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  “Hey,” he says, but I can’t answer. Everything is coming back, and I don’t want it to. Everything hurts. I’m awful. “Hey,” he says again, but I shake my head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I manage to get out before the tears start falling, both from emotional and physical pain. My head is throbbing.

  I hear him get up, and then I feel his bed give and shift. I feel his hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” he says.

  “No, it’s not,” I say, sitting up, knowing I must look terrible between the tears and the snot and whatever makeup is left from last night, probably already running down my face. But I don’t care. I don’t deserve nice right now. “How could I?” I ask.

  “You weren’t yourself,” he says soothingly.

  “That’s just it. How did I let myself change so much? How was I so . . . so mean?”

  “You had a long day,” he says. “And you drank a lot.”

  “I was terrible to you.”

  “True,” he says.

  “Then why am I here?”

  He looks at me carefully. “You don’t remember?”

  I shake my head. “I remember yelling at you,” I start, and he looks down and nods. “I remember talking to Brad, and kneeing him in the crotch.”

  “Wait—why did you knee Brad in the crotch?” he asks, looking up.

  “He tried kissing me. He was . . . forceful.”

  “What?” I nod in response, and Bennett stands up and starts pacing. “I knew I hated that guy for a reason.”

  “Bennett,” I say.

  “No, seriously, he did that to you?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay; I mean, I took care of it.”

  “But what if it was worse? What if he does it to another girl who doesn’t think to fight back?”

  I shrug because I don’t know. And I don’t want to think about that—or him right now. “We should tell Trey. Oh god, Trey,” I say, and Bennett sits down next to me again. “He cheated on Treena, and she and I had a huge fight in the bathroom.”

  “So I heard. She was . . . emotional,” he says.

  “What did she say?”

  “Um,” he says, looking away. “Well, by the time she came out of the bathroom, you were passed out.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask.

  “Yeah, you stormed out of the bathroom and then passed out. On me.”

  “On you,” I repeat.

  “Thank god you’re light,” he says, and I shake my head.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say again.

  “It’s okay,” he repeats.

  “I hate Trey,” I say forcefully.

  “Yeah, you made that known last night. A few times. When we walked from the club to my car. I think everyone surrounding us knew.”

  “Oh god.” I cover my face again. “Treena was so pissed when I said I didn’t approve of him. She must hate me. He must hate me. Well, I don’t care if he hates me, actually.”

  “I don’t know that I’d be worried about them if I were you.”

  “Wait, why?” I ask.

  “Because they got you drunk. They kept giving you drinks. And then when you went to console Treena when she was crying about Trey, she got pissed at you.”

  “I think I remember some of that.”

  “It was dramatic,” he says. “And that’s when you passed out, and she went back to Trey, and it was last call, so I got to gather you all up.”

  “Because you were designated driver . . .” I remember.

  “Yep, an honor and a duty.” He half smiles.

  “We all owe you.”

  “You have no idea,” he says, shaking his head.

  “So what happened next?”

  “Um.” He pauses. “You were mad at me for . . . reasons,” he says, and though I don’t remember exactly why, I know it had to do with him shooting me down. Oh god.

  “I threw myself at you, didn’t I,” I moan.

  “More or less,” he says, looking away.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” I say, mortified.

  “It was . . . educational?” he says as a question.

  “Shut up.” I chuckle.

  “I mean, I know I’m extremely good-looking.”

  “Ha.”

  “No, really, you’re not the first. There were five more at the door just this morning,” he jokes, and I know he’s saying this to cheer me up, which is wrong because I should be cheering him up after how I got last night. “Anyway,” he continues, “you were fuming, and the two Ts were in the back making up.”

  “What?” I ask, crinkling my nose. “After he cheated on her, she took him back?”

  “So it seemed. I didn’t watch, obviously, but let’s just say there were noises.”

  “Gross,” I whine. “Why would she do that? She deserves so much better.”

  “I agree. I told you I worried about him doing that. Why won’t she leave him?”

  I think about it, and then I remember a slice of our conversation. “She said she likes him, and she doesn’t think she’ll do better. She’s okay with it, as long as she doesn’t know. How sick is that?”

  He shakes his head and looks angry. “That’s not right. He can’t do that to her. And she can’t do that to herself.”

  “That’s what I said. She didn’t agree.”

  “I don’t get it,” he says. “When I found out about . . . well . . . as soon as I heard I was cheated on, I was gone. I didn’t want to put up with that shit, you know?”

  He shakes his head again, and then looks at me. There’s an awkward silence, and then he continues. “Yeah, so when we got back here, they went to her room and shut the door before you could say a word. So, despite your struggles, I got you in here.”

  “I struggled?” I ask, honestly not remembering anything. Why would I not want to stay here? After everything he’s done for me?

  “You were still pissed at me.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. “I can’t believe I don’t remember all of that. I can’t believe I got that bad . . . it’s just . . .”

  “You were in a bad place. It’s okay to go crazy every once in a while.”

  “But I don’t do that.”

  “Okay, yeah, maybe you were bad, but you can’t hate yourself for something you couldn’t control.”

