My parents were talking quietly in the front of the SUV while I pretended to sleep, sprawled out in the backseat. My expression was dull in the sun roof over my head, the window perfectly reflecting the bags around my green eyes as rain poured from above. My dark hair hung in my face and I continued to count the rain drops as they hit the car.

. . .Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight—

The car hit a bump and my focus broke. I’d lost track of the rain, just as I’d lost track of the days since Ben had died. I suppose I shouldn’t have been counting anyway, since I knew it wasn’t helping me recover. In fact, I was supposed to move on from Ben’s murder, as said by the therapist that diagnosed me with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and a moderate form of depression. He had also suggested that we get away for a while, go some place new.

My parents took ‘a while’ to mean permanently.

I was back counting the rain drops before I knew it. One, two, three, four, five—

“Maia,” my mother’s voice cooed softly as she touched my leg. “Maia, wake up. We’re almost there.”

I nodded, not looking away from the sun roof. The sun wasn’t out, but rainclouds were as good as any sun I’d ever seen. I’d grown fond of rain, actually—it cried for me when I ran out of tears.

“There are two in Grenville,” my father spoke to my mother. “Then one in Threadholm. I say we knock out the first two and end with the farmhouse.”

“I suppose that’s all right,” my mother replied. “My mom does live close to Threadholm.”

“That means we have about ten minutes until we get there,” my father announced, more to himself than anyone. “I’ll let the realtor know.”

I dug my headphones and iPod out of my pocket and jammed the buds in my ears. The therapist had told my parents to monitor what kind of music I listened to, but one look at my face when they’d tried to take it from me told them that it wasn’t going to happen. So, with the volume turned nearly all the way up, I put it on shuffle and closed my eyes.

I found it ironic when the first song that came on was titled Rain.



I woke up to my parents slamming their car doors. My headphones had fallen out due to the fact that I tended to move when I slept, and the noise jarred me. I slowly sat up, craning my neck over the front seats to get a look at where we were.

The first thing my eyes were drawn to was the porch. White columns were on either side of the front door, leaving little room to walk around the veranda. There were wind chimes that hung down clumsily from a hook attached to the gutter, not at all well placed. I wrinkled my nose at the ugly color that splashed the house, a nasty shade of red that churned my stomach. The shutters were a faded cream color, not mixing well with the cleaner white near the door. Strike One.

I left my iPod on the seat and slid out, sliding my—Ben’s—beanie over my hair that hung halfway down my back. The light gray beanie had proved to be one of Ben’s favorite colors, and it went well with my complexion as well as his. It was all I had left of him at this point.

I went to take a step and noticed that I’d left my shoes on the floor of the SUV. Sighing, I reached back into the car and picked up my threadbare black converse and dropped them to the cracked concrete below my feet. Leaning against the silver metal of the SUV, I bent down and slipped my feet into my shoes.

“Maia, hurry up,” I heard my father’s voice from the doorway of the house.

I glanced up at him, unconcerned. My parents thought that being diagnosed with depression meant that I would break down at the slightest admonishment, so they were very lenient with me, to put it lightly. I wasn’t as helpless as they thought, but I wasn’t about to tell them that.

I stood and shook my arms, allowing for the sleeves of my navy blue sweater to fall to their full extent. Shorts graced my legs, the usual light colored denim that I always wore in the summer.

Suddenly, I noticed that I was under the cover of a large oak tree. I looked up into the branches that were shielding me from the rain and blinked. How could I not have noticed something like this? Maybe one thing my therapist told me was right—I may lost attention for detail. Great.

I jogged up to the cover of the porch, ducking my head when I passed through the soft rain. My mother wrapped her arm around my shoulders as we walked in the door and immediately I was hit with the smell of cheap air freshener and dust.

My eyes traveled around the entry way as soon as I was in. If I was going to lose attention for detail, I may as well take everything in now. But the kind of detail I caught didn’t really suit me well.

