I don't know how to thank you all for your lovely reviews! You're all much too kind.

A sidebar, which has nothing to do at all with this fic, but is something worth sharing, is this great quote from Meet Joe Black (which I watched during my 90s movie marathon this weekend! - Cruel Intentions, Twister, and The Sixth Sense were also included!):

"Love is passion, obsession, someone you can't live without. I say, fall head over heels. Find someone you can love like crazy and who will love you the same way back. How do you find him? Well, you forget your head, and you listen to your heart. And I'm not hearing any heart. Cause the truth is, honey, there's no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love, well, you haven't lived a life at all. But you have to try, cause if you haven't tried, you haven't lived."

If only I'd written something so brilliant. Onto the next chapter...

"I feel bad leaving you alone tonight," I call from the kitchen.

Meredith walks into my field of vision and leans against the doorway. She crosses her arms over her new purple top. It was a battle—to say the least—to get her to agree to new clothes, but if she's planning on leaving in the next few days, she'll need more than three shirts and two pants. After at least an hour of complaining, she agreed to five new shirts, two more jeans, a pair of shorts, and new sneakers. I didn't explain to Meredith that money really has no meaning to me, but I'm sure she can tell by now.

"I really don't mind," she says with a shrug.

I set my now clean dinner plate on a towel next to the sink. "I still don't like it thought."

Meredith crosses the room and pulls another fresh towel from the drawer next to the sink. She begins to dry the dishes. "You've had these plans since before I barged into your life. You have to go."

"Yeah, but I'd rather stay in and hang with you." I knock my shoulder playfully against hers.

Which is completely true. The last six days with Meredith has been really enjoyable. At first, it was weird having a near stranger sharing my space, but since our dinner on Monday, things have settled down nicely. I've gotten to know Meredith—the person she is—without the burden of her past. I'm still deeply curious, but it doesn't drive me crazy. It's actually kind of rewarding getting to know someone for who they are instead of where they come from, or who their parents are.

But of course, I'll probably never learn much more about Meredith, because she's determined to leave by Wednesday; just five days from now.

Which makes me want to just stay home with her tonight and enjoy her company before she leaves. Except it's my friend Owen's twenty-first birthday tonight and I promised I would be there.

Meredith whips my arm playfully with the towel and continues to dry the dishes and put them away. "We'll hang tomorrow, unless you have a whopper of a headache. Then I'll just come into your room at seven in the morning and bang pots and pans to wake you up." She smirks wickedly.

"But what if I have a hot brunette in my bed? Would you wake her up as well?"

"First of all," she says walking behind me to put away a drinking glass, "you wish." I glare at her. "And second of all," she walks the other way, "she deserves to be woken up. I'm sure you're one of those 'fuck 'em and duck 'em' types. I'd be doing you a favor."

I can't help but laugh. "I guess the best way around this is not to drink too much tonight so we can do something tomorrow." And that's exactly what I'm planning to do. In fact, I'm not planning to drink at all.

"You're a wild twenty-one year old, though. Isn't the point to just be drunk all the time?"

I turn off the tap after the last dish and shake out my hands. "It's actually the opposite. The second I turned twenty-one, or maybe the day after, I didn't really care about getting wasted anymore. I think the appeal disappeared because what I was doing was no longer illegal."

"So you're saying, I'll have more fun as a seventeen year old alcoholic, rather than a twenty-one year old?" Her eyes glimmer with glee.

I nod, "Yes, except you're not allowed to drink."

Meredith sets the dishtowel down on the edge of the sink and rests her palm on her hip. "That sounds like a double-standard to me. Shouldn't I be as rightfully allowed to underage drink as any other?"

I mirror her stance, minus the hand on my hip—I cross my arms. "Maybe, but not here." I haven't put my foot down about anything with Meredith. When she wanted to go exploring at night by herself, I let her go. When she headed off to the Bronx alone one afternoon, I said nothing. But to think of her drunk and lost among the city streets, with no one protecting her… That's pushing me too far.

Instead of resistance, I'm met with a grin. "Believe me, I've learned that alcohol does nothing good for anyone."

"Personal experience?"

Meredith nods, "Something like that." She looks away. Her demeanor is familiar; she always shuts down when something from her past crops up. However, instead of egging her on, I've learned to step back.

"I'm still sorry you can't come. If only it were dinner, or something, not at a bar, I'd bring you."

"Really, its fine, Derek." She smiles, effectively cutting my apology short. "I have a whole evening of catching up on news stories I've been missing and stalking my friends on Facebook."

