Chapter 15

Sara hatesthat her first day back to school is literature.

She's dreading the make-up work with a fierceness that leaves her equal parts nervous and resigned. Her professors have already agreed to give her two weeks to catch up, no points docked, but Sara suspects her grade will suffer despite their kindness. Math is one thing—it's all just numbers—but the reading and essays from the other two classes are going to bury her.

So, when Jen suggests they meet for lunch after class, Sara accepts. Not because she needs a Vietnamese coffee (she does) but because maybe, just maybe, the promise of hot noodles and a sugared dose of caffeine will be enough to get her through her class in one piece.

When her alarm goes off, she flirts with the idea of begging for one more day off and canceling her plans for lunch. Her eyes itch and her limbs feel heavy. A glance in the closet mirror proves that she looks as much of a mess as she feels. Sara stares at her reflection a full five minutes before the alarm goes off again and she groans.

If she cancels, Jen will worry. If she cancels, she might show up here.

She doesn't need to look around to know her apartment is unsuitable for company. There are dirty dishes scattered like landmines throughout, the carcass of a rotisserie chicken still sitting on the counter, and the litter box so overdue for cleaning she cringes every time she walks into the bathroom. It's easier to make herself presentable.

She drags herself out from under the covers, one grudging limb at a time. At the foot of her bed, Ansel twitches; his paw reaching up to cover his face. Sara scratches the top of his head, giving him a soft kiss on his furred cheek, and smiles when he gives a grumbled whine.

At least one of them gets to stay in bed.

The pho is hot;the broth warming her stomach and drawing a contented sigh from her lips.

Jen reaches for a spring roll, glancing up at her carefully. "So how was class?"

Sara finishes slurping up her bite of noodles before answering. "Do you want to do my make-up work? I'll pay in love and affection."

Jen gives a sympathetic twinge. "That bad, huh?"

Sara doesn't justify her question with an answer, but she does drink another spoonful of broth. By far, one of the best things about living in the city is having access to the types of food she'd have to drive over forty minutes to an hour for back at home.

She stills at the thought, heart cringing at the reminder that she's supposed to visit her father in a few days. "I'm going to see Dad this weekend," she says, because as much as she's dreading it, she'd rather talk about him than Oma. The tattoo on her hip is healing nicely, but the scars on her heart run far deeper. She's not ready for those wounds to be prodded.

Jen's answering smile is awkward—a strange mix of sympathy and hope that only she's ever been able to pull off. "Maybe it'll be ok?"

"Yeah," Sara mutters, "Maybe." She stirs the soup, watching the noodles swirl in the bowl. "How's it going with your family?"

Jen rolls her eyes. "Oh, you know. My mom still hates my future husband. So that's been great. I told her I wasn't going to do a bridal shower, and she flipped her lid."

Sara stills, eyes darting to Jen's face. "You don't want a shower?"

"With my mom? There, in a confined space, with Miles' family?" She shakes her head, leaning into the back of her chair. "Yeah, no. I'd never put my in-laws through that. I love my mom, but she's a straight-up Karen. Which is hilarious because," Jen gestures pointedly to herself—sculpted eyebrows raising. "Not like she adopted a baby straight out of China or anything."

Sara cringes. She doesn't disagree. Mrs. Foster is the type of woman to sing her daughter's praises one moment and then condemn immigrants the next. "Yeah, I see your point."

Jen sighs, raising her cup of coffee mockingly. "Yay for problematic parents!"

"We should start a club."

"Who should be president?"

Sara pretends to think about it. "Well, your dad is pretty chill, so I guess I win with two for two."

Jen snorts on a laugh, a delicate hand covering her mouth. "God, it would be the most popular club on campus."

"No kidding. Too bad Miles won't be able to join." Both his parents are as wonderful as he is—still married, still in love. There's no wondering how he grew up to be an upstanding human being.

"Oh!" Jen gasps, grinning wide. "He can hook us up with some therapy!"

"Our club's patron saint of counseling," Sara laughs.

Jen joins her, earning them both some annoyed looks from the older couple sitting at the table to their left. It only makes them laugh louder and, for a brief moment, Sara doesn't think about the missing piece of her heart or the itch of the tattoo on her hip.

When she gets home,Seth is already there—hovering over the small kitchen table and staring at the stack of mail she's left there with a frown. He makes no indication that he's heard her come in, but Sara knows he must have. Even if she'd been trying to sneak up on him, she doubts she'd succeed.

Dropping her bag by the front door, she crosses her arms under her chest and walks past him without greeting. He's continued to keep his distance the past few weeks, which she appreciates, but she refuses to offer any kind of interaction he could misinterpret as friendly.

They aren't friends.

"There's no ‘h'," he murmurs, a thread of a question underlying the statement.

Sara pauses, hand on the fridge handle. "What?"

"Your name. There's no ‘h' at the end."

She stares, a little perturbed by his open curiosity. Since Oma's passing, he's been more careful in his taunts—slowly reintroducing them and studying her reactions. It reminds her of the way her town would test ponds in the winter—measured step by measured step—before clearing it for the kids to skate.

Still, his innocent statement feels like the beginnings of a trap. Sara narrows her eyes, waiting for the ice to crack beneath her feet. "Yeah, so?"

"I hadn't realized," he says, shoulders shrugging. "It's an uncommon spelling, is it not?"

"I mean, having the ‘h' is more popular, I guess. But I've met a few others with my spelling."

"How strange," he mutters, but before she can take it as an insult, he adds, "Is there a reason?"

"Um, no? Not really." At least, not one that she'd ever heard, but she doesn't exactly hear a lot about that sort of thing. Anything that involved her mother, any stories that couldn't be told without erasing her, weren't told at all. Sara strongly suspects that the choosing of her name is one of them. "My dad used to joke it was one less letter to learn to spell my name."

Seth's scoff is haughty, his expression twisting into a scowl. "How… thoughtful."

She'd be deaf to miss his blatant sarcasm, but Sara doesn't reward him with a response. Instead, she opens the fridge and pulls out her water pitcher. The tap is probably fine, but the city water has always tasted odd compared to the well water she grew up on.

"I hear I shall have the honor of meeting the man in a few days?"

The pitcher slams on the counter. A small part of her takes a fraction of a second to be thankful it's made of plastic instead of glass, before she whirls on him. "No."

"Well, I'm certainly not going to be left behind."

"You're not invited."

"Come now, if that's your only qualm, I'm sure it can be remedied easily enough."

"You know it's not," she snaps, teeth groaning in her skull. "I don't want you there."

"You don't want me at all," he corrects, hands sliding into his pant pockets and leaning against the table. "Shall I remind you of how little your wishes sway me?"

She screams, the air hissing through her teeth like a growl, before she stomps away from him. It's only after she's slammed her bedroom door, her chest rising and falling with each angry breath, that she realizes she never grabbed a glass of water.