There was a long hallway in front of us, about ten feet wide next to a staircase that lead straight to the upper level. A dark wood flooring covered as far every which way that I could see, and on top was a rug that didn’t have one set color. The walls were light brown and littered with paintings. Each one didn’t make sense and seemed older than any that I had ever seen. The light fixture on the ten=foot ceiling was a plain color and hung from a thin chain. It looked like a fly could land on it and it would fall. Altogether, this first room wasn’t impressive. Strike two.

I didn’t notice that my parents were talking to someone until I was directly addressed.

“Maia?” my father asked expectantly, touching my arm. “This is Lois. She’ll be leading us around while we look at houses today.”

I turned to face her, a woman that looked manufactured, fresh out of the box. She wore a wide smile covered with too-dark lipstick and her eye makeup made her look like she’d gotten two black eyes in a fight. Her hair was up in a bun, and even from fifteen feet away I could see how much hairspray she was using to keep the poof in it. Her suit had a wrinkle pressed across the right sleeve and the heels she wore didn’t help much with her short stature—she was undoubtedly using her face to draw attention away from height.

“Hello, Maia,” she said, her smile growing impossibly larger. “Pleased to meet you.”

Her voice was smooth, but it was painful to my ears. Just the look of her seemed to annoy me. Plus, the way she was talking to me, you would’ve thought I was five years old.

I stepped up to shake her hand. “Hi. I’m fifteen, I just started my sophomore year a month ago.” My tone said just making friendly conversation, but I was going for the effect of just to clarify.

Lois kept her smile. “Ah, the teenage years. I grew up in a house with five other kids. I would have given anything to be an only child.”

I saw my mother stiffen out of the corner of my eye and my jaw clenched. I dropped her hand and stepped back. She’d crossed a line.

“I’m not an only child,” I spat bitterly through my teeth. “And trust me—you wouldn’t.” My tone said back off, we’re done here; just what I was going for. Strike three, my tour was over.

I turned on my heel and made for the hallway. My father caught my shoulder briefly and I glanced back just in time to catch the back end of a pitying look. Immediately I turned away, not wanting his condolence.

“Don’t get too far,” he called after me. I just waved him off and continued down the hall.

To say the least, I hated when people took their siblings for granted. I had done the same thing not five months earlier, and now I was without. Every time someone so much as whispered his name, I either stopped talking for several hours or broke down. Maybe I was just as helpless as my parents thought me to be.

Thankfully, this wasn’t one of the times I plummeted into a pit of tears. My mouth just shut, as tight as it would be if I were to glue it. The funny thing was that I didn’t choose to be silent—my body just kind of forced me to stop. It was almost as if the part of my brain that controlled my mouth shut down. My parents didn’t know how to handle it, but I’d found resolve in just shutting everyone and everything out.

The hallway opened up to a large kitchen in front of me, gray linoleum covering the expanse of floor. A large empty space was apparent near the stained windows on the opposite wall, probably meant for a dining table. A large counter jutted out from the wall to my left and wrapped around the circumference of the cooking area, framing a few fairly modern appliances. It was spacious, but it didn’t seem near the size I knew my mother was looking for.

I turned to the right and shuffled toward a room that looked like a small study. There were two doors that opened into the room and were held back by small wooden chairs, meant for small children. The floor was made of the same dark wood as in the hallway, and was covered with a muddled blue rug that went surprisingly well with the dark brown sofa in the middle of the room. The walls were painted a light shade of brown, the most appealing color I had seen in this house yet. A few pictures decorated the walls, the same mess as in the hallway. A coffee table was placed in front of the sofa and a tall lamp stood in the corner, bright enough to light up the room.

I walked the few steps to the sofa and sat down. I knew the house tour would last about twenty minutes. My parents weren’t much for detail, and this house wasn’t too big. I also knew that this house wasn’t the one. My mother wanted a big, open house—something that this place didn’t seem to be.

I could hear the realtor droning on and on in her too-smooth voice about the master bedroom, even from where I was sitting. They were probably right above me. I pictured my parents nodding along to humor her, then asking about what kind of electrical and water bills they were looking at.

I brought my knees to my chest and hugged myself, taking in a long breath. I didn’t want to move, but I wouldn’t let them know that. They wanted what was best for me, and who was I to tell them that they were doing it wrong? Granted, they were wrong, but I knew it made them sleep a little sounder.

