Eventually, I started calling Tiffany—at least once a day, sometimes twice. She knew about my plan to leave Los Angeles and had promised not to tell Blake where I was. She’d kept her word, even when Blake showed up at her place every day, demanding answers and refusing to leave. She told me that he had threatened to make her life miserable if she didn’t talk. One afternoon, Jamal had had enough and grabbed him by the collar, shoving him off the porch.

That had been the last time she saw him.

Now, I assumed he was at Stanford. It was only an hour away, which was too close and too far all at once.

I tried not to think about it. About him.

I didn’t know what I would say if I ever saw him again.

I didn’t know if I would scream or cry or throw my arms around him.

So I told myself he was gone. I told myself he had moved on. It was easier that way.

Some days, I even found myself laughing. Some days, I looked in the mirror and didn’t hate what I saw.

Scarlett, my cousin, said I had a resting bitch face that scared off the college boys trying to flirt over scones and espresso. She meant it as a compliment. I took it as one.

I called Mom once a week. She had finally gotten out of that house. She traveled to Boston to see her parents for a few weeks. Said it helped to be somewhere else. To feel like someone’s daughter, instead of just someone’s widow.

She told me she missed me. That she’d cleaned out Dad’s closet. That she’d lit a candle for him in church and sat there for an hour, just…breathing. She donated most of his clothes, but kept a few things for herself: his favorite old sweater, his watch. She told me she cried while she was doing it. She even talked about visiting Las Vegas, where she and Dad had their honeymoon.

“I’m proud of you,” she said the last time we spoke.

I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t feel like I had done anything to be proud of. I dropped out of high school. I didn’t follow any clear path. The best thing I had going was my ability to pretend like everything was fine. So I just said, “Thank you.”

She had asked me if I’d heard from Blake. I told her no.

That was only half a lie.

“Thank you, darling,” Aunt Mary would say every time I stayed late to wipe down the tables or restock the sugar caddies. “You’ve got a real rhythm now.”