, so unless you want some broken bones, I'd seriously think about quitting the booze."

"I don't think AA sponsors are supposed to say things like that."

We're both silent for a while, and then she hugs me again. I hold on, absorbing her warmth, smelling her perfume. It's crazy how I can go from wanting to smooch her to pure, platonic love in a matter of minutes.

"Maybe now I can get some sleep," she says, rising from the couch, leaving me cold. She leans on the doorframe to her bedroom for a moment, as if there are things left unsaid, but then she says goodnight and shuts the door.

The smile falls from my face. The refrigerator churns out its low hum, which I suppose will soon become the soundtrack to my loneliness. Weird that I can only think about Mabel, when my current best pal just announced that she is leaving town imminently. Mabel disappearing into the woods. Mabel boarding a bus. Mabel driving away. History is repeating itself. Everybody always leaves, and I stay here, and I stay the same.

I yawn and rise to my feet. Halfway to my bedroom, I stop outside Nina's door. I can faintly hear her shuffling about in her socks. A surge of something courses through my veins.

I knock. And wait.

Three seconds later, she opens it. I don't why I knocked. I don't know why I'm not saying anything. And I don't know why she isn't saying anything, either. In my fantasy, I leap into her arms and we kiss, intensely, for the last time, stumbling towards her bed and collapsing into it.

In innocent reality, I say, "you wanna have a sleepover in front of the TV?"

She grins and rolls her eyes. "I'll get my pillow."