It took Mark almost a week to return my computer charger, which he managed to do just this morning. I still have no idea who called up to be let in on Monday, but I don't worry about it. I get at least three weird calls a month and each one is usually someone looking for the doctor's office around the corner.

I ignore the passing thought to look Meredith up on Facebook—because I've decided until she tells me, I won't go searching—and instead offer her a reassuring smile. "I'll be home early. We'll have a movie marathon then."

"Bourne Identity?" she asks.

I nod, "And Good Will Hunting. We'll have a Matt Damon night."

"Okay then. Now, go get ready, or you'll be late!" she drags the dishtowel from the counter and snaps it in my direction. I jump out of the way just in time and throw a middle finger over my shoulder. "Real mature Derek."

I laugh all the way to my bedroom.

I leave Meredith lying happily on the couch with Die Hard playing in the background, my computer perched on her stomach, and a bowl of popcorn just in reach. It seems crazy that after only one week staying with me, I'll be sad to see her go.

I step onto my stoop, bypassing the mail piling up in my box, and stop immediately.

"Oh fuck."

"Good to see you too," Mark say and stands up from his seat.

"Why are you here?"

Mark brushes off his pants and faces me. "It's Owen's birthday, which I figured, whether you still have a stowaway or not, you'd still be going. And," he holds his arms out, "I was right."

"I really don't want to see you right now."

"Do you still have a stowaway?"

I walk past him and down the street towards the 1 train. Mark chases after me and matches my strides. "Come on. I think you need to talk to someone about this. I'm guessing I'm the only one that knows and it has to be kind of fucked up—having some girl staying with you, dependent on you. I mean, its weird man."

"Thank you for that uneducated summary of my situation, Mark. But I honestly don't want to talk you about anything, especially my situation with Meredith."

"So that's still going on then?" We reach the subway; where I ignore him, walk past the turn style and down the platform. He follows, of course. "Are you sleeping together?"

"Jesus, Mark! She's seventeen!"

"So? It's not like she pre-pubescent or anything. Plus, if I remember correctly, she's hot."

The train approaches, and instead of throwing Mark onto the track, I meet his eyes carefully. "Look, I don't want to discuss any of this with you. You've made your thoughts on my situation very clear and I appreciate you looking out for me, but I'm an adult. And Meredith is not," I clarify. "You have no idea what she's been through and if she needs somewhere to stay for a few days, and I have unlimited resources, why wouldn't I help her?"

"But it's been more than a few days," he reminds me, as if that would change my decision.

I step onto the train and slide down to an available seat. Mark stands in front of me, clutching the central pole. "She's leaving on Wednesday," I admit.

"Where's she going?"

"I don't know. She won't tell me."

I can't imagine letting Meredith go out on her own in five days. Even if she does head south, there are bad people all along the way, and her safety is never guaranteed. I can only imagine if Amelia ran away, or if Sophia had left when she was younger, and the fear that would surround their sudden disappearances. Who would be looking for them besides the family? Would authorities be scouring the metropolitan area? Meredith's family must be wondering where she is. And her friends, even if they knew about her departure, must think about her constantly.

I don't want to be another person in Meredith's life wondering where she is and hoping she's not dead in the woods. Or worse, tied up in someone's basement. But I can't make her stay.

Mark sits down next to me and sighs. "It's a shitty situation, isn't it?"

I laugh, humorlessly, and nod. "Probably the shittiest."

"You can't save everyone man."

I can already feel the evening turning sour, so instead of focusing on Meredith's departure, I force a smile on my face and punch Mark in the middle of his thigh. "What the fu—"

"So, tell me about your recent conquests," I joke.

Mark rubs his thigh and glares at me, but after a minute, he begins a long tirade of girls, girls, and more girls. It's just that simple, and we're friends again

Owen chose 46 Lounge for his birthday, which isn't really his speed. His girlfriend, a pampered princess from Montauk, wanted something "special" for his birthday. I'm sure Owen would have bellied up to some seedy bar before stepping foot into a lounge, but he wanted to make his girlfriend happy. Mark complained the entire subway ride; however, as soon as we pass the doors, he noticed the amount of girls milling around—most of them dressed to the nines in short cocktail dresses and heels—and it no longer mattered that a single beer costs ten dollars and a tequila shot costs twenty.

We're escorted to the VIP section by a hostess and Owen already looks wrecked. He's slumped against his girlfriend—whose name I can never remember—as she sips a glass of champagne and laughs loudly with a brunette next to her. "Dibs," Mark whispers to me.

I nod, because I'm not going home with anyone anyway.