I wanted to be back home, where I felt just a little bit closer to Ben. My therapist said it wasn’t good for my mental health to dwell on my brother’s death, but I didn’t think he understood. He died five months ago—months. How he had the gall to sit there and tell me I needed to move on sooner, I didn’t know. Wasn’t a therapist supposed to listen to you, not tell you that your sadness is unreasonable?

There was nothing I could do about it at this point. Our house was already sold, and the moving company had made the nine-hour drive to bring a semi full of furniture and clothes and appliances to my grandmother’s house a few towns over. Starting over was inevitable.

My eyes drifted shut in a sudden wave of tiredness. I was always so exhausted, so worn out. Maybe I was just tired of crying. It seemed like all I was doing lately was sleeping. At least when I was sleeping I didn’t have to deal with everything.

Not even a second had gone by before I felt a hand on my shoulder. My eyes opened slowly and I realized that I was curled up on the couch and had fallen asleep.

“We’re leaving, Maia,” my mother said softly, brushing my bangs out of my face. “The next house is just across town, and you can stay in the car if you’d like.”

I took in a deep breath through my nose and nodded slowly, stretching out my arms above my head. My mother left the room and I heard her talking in a hushed voice to my father. His soft reply didn’t reach my ears.

My—Ben’s—beanie had fallen to the floor, and I grimaced as I picked it up and brushed it off. I adjusted my hair before sliding it back onto my head, then took a deep breath to gather myself.

Lois babbled off the address of the next house while my mother wrote it down. I walked over to them, mouth still unable to move. My father wrapped his arm around my shoulders and squeezed them lightly.

“How are you doing?”

I didn’t like that question. It was one of those questions where the answer is assumed to be something like “okay”, or “better”, or even “great”. If I were to say “I’m suffering just a little bit because my big brother was killed by an egotistical druggy in a hit-and-run”, it would probably just stun him into silence. I never answered the question directly, no matter who was asking. That is, if I could manage to answer it in the first place.

I simply shrugged, as much of an answer as I assumed my father knew he would get. It had been a lot of that in the past few months. Questions that didn’t have right answers, emotionless shrugs, empty condolences. Every time someone came up to say they were sorry about Ben, they would almost always say “I can’t even imagine how you’re feeling”—but they told themselves that they did know what it would be like to lose their brother or sister, when in reality they had no idea.

My father kissed my forehead and I managed a tight smile. I looked up at him, wondering how he had held it together so well. Didn’t they say that parents take a child’s death the hardest? My father was so much like me, straight down to the dark hair and green eyes—even our noses looked similar. Up until Ben died, we had the same personality type, too. Cool headed, passive, hard to break. But I had broken so easily, shattered so helplessly after what happened. I admired my father for his strength, but at the same time I was so frustrated that he didn’t seem to mourn the way that I did.

I took a deep breath and leaned my head on his shoulder. It didn’t seem fair to be criticizing him. He’d lost Ben too, and I guess I just needed to accept that we were stricken in different ways—even if it sometimes seemed like I was the only one crying myself to sleep at night.

“Alright,” Lois chimed, clapping her hands together. I winced. “I will meet you all over at the next house. It’s actually quite similar to this house.”

I saw my mother’s nose wrinkle slightly. I felt myself sigh as well, bracing myself for another horrible color scheme. This house hunting thing definitely wasn’t for me, and never would be.

My father was the first one out of the house, jogging through the small spot that rain could reach the pavement and slowing under the cover of the oak. My mother followed closely, hopping in the car with my father after he unlocked it. I followed more slowly, less afraid of the rain than either of them. I liked the feeling of it against my skin—especially wear my tears used to be, when I still had tears to cry.

Keys jingled behind me as I stepped off the porch. “Maia,” I heard Lois’ voice behind me. I stiffened and turned slowly to meet her sympathetic gaze. “I’m sorry if what I said offended you at all. I didn’t—“

I waved her off and turned on my heel. Sympathy wasn’t what I wanted from her, or anyone for that matter. Feeling sorry for someone didn’t make anything better.