  “But I could have. I could have stopped drinking. I could have said no.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t. So some part of you must have wanted to.”

  I think about that. I guess so. “I wanted to see what it was like, this college lifestyle. I wanted to see how I’d do, knowing how my mother was.”

  “Yeah, you said that. And?”

  “Parts were fun.”

  “The dancing was fun,” he says.

  “Yeah, and then parts sucked.” I laugh. “I feel like you’re going to give me a ‘never drink again’ speech now.”

  “That would be a bit hypocritical of me.”

  “So what now?” I ask.

  “Now . . . we get breakfast. I’m starved.”

  I look over at him and he’s smiling. “You sure you don’t hate me?”

  “Only a little.” He grins and I reach over and hug him. Not a passionate hug, not a hug that’s trying to be more than it is. Just a hug. And when I feel his arms go around me, I know he feels it, too.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Bennett and I get ready—Treena isn’t in her room, so there’s no awkward confrontation—and then eat breakfast at the cafeteria on campus, and it’s normal. More than normal; it’s comfortable. Like last night didn’t happen. Like we’re starting over. And it feels okay. I mean, minus the vomit-inducing headache.

  I pull my phone out to see if there’s anything from Treena, but not a word. I’m not sure who should call first. I’m not sure I want to go there yet. A flash passes through my mind, and I open up my phone’s notes, remembering that I typed something out yesterday.

  “Hey, what’s Lichgate? Is it a club or something?” I ask.

  “Lichgate? How do you
know about it?” he asks, looking surprised.

  “Jessica mentioned it. She said my mom loved it there.”

  “Huh,” he says, nodding his head. “Let’s go to it.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I think you’ll like it.” He smiles and leads me to the parking lot. Though we’ve traveled quite a bit together, it’s never been by car, and for some reason I’m comforted by the sight of his tiny old blue Hyundai. It’s not fancy; it’s just him. When he starts the ignition and turns around to back out of his spot, our hands touch on the armrest. But instead of taking his away, he wraps it around mine. And I happily let him.

  After a few minutes of driving, we pull into a church’s parking lot. “This is not what I had in mind at all. And I’m pretty sure my mom was Jewish.”

  “We’re just parking here,” Bennett says, letting go of my hand to get out of the car. I get out, too, and walk over to him. Our hands magnetically find each other again. But this time, instead of just holding on, our fingers lace up together, holding on tighter, more intimately. I inhale, aware of our touch and how my pulse is speeding up. My spirits magically lift, and I feel bright. And this time it’s for real, and not an illusion brought on by alcohol.

  Next to the church is a wooded area. A forest expands sky-high and we follow a sidewalk toward a small gap between two trees. “I assume you know where we’re going, because, to me, it just looks like we’re about to get lost in the woods.”

  He smiles. “Maybe that was my plan all along.” We walk a few steps in, following a small dirt path with trees surrounding us. A giant wooden board greets us, welcoming us to Lichgate, and when I open my mouth to ask, once again, what it is, he just raises his eyebrows and pulls me along.

  We continue following the wooded path until we’re completely hidden from view. And then, a light pokes through and the way opens up to an immense clearing. It’s like all of the sunshine has been reserved for this one soft, green lawn. It’s large and bright, and just rolling grass and an ancient oak tree in the middle.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, gazing up at the old tree that has to be hundreds of years old. It’s huge and warped, wrinkles upon wrinkles decorating it. It’s impossible to see the entire thing at once; I have to turn my head to view all of the branches reaching high up, and then dropping way down, touching the ground like fingers. Bennett leads me toward the base of the tree and I follow, feeling warm and comfortable. We stand in the shade, and I touch the bark, the leaves.

  “This is Lichgate?” I ask, once again surprised by something my mother liked. She is full of surprises, it seems. But this—this is something, much like her art, that I appreciate, too.

  “It’s been here for years,” Bennett explains. “Like, before Florida was really Florida, you know? We learned about it in one of my classes; we were assigned to do an art project on it. A while ago, an FSU environmental studies professor decided to preserve it. She bought the tree and built the cottage over there.” He points to a small, fairy-tale-looking cottage in the corner that I didn’t even notice.

  I marvel at the tiny house. “It’s so cute.”

  “Yeah. She lived there for years, and after she died, a charity was put together to keep it all up. It’s really just here, not taken care of by anyone. I love it because no one messes with it. I mean, anyone could come here and totally vandalize the place, but you just know not to. It’s like it belongs to everyone. I think it’s really cool.”

  “It’s because it’s so pretty,” I say.

  “I come here sometimes to do schoolwork. It’s quiet.”

  “I can’t believe my mother used to come here, maybe even painted here.”

  “Yeah, it’s cool you found that out. I prefer this to country music clubs.” He nods and I agree.

  I walk in a circle, taking it all in, and feel my feet against the grass. And the weirdest sensation comes over me. This is it—this is a part of her. She was here. I don’t know when, and I don’t know why, but I know she stood at least somewhere around here. And I swear, I can almost feel her touching me. I close my eyes and take in the moment. Then take out my camera to capture it all, wondering if she did the same.