"Derek! Mark!" Owen calls, now looking semi-conscious. He smiles wide and goofy and pats the empty spot next to him. I go that way and Mark goes left, to sit next to the brunette. Owen throws his arm around my shoulder, "I'm so happy you're here!"

"Hey man, happy birthday." I try to pull a few inches away from him, so I can't smell the rancid alcohol on his breath, but his grip is tight.

"It is, isn't it? The happiest," he slams back his beer.

His girlfriend looks my way and smiles. "He started at noon," she says as an explanation.

I nod. I started the same way for my twenty-first. Still, to this day, I wonder how I made it out alive.

A waitress arrives at our table, along with two more guys and three more girls. Owen perks up and shouts out their names as well. Everyone looks more or less uncomfortable to even be in his vicinity. "Can I get you a drink?" she asks Mark, and leans closer to him. He checks out her rack—typical—and smirks. He orders a double-scotch, single malt for both of us.

"No, Mark, I'm not drinking."

"Fuck you," Owen yells at me, and everyone in our section stares. "It's my birthday," he says to me and then repeats it to the waitress. "And he'll have two."

"Owen, look—"

Owen waves his hand to dismiss me and nods very seriously to the waitress. She takes the rest of the orders and I decide one drink won't kill me.

One drink transforms to two, and two to three, and three to six, and before I even realize it, it's nearing midnight and I am well on my way to being drunk. Owen is just nearly passed out, and Mark disappeared almost an hour ago with the brunette, who introduced herself as Nicole. I take a sip of my seventh scotch, and I know I should go home to Meredith, but I'm too drunk to show my face. I'm hoping to get home after she's already asleep and I can just avoid the whole embarrassing situation.

Someone sits down next to me and I turn and meet a gorgeous pair of blue eyes. The girl beside me is very blond and sun-kissed tan. Her lashes are thick and her lips are a perfect shade of pink. She's at least twenty-five.

I should leave now.

But it's been so long. Almost two weeks.

"Hi, I'm Sara."

She extends her hand. Don't shake her hand. Don't do it. I take her warm, soft hand into mine. "Derek."

"Your friend looks like he should be heading home."

I glance at Owen and he's completely slumped back on the couch. His girlfriend dabs his forehead with a wet napkin and whispers into his ear. His lips twitch to a sloppy smile. "It's his twenty-first," I explain over the music.

She smiles and I see two rows of perfectly white teeth. "So Derek, what do you do?"

Normally I would make up some ridiculous lie—I'm a lawyer; a scuba instructor; a professional baseball player—but I don't want to lie. I don't feel like putting so much effort in. "I'm a student. I'm studying to become a doctor."

She perks up. "What kind of doctor?"

"A surgeon."

A slow smile spreads across her lips. "Is your girlfriend going to be a surgeon, too?"

I shake my head—both in confirmation that I don't have a girlfriend and in disbelief that she pulled the 'casually—but not so casually—ask about your girlfriend' card. "No girlfriend. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Recently single," she confirms. "Do you live around here?"

And this is the moment. I've played this game dozens of times: first, you casually ask names, professions, ages, pet names; and then you move onto significant others; and finally you question location. She's opening the door for the evening. She wants to come home with me. Only, I have a seventeen-year-old waiting to have a Matt Damon marathon with me and I can't come home with a girl. Plus, I still can't show my face to Meredith—not like this.

I shake my head. And I lie, "All the way uptown. Almost Harlem."

I see her withdraw. She may walk away now or she'll invite me over. I want to go. I want to release some tension, but so help me God, if she lives in Queens, Brooklyn, Long Island, or worse, New Jersey, I'm bolting.

"I live a few blocks away. Do you want to come over?"

Success. I look for Mark, even though I know he's long gone, but I know he would be proud of how quickly I sealed the deal. I give myself two seconds to consider the consequences, but I don't need that much time. I nod and stand up, offering her my hand. "Let's go."

Sara leads me past the Twin Tower Memorial and around the corner to a modern building covered in glass. She waves at the doorman and passes through the open elevator doors. Her building is the nicest I've ever been in in New York. The floors are titled in black marble and the walls are paneled with hand-painted murals. The ceiling boasts three chandeliers and the walls support gold sconces. Either Sara lives with her very rich parents, or her very rich parents have bought her a very expensive apartment.

She leans back against the elevator wall and I wrap my arm around her shoulders. I'm supposed to do that. Sara grins at me and I feel her hand slide into my back pocket. We travel twenty-seven floors to a private entrance to her apartment. She unlocks the door and I follow her in.