I jogged the rest of the way to the SUV and slid in, immediately kicking off my shoes and curling up on the seats. My mother tossed back a blanket and I wrapped it around my body. By now I was almost sure my parents had noticed I wasn’t speaking. They always tried to bring me out of it by talking to me or comforting me with various things, something I’m sure my therapist had told them to do. I don’t think that he realized that it wasn’t a conscious decision that silenced me, but I wasn’t about to give him reason to diagnose me with another mental illness.

Still, it felt nice to know that my parents really did care about me. I tired not to burden them with anything, but even that was hard when a parent’s instinct was to help. Silence was something I was trying to work through, but every time I tried it felt like my throat closed tighter and tighter.

“I hope the next house is more different than she says,” my mother said as my father backed out of the drive. She pulled out the pamphlet Lois had mailed to her before we left home. “They’re priced fairly similar, which could be a bad sign. I want space; a big kitchen, big bedrooms, a big living room. Lots of space means lots of options.”

There was a pause while my father let Lois pull out in front of us. He followed her car, a small vehicle that I couldn’t put a name to.

“The rooms will look bigger without such bulky furniture,” my father commented. “And the paintings on the walls didn’t help to open up the space.”

“That’s true,” she answered him. “If worse comes to worst, we can always paint the walls a lighter color to open them up.” I could hear the interest in her voice spark. “How about a light blue for your room, Maia? Or better yet, we could use chalkboard or whiteboard panels so you could draw anything!”

I felt awful for breaking her excitement when I didn’t answer. She glanced up at me through the rear-view mirror and I tried to hide my face in the blanket so I couldn’t see the dejected look in her eyes. My nose burned in the way it always did before tears made their way into my eyes. I wanted to tell her that the idea sounded fun, but I couldn’t. I felt helpless and guilty at the same time, and it was killing me.

“Let’s pocket that for later,” my father thankfully interjected, patting her leg gently. “It sounds like a great idea, but we have to find a house first.”

My mother perked up again. “Right, right,” she shook her head at herself. “But John, wouldn’t an auburn look great in the master bedroom? Especially with the dark wood flooring we’ve been seeing!”

I always envied my mother’s ability to look past things. She and Ben shared the ability to bounce right back—sort of like forgive and forget. The two things I had trouble doing.

“That sounds great, Karlie,” my father answered her.

I took my headphones off the seat next to me as we pulled out onto a dirt road. The suburbs were to our right, a small collection of houses that looked like a picture out of the 1960s. To the left was a large bean field, and resting in the middle was an old farm house. A few horses were out in a far-off pasture, huddled together in the late September rain. The scene was beautiful, but I didn’t have the awareness to appreciate it.

My headphones found their way to my ears and I turned to the playlist I ran at night, when I was trying to sleep. Lately it seemed that all I wanted to do was sleep. I was always so fatigued, so tired. My parents never said anything about it, I’m assuming because they thought I needed sleep as much as I thought I did.

I shifted so I could lay across the seats and pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders. My eyelids were heavy, and I had no intention of fighting them.

“You can sit this next house out,” my father said, pointed at me. “The house over in Threadholm is different, though. You might want to check that one out.”

I didn’t answer, and I didn’t think he expected me to.

•
•
•


I’d like to think it was the rain that woke me up. The cool raindrops tapping comfortingly against my skin, gently stirring me awake as a whispered hello made its way into my ear. I loved the rain. An unspoken bond had formed between us, sharing tears with different sorrows behind them. I felt at home when I stood outside, soaked to the bone, the bittersweet must scent filling my lungs.

But it wasn’t the rain.

“Maia, baby,” my mother’s soft voice broke through my thoughts. “We’re here. You should come take a look, it’s lovely.”

My headphones had fallen out again and the blanket was twirled tightly around my waist. My eyes slowly opened and the back of the front seat filled my view. I craned my neck to look up at my mother, dancing from foot to foot, hood pulled over her head as she stood in the rain. She wore a bright smile as I sat up.

