She sets her bag down on the counter and puts her keys in the tray by the door—moves I could choreograph in my sleep, even after months away. “How have you been getting around campus?”

“A friend helped me out.” I feel a little warmth rise in my cheeks at the thought of wrapping myself around Salem, or vice versa, and hope it doesn’t show on my face.

“I’m so glad you’re making friends.” My parents are a well-oiled machine, bending around each other at just the right angles for salad, lasagna, grated parmesan from its same-old spot in the fridge. I don’t need anything more than the fact that the clear plastic cylinder is still nearly full to remind me that Sierra isn’t here; she could eat a leather shoe if you put enough cheese on it. “Did you tell Claire you were coming home? Or are you two still having trouble?”

“We’re okay now, Mom,” I say as we take our seats and start passing things around. “But no, I didn’t mention coming home. I don’t really feel like seeing anyone when I’m like this. Maybe over Thanksgiving.”

“That’d be nice.” She fills three-quarters of her plate with salad, then hands me the bowl. It’s kale, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen at the Beast, and haven’t been missing. But my mom thinks the dark leafy green is God’s gift; she consumes it almost as frequently as Salem eats green apples.

I take a little bit, just to show I’m making an effort.

My mom asks the same questions my dad already did, and I give the same answers. Finally, she broaches the one subject my dad didn’t. “Have you spoken to your sister at all?”

She has to know that I haven’t. Do they even allow you to keep your phone at rehab? But I just say “Nope” and push the kale around my plate, hoping that’ll be the end of it.

“I think she’d really like to hear from you.”

“I think she has enough on her plate already.” I let the tine of my fork scratch the dish, just enough to get a little screech out of the contact.

“Evie—”

Jesus. “No, Mom. Please, just stop.” I drop the fork onto the plate and meet her eyes with mine. They look tired, and sad, but even as it hurts my heart to look at her, I know I positively cannot do this. “You said if I left, I’d miss her. Let me tell you something—I don’t, okay? I don’t miss her, and I don’t want to talk to her, and I am loving finally having my own life that doesn’t have her in it. So stop trying to shove things back where they don’t belong.”

“Everett, don’t talk to your mother that way.”