"It's my parents' place," she explains. "They're in Florence until September."

I run my finger along a speckled marble end table in the foyer and glance up at the sixteen foot ceilings. "Fancy. And what do your parents do to have such a nice place?"

Sara turns on lights as she walks through the apartment. "My dad works on Wall Street."

"Figures." I admire the view of Battery Park, the Brooklyn Bridge, Ellis Island, and the Statue of Liberty on three sides. Sara comes to stand next to me with two tumblers. "Thanks."

"It's bourbon. We didn't have any scotch."

I tap my glass to hers. "Cheers."

It's ridiculous standing here, looking out on some of the best features of New York, with a rich girl I know nothing about. It's ridiculous that I plan to not drink, but do so anyway. It's ridiculous that while I'm standing here, with arguably the world's hottest girl, all I can think about is Meredith—at home, waiting for me. The alcohol burns my throat as it slides down and my fuzzy head just grows fuzzier.

Sara leans into me, her glass pinned between us, and kisses me. It's soft, with just a little bit of pressure. It's the perfect first kiss—full of wonder and mystery. It's full of promises. And yet, it feels all wrong. I pull away and finish off my bourbon, keeping my eyes on Sara, and I can feel my body becoming light from alcohol. I can barely stand, really, and my eyes feel heavy, but I'm focused on her. Sara follows suit and we both set out empty tumblers onto a side table. Her body collides with mine; her lips demanding on mine and her arms wrapped tightly around my waist. I kiss her deeply, opening her mouth with my tongue and running hand hands along her bottom to the edge of her dress.

I pull her dress up, feeling the bare skin of her ass on my fingertips and walk her backwards until she's pinned to the glass windows. It should feel good, but it doesn't. I should want to continue, but I don't. I pull away. She's breathless and wanton. She begins to peel her dress the rest of the way off. I step away and shake my head. My erection presses painfully against my pants. "I have to go."

Sara's hands drop. Her dress is inches above her navel, but I stay focused on her eyes. "You're kidding me, right?"

"No, I'm sorry."

She tugs her dress back down and kicks off her heels. She's significantly shorter than I assumed. "Get the fuck out," she points to the door and heads in the opposite direction. "Limp asshole," she says under her breath, disappearing behind a wall.

I tug my fingers through my hair and exit the apartment.

It feels good to be leaving.

The apartment is quiet as I sneak through the front door. I feel a little like I'm sixteen again and trying to avoid my parents. But instead of my parents, I'm trying to avoid Meredith. I'm obviously drunk and I skipped out on our plans. I don't know what I'll say to her tomorrow, but at least I can sleep this off and forget that I disappointed two people tonight—three, if I count myself. I lie down in my clothes, barely able to pull off my shoes, and I fold my arm up under the pillow. I'll make this all up to Meredith, tomorrow.

I don't know how long I sleep, but I wake to the feeling of cool, wetness on my forehead. I feel my headache first and every nerve in my body feels raw. My mouth tastes horrible and I think I can smell stench coming from my armpits. It makes me want to gag. The wetness moves over my cheeks and then to my neck. I open my eyes and Meredith sits on the bed next to me, looking determined. She says nothing when my eyes meet hers; she just continues to wipe my face with a wash cloth. I feel a little better with the cool cloth on my skin, but the rest of my body feels like razors.

Meredith drops the cloth into a cereal bowl and presents me with a glass of water and two white pills. "For your headache," she offers me a slight smile. I take both without complaint and hold my head up to take the medicine. Meredith takes the glass from me and sets it back on the side table. "How are you feeling?"

I force myself to sit up, despite the spinning room and throbbing ache in my head. Meredith takes my arm and helps me. I'm mortified. "Like shit," I grumble and run my hand through my hair.

Meredith nods and folds another blanket across my legs. She's the perfect nurse. I take her hand as she turns, probably to retrieve something else. She looks at my hand in hers and then at me. "I'm sorry."

She smiles, but it barely touches her concerned eyes. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. I promised to be home."

Meredith squeezes my palm and slowly pulls her hand from mine. She buries both her palms into her jean pockets. "You don't owe me anything. I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything Meredith. Besides, I'm not talking about any of that. I'm talking about letting my friend down." My head hurts. My focus is waning.

She offers me a slightly brighter smile. "You didn't let me down, Derek." She brushes a lock of hair away from her eyes and nods towards the door. "I know you probably feel really sick, but I'm going to get you some saltines and a ginger ale."

I lean back against the pillows. "A ginger ale sounds so good right now."

"I'll run to CVS and be back in a minute."