“I think you’ll like this one,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. I rubbed my eyes and pulled in a long breath. “We’ll be right inside waiting for you.”

I heard her flats against the pavement as she jogged up to the house. The car door hung open, letting in the smell of rain against the asphalt. I pulled the blanket from around me and tossed it into the passenger’s seat. Tugging my shoes on, I reached for Ben’s beanie on the seat next to me and smoothed it onto my head. My legs swung out of the car and the rest of me followed, landing on the driveway. I slammed the door and immediately felt the cool rain against my bare legs. I stretched my arms above my head, not caring that the rain was already soaking through my sweater.

My eyes caught the house in front of me and the corners of my mouth tipped slightly upward as my arms dropped to my side. A veranda spread across the front of the house, framed by light colored posts. A white door rested against dull red brick that covered the house. Windows were lined up against a majority of the main level’s surface, and above was a balcony. It was pushed back between two sections of the upper level that jutted out, and was protected by a small black fence piece. The whole house seemed comforting.

My gaze shifted to a black willow tree, nestled in with several large stones on the left side of the house. It was pretty, in a sad kind of way. I imagined myself sitting under the drooping branches, leaning against the trunk of the tree as I picked up random strands of grass and tied them into knots. I would be left alone in the quiet—the houses on either side of this one were a good seventy to eighty feet apart.

“Maia!” my father called from the door of the house. “You’re getting soaked! Come on in here.”

My eyes fell back on the house as I jogged up to the front door. My father held it open as I ducked under his arm and entered the house. The smell that I was hit with was surprisingly pleasant—citrus mixed with a bit of laundry soap. I closed my eyes and inhaled a deep breath.

When my eyes opened, they were met with an entry way, dark wood flooring and light brown walls. There were no paintings hung, making the room feel more open. A small table stood below a large mirror on the wall opposite me. The reflection of myself was exhausted, to the point where it didn’t look like me anymore. I averted my gaze.

“This house was build in the seventies as a farm house,” Lois started, wasting no time as she stood in front of my parents. “The land was quickly bought and developed, and the neighborhood popped up within two years. The neighborhood is quite beautiful, yes?”

My parents nodded as my eyes strayed to the left. The entry way opened up into a large living room, where three sofas were placed in a box formation around a glass coffee table. A brown-and-white chandelier hung above the collection of furniture and did a good job of lighting up the room. The light reflected off of the crimson walls as if it were made of liquid, dripping down onto the dark wood flooring. I large window decorated the wall facing the front of the house, allowing for more light to come in on a sunnier day. It felt comforting, like a family was meant to live here—more than a family of just three.

“The living room, along with multiple other rooms,” Lois commented, “have a few furnishings that the previous owners are selling with the house. It’s a package deal, I’m afraid, so if you plan on claiming this home, you’ll get full sets of furniture.”

“We need a new couch anyway,” my father commented to himself. A noise of agreement came from my mother.

My eyes found a wide staircase to the right, winding around to the upper level of the house. A hall beside it lead to what looked like a dining room. Lois began to walk down the hallway, and we followed.

“Here is the dining room,” she said, stepping aside for us to look around.

The ceiling was high, about ten feet. Another chandelier hung above a wood table painted black, and the smooth surface reflected the glass vase of flowers resting on the middle. Chairs of the same shade were gathered around it, one on each side. Four places for three people.

“The dining room is very plain,” Lois continued. “Off-white walls and dark flooring—but there is potential for several other colors, I’m sure. Now the kitchen is a different story.”

She lead us to the left, where a section of counter jutted out and separated the dining room the kitchen. The wall color was carried over from the dining room, but most of the surface was covered by cabinets the were painted a dull black. A refrigerator sat in between two sections of granite counter, the same color as the cabinets above and below it. A stove placed itself a few feet away from a wide kitchen sink with two sections to it. I looked down at the flooring, and wasn’t surprised—it seemed like all of the flooring was the same in this house.

“Painting would be a little more difficult in here, with all of the cabinets,” Lois told us as she ran her hand over the countertop. “Also, there is not a dishwasher. You would either have to wash all of your dishes by hand or pay a good amount of money to have one installed.”