  “You know, once the story of the tree got out, people wanted to see it. So, I don’t know, sometimes learning about something’s history is a good thing,” he says, and his words don’t lose their meaning on me.

  I stare at the branches nearly touching my feet, twisting along the grassy ground. My hand grazes the rough texture. “Perhaps. Can we see the house?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it’s open,” he says, and I push myself to walk away from the spot, because really, this entire place is a spot. Her spot. Our spot.

  We walk out of the shade and toward the small, fenced-in house.

  “This is amazing,” I say as we pass a small garden full of vegetables and brightly colored flowers. Peppers, carrots, peas are all marked in a line.

  We get to the gate out front, and Bennett stops.

  “Okay, so this is her lichgate, thus the name of the park. Apparently it’s, like, a fence that separates a church from a graveyard, so a place in between,” he says, and I think about my in between right now. In between high school and college. In between the before and after of finding out about my mother. The in-between of who I was and who I’m slowly becoming. “She built it so she could go between rest and being alive and living.”

  “Kind of nice and creepy,” I say, touching the gate.

  “Yep. So we’re, I guess, going to be alive when we cross it. Or dead. I’m not sure which way is which.”

  I think of my mother, and shake my head. She never really had a chance for an in-between. She moved so quickly from high school to college to me to death. There was no time for transition for her, and not for the first time I wonder what she could have become.

  The house is an old cottage, with a stone foundation on the bottom, wooden walls, shuttered windows, and even a chimney atop it.

  “Are you sure we can go in?” I ask when we approach the old front door.

  “Yep, it’s open for tours.”

  He opens the door.

  Inside, it’s just as I expected, and my heart soars with how adorable the little house is. Everything is wooden inside—wooden floors, walls, dressers, bookshelves. “It feels like Hansel and Gretel lived here,” I say as we walk inside and take it in.

  “Right? So, that’s her kitchen,” he says, pointing to a small room at the back. It’s not completely outdated, as I thought it would be; it has just enough appliances to make a meal. We pass a tiny living room with a non-wooden couch, and then go up a rickety set of wooden stairs. At the top is her bedroom, with a small dresser and tiny bed. I turn around to look out the window and see the tree staring back at us, hugging us with its branches. I can see why she wanted to live here; I’d love to wake up to that view every morning. Everything is quiet. My mind is quiet. After last night, I needed this.

  I turn around and see Bennett staring at me, his eyes soft and smiling. I walk to him and wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him toward me. “Thank you for taking me here. I needed it.”

  His arms come around my shoulders and I can feel his cheek pressed against the top of my head. I close my eyes and lean into him, knowing that hugs don’t usually last this long, at least they never have for me, but not caring. Because right now, this is the only place I want to be.

  He pulls away a little, and I feel a repeat of last night. I brace myself for him to push me back, but something about the way he looks at me says he won’t. He rests his forehead against mine, and, this close, I’m able to see him, really see him. There’s apprehension in his eyes, fear, and I want to tell him it’s okay, that it’ll be okay, just like he told me earlier. But when I open my mouth, his face changes to resolution, and he takes my chin in his hands and he kisses me.

  I feel light, like I’m floating, like nothing can hold me down as I lean into him, into our kiss. He was right—those other moments weren’t perfect
, especially last night. This is what we needed. His arms hold me tight as our kiss deepens and I smile and I laugh because I can’t help it. The house collectively sighs, as if it, too, had been on edge as we danced around our feelings and our pasts. It engulfs us in a hug as he kisses me again, brushing my hair off my face with his hand.

  “Okay?” he asks, searching my eyes.

  I smile up at him, and answer, “Yes, okay.”

  He grins back and pulls me in for another kiss, and this time he’s the one smiling and laughing and I don’t want it to end. We add another memory to the house, something that’s very much alive.

  The house is not full of death; it’s full of life.

  We walk back outside, back to the tree’s reaching grip. Bennett pulls me down with him onto the grass, and we collapse against the strong base.

  “I think we definitely broke one of your parents’ rules,” Bennett jokes, playing with my hand, tracing the lines and ridges with his finger.

  “They said no boys . . . they never said no kissing boys.”

  “I feel it might be implied.” He smiles.

  “Well, it’s all your fault,” I say, resting between the crux of his arm and body.

  “Oh, is it?” he asks, leaning back against the tree. He looks at me again, and then says, “You were unexpected.”

  “Good unexpected, or bad unexpected?” I ask.

  “Definitely good. No other girl has ever turned down any advances within moments of meeting me—despite me not even offering anything.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, covering my face with my hands. That is the first thing I said to him, wasn’t it? “That’s embarrassing.”

  “Not embarrassing,” he says, taking my hand away. “Cute. You’re different, and I like that.”

  “Every girl loves being called ‘different.’”

  “You know what I mean,” he says.

  “You are, too,” I admit, and he smiles. “And also quite unexpected.”

  “Didn’t expect Treena to have awesome friends like me?”

  “Ha, no, it’s not that. I just wasn’t planning on . . . becoming invested in someone while here.”

  “Yeah.” He takes my hand in his again. “And it’s Thursday, so you’ve only got . . .”