"There's money in my wallet."

She holds up my black bill-fold. "I know." She flashes me a cheeky grin.

I laugh and close my eyes. "Meredith the Runaway: teenager by day, sneaky thief by night."

She laughs and the sound calms my nerves for just a second. "I'm not considered a sneaky thief when my victim is practically comatose. I'll be right back," she says and I hear the apartment door open and close behind her.

When Meredith does return, she climbs up onto the other side of my bed and drops the contents of her plastic bag onto the bed spread. I think I slept for five minutes while she was gone, but I feel slightly better. Meredith hands me a ginger ale and then sets her own between her folded legs. She also sets a sleeve of saltines on my thigh and an apple next to that. "You need fiber," she says simply. She peels back the wrapper of a Snickers bar and bites down. "Jesus," she sighs around the chocolate, caramel, and peanut confection.

"Why do I need fiber and you need chocolate?"

"I have no body fat and you have been out all night drinking God knows what."

"Scotch," I say, as if it's a bad word, "and a little bourbon."

Meredith laughs and sorts through the rest of the snacks. She bought a bag of Cheetos and another of Doritos—Cool Ranch flavored; she has a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and a sleeve of Rolos. She has two packets of gum and another of honey twist pretzels. She also bought a gossip magazine. "This is what happens when you allow a teenager to buy the groceries."

"These," Meredith waves her hands over the pile, "are not groceries. This is hangover food."

"Yeah?" I take a saltine from the package. "And what do you know about hangover food?"

Something shifts in the air and I know I've asked something Meredith doesn't want to answer. She stares down at her lap and rolls the half-eaten candy bar between her fingers. I sigh; ready to apologize, when she cuts me off, "Did you drink a lot in high school?"

High school was a big transition; halfway through my eight grade year, my father received a huge check from IKEA and we all moved to Connecticut. Not only did my school change, but my way of life. Suddenly I was in private school with hundreds of other privileged girls and boys, where the teachers didn't care what you did behind closed doors, as long as your grades remained above average. I drank for the first time at fourteen and got drunk three days later. Most weekends were spent drinking in excess and rounding the bases with our female counterparts.

"Yeah, I drank enough. Why?"

"I got caught drinking for the first time when I was twelve," Meredith says quietly to her lap. My mouth pops open, but I don't say anything. She glances up at me. "My mom caught Izzie and me drinking dry vermouth in the garage," she smiles at the memory. "We had no idea what vermouth was, but it was the dustiest bottle and we figured it wouldn't be missed. I got drunk of vermouth," she laughs and shakes her head. "It's ironic."

I watch her face fall slightly. "What's ironic?"

Her eyes focus on me, as if she's noticing me for the first time. "Nothing. Just life."

"So was vermouth your gateway drunk to harder liquors?"

"In a sense, yes."

She licks her lips and tugs the wrapper back up over the candy bar. "Is that why you ran?"

"I'm not an alcoholic," she addresses my concern without me even having to ask. "I haven't drunk in months and even before then, it was nothing more than what any other teen was doing." She pulls her knees to her chest. "And no, it's not why I ran."

"Will you tell me, someday, why you ran?"

Meredith shrugs, "I'm leaving Wednesday. Why does it matter?"

"I'm a curious person by nature."

"Maybe," she muses, staring out my window. "How was your night, you know, before the awful hangover?" she asks, changing the subject.

Just because the subject is changed doesn't mean I'm not curious. I hold my tongue, though. "It was fine. Nothing too exciting." And then I remember Sara, who I left hot, bothered, and ready in her parents' amazing downtown apartment.

"Did you meet anyone?"

I regard her. Meredith is relaxed, but I can see worry in her forehead. I lie. "No. It was pretty boring, actually."

"You should have stayed home, then?" she fishes.

I laugh and reach for the Reese's. "Maybe." Meredith tugs the package from my hand and lays it in her lap with the Snickers. "Hey!"

"Buy your own Reese's."

"Those are mine! You used my money."

Meredith slides off the bed, her candy in-hand. "I'm a thief, remember?" she flashes me a grin and tosses my wallet back onto the bed. "Buy your own candy. Are you ready for our Matt Damon marathon, yet?"

I glance at the clock—9:23—and groan. It'll take hours from my hangover to go away. But a movie with Meredith, and obscene amounts of junk food might help. I grab the remaining goodies in the pile and follow Meredith to the living room. She waits patiently for me as I slide down onto the couch. We both rest our heels on the coffee table and she tosses a light blanket over our legs. I turn and smile at Meredith, only to find her already grinning.