“When I was fifteen, she—she and her friends were going on this cruise. It was supposed to circle the globe; she was absolutely thrilled about it. She went for a checkup before the trip and found out she was sick. Three months later, she was gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and I could tell it had the same effect it had on me when people said that. But I was; I was so sorry. “I’m sorry you don’t have her in your life anymore.”

“Thanks, babe,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

“She did a good job though.”

He smiled. “When she died I—I didn’t really take it that well. That’s when my mom thought it best if I medicated. I started seeing a friend of hers, and she put me on some pills and…it helped, a little.”

“It did?”

“I mean, she was still gone, but—” He went silent for a beat. “It helped me be less angry.”

“I can’t imagine you angry.” I shook my head.

“Oh, I get angry.”

I loved how he tried to seem less awesome sometimes.

“Do they help you?” he asked quietly.

“My meds?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It took a while until I got the right dosage. You know, without thinking about or actually doing something stupid. It wasn’t until recently that I could truly say the pills can help.”

He was quiet for a few more moments, and I could tell he was thinking something but refusing to say.

“I’m sorry you felt lonely,” I told him. “And that you had to go through what you did when she died.”

“She would’ve loved you though.”

“Yeah?” I looked up at him.

“She left me clear instructions as to what kind of people I should get involved with. ‘Sweet, kind, or good. Preferably all three,’ she used to say.”

“Are you telling me we can’t see each other anymore?” I teased, still looking up at him.

I somewhat meant it though.

He pulled me close and kissed me.

“I’m saying I took her advice.” He kissed me again.

I was afraid to ask which of the three categories he thought I fell into.

Later that night, I left a naked Ethan sleeping in my bed and went into Liam’s bedroom. I sat on his bed and stared at the photos that covered his wall. Since he died, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d gone into his bedroom: twice, on each anniversary of his death; before going back to St. Yve’s; and when Emma spent the night. Four occasions in three years, and it was still more than anyone else in my family.