We didn’t say anything, but we had never owned a dishwasher anyway. Physical labor was our way of distraction from anything. The only thing we didn’t clean by ourselves was the laundry.

“And back here,” Lois pointed to the corner of the kitchen, “the living room connects, so you don’t have to walk all the way around if you’re eating in there.”

She walked back toward the dining room, her heels tapping heavily against the flooring. She stopped at a door that I hadn’t noticed before, resting against the wall next to the dining table. The knob looked a little beaten up and the paint around the edges of the door was peeling a bit. Lois took hold of the knob and turned, opening up the door and revealing a wooden staircase that lead down to a cellar.

“The basement hasn’t been furnished yet,” she said, leading us down the steps. She flicked an exposed light switch on and a few small lightbulbs flickered on as we came to the hard cement floor. “But the previous owners did put in concrete flooring, which is better than the dirt that had been here.”

The cellar wasn’t well lit, and was very cold, but it spiked my interest. I imagined myself down here, searching through old corners of the space and uncovering things. It seemed intriguing, almost like I was pulled to it.

“The water heater and air conditioning system are down here,” Lois said, gesturing to the two bulky machines in the corner. “That’s about all there is to this floor of the house.”

We found our way to the upper level slowly, but steadily. From the top of the stairs, a hallway fanned out and connected four rooms. All the way to the left of the hall was the master bedroom, and my parents and Lois headed for that straight away. A bathroom was to the right of it, and another bedroom to the right of that. That’s where I headed first.

The door opened inward, and as I stepped into the room my shoes sunk into a light brown carpet. The room was fairly large, and the ceiling was as tall as on the main level. My eyes traveled to the walls, a dark brown with an off-white accent in the corners of the room. In the middle of the floor was a large bench-type furnishing, meant to be a double bed. The duvet was a baby blue, a refreshing contrast from all of the dark colors I’d been seeing. The light fixture on the ceiling was off, and the only brightness spilling into the room was from a pair of clear glass doors on the far wall. My face brightened as I realized that the balcony belonged to this room.

I made straight for the doors, my hand pressing up against the knob as I peered out. The view was nice, looking out at the other beautiful houses in the neighborhood and the many trees littering each yard. A picture of myself filled my mind, sitting out on the balcony under the overhang of the house and reaching my hand out to feel the cool of the pouring rain against my hand. Another picture flashed, this one of me curled up in a blanket on the inside of the doors, watching flashes of lighting from a passing storm.

This was my room.

I turned around and leaned against the glass, the chill of the window raising goosebumps on my legs. I took in the rest of the room that I had missed in my fixation with the balcony. A white dresser stood on one wall next to a pair of white closet doors. The other wall was virtually bare, aside from a hanging mirror in the center.

The light overhead flicked on and I jumped. I hadn’t realized that my parents stood in the doorway, smiling softly at me. They stepped aside to make room for Lois, and she began right away with information about the room.

“This served as a guest room under the previous owners,” she said. “Since their kids had already left the house. The small balcony provides a nice view of the neighborhood, and the center piece of the room is a nice feature that the owners are selling with the house.”

My father’s face caught my eye. He was smiling, wearing the half-smile that I used to know how to put on. I looked away, fearing that I wouldn’t be able to share a similar expression.

“That concludes our tour, then,” Lois clapped her hands together.

My head snapped up, my expression confused. They’d already gone into the other bedroom? Maybe my sense of time was starting to blur together now, too. I slowly followed them down the stairs and into the entry way, where Lois placed herself in front of the door and smoothed her blouse.

“Are there any further questions on any of the houses we have visited today?” she asked, manufactured smile back on her face.

My parents looked at each other, then back at me. I shifted my weight,shoving my hands into the pockets of my shorts. My shoes scuffed at the edge of a rug beneath my feet.

“I don’t think we have anything,” my mother spoke up. “We will get back to you when we have a decision.”

“Right then,” Lois answered.

I looked up as she shook hands with my parents. I only provided a small nod on my way out, walking to the car even as my parents jogged to get out of the rain that had seemed to shower just a little bit harder.

“This house is my favorite,” my father said as I slid into the backseat of the SUV and slammed the door shut. He started the car and turned on the windshield wipers, smearing away the raindrops on the window. “I like the floor plan, and the entry space is really nice. The basement could use some work, but it’s not like we really need to worry about anything.”

My mother was beaming. “The color scheme is wonderful! I won’t have to do any work on the walls.”

I didn’t have to say anything—I knew this was the house we were buying. But I wanted to tell them I was on board too, that they weren’t doing anything I didn’t want. This was going to be a good change, in more than a few ways. I just had to manage to say something.

I closed my eyes a took a deep breath, trying to pull words out of my throat. For the most part I let this just ride itself out, usually overnight. I needed to work through it—and my therapist didn’t have to tell me that. My mouth opened and I slowly formed words.

“I—I like it too,” I said, sounding unsure. My fists clenched as I struggled to keep my voice even. My throat was tight again. I’d worked past it for the first time, and that was all I was going to get out of this.

My mother looked at me through the rear-view mirror, looking startled. I smiled shyly at her, and she immediately brightened up. My father pulled out of the driveway and began east, toward my grandmother’s house. Even from where I sat behind him, I could tell his grin was wide on his face.

I stared out the window for the rest of the ride, until I couldn’t sit awake any longer. My grandmother lived half an hour away from where we were, so I had time to doze. I curled up and put my headphones in my ears, wrapping the blanket around myself as I closed my eyes.

Despite my tiredness, I felt okay for the first time in a while. Maybe my therapist was right—maybe I did need a break from everything.

•
•
•


I woke up to the feeling of my blanket being untangled from my legs. I sucked in a deep breath through my nose and rolled to the edge of the seat, hanging my arm to the floor in search of my iPod. Eyes still closed, I found both the player and my headphones as a hand rested on my calf.

“Don’t wake yourself up too much, sweetheart,” a soft voice filled the car. “I have your bed already made up just for you.”

A smile found its way onto my lips. “Grandma,” I said simply, opening my eyes and sitting up to give her a tight hug. Her arms held me tightly and I inhaled her scent of pumpkin spice candles. She patted my back and I pulled away to find my beanie behind me on the seat of the car. As I put it on she smiled at it sadly, but quickly reapplied her full grin.

My mother was the spitting image of her. Minus the graying hair that fell to the tops of her shoulders, she was my mother’s height with the same hazel eyes and rosy cheeks. Time had worn on her eyesight, and the glasses she wore on her face were a neutral brown.

“Why don’t we get you inside?” she suggested, stepping out of the way so I could slide out of the car.

I gathered my blanket and iPod into my arms and walked below the overhang protruding from her house that was keeping us out of the rain. I stepped up to the garage door and pushed into the house, kicking off my shoes on the mat by the door. A stronger smell of candles hit my nose as I walked into the sitting room and I inhaled deeply, fighting to keep my eyes open.

“Do you need help carrying anything?” my mother asked from the sofa on the far wall, curled up with my father.

I shook my head and shuffled past them to the staircase tucked away between the kitchen and sitting room. My feet found each stair slowly, leading me up to a long hallway. I didn’t raise my feet to walk, using the slick would floor against my sock to my advantage. The third door to the right was the room my grandmother always saved for me, right between my parents’ and Ben’s. I exhaled, my breath wavering as I slid past Ben’s room and pushed into mine.

I didn’t bother turning the light on before I walked the few steps to the bed along the left wall. Stuffing my headphones in my ears, I collapsed onto the bed and wrapped my blanket around my body. I sluggishly flipped to the playlist I played at night and tugged the beanie on my head off. I rested it on the bed beside the pillow under my head and curled up into a ball.

My eyes fell shut and I let out a long breath. I relaxed into the soft mattress and realized that I was somewhat content for the first time in a long while. Maybe this whole transition thing wasn’t going to be horrible. Maybe I could find a way to be okay—not quite happy, but okay. That was something I’d recognized a long time ago that I could never again be; happy.