And then he was gone.

Of course I’ve heard the term disparaging before, but it was weird hearing a teenage guy use it. What’s even weirder is how everything about Atlas seems so contradictory. How does a guy who is obviously humble, well-mannered, and uses words like disparaging end up homeless? How does any teenager end up homeless?

I need to find out, Ellen.

I’m going to find out what happened to him. You just wait and see.

—Lily

• • •

I’m about to open another entry when my phone rings. I crawl across the couch for it and I’m not the least bit surprised to see it’s my mother again. Now that my father has passed and she’s alone, she’ll probably call me twice as much as she did before.

“Hello?”

“What do you think about my moving to Boston?” she blurts out.

I grab the throw pillow next to me and shove my face into it, muffling a scream. “Um. Wow,” I say. “Really?”

She’s quiet, and then, “It was just a thought. We can discuss it tomorrow. I’m almost to my meeting.”

“Okay. Bye.”

And just like that, I want to move out of Massachusetts. She can’t move here. She doesn’t know anyone here. She’d expect me to entertain her every day. I love my mother, don’t get me wrong, but I moved to Boston to be on my own, and having her in the same city would make me feel less independent.

My father was diagnosed with cancer three years ago while I was still in college. If Ryle Kincaid were here right now, I’d tell him the naked truth that I was a little bit relieved when my father became too ill to physically hurt my mother. It completely changed the dynamic of their relationship and I no longer felt obligated to stay in Plethora to make sure she was okay.

Now that my father is gone and I never have to worry about my mother again, I was looking forward to spreading my wings, so to speak.

But now she’s moving to Boston?

It feels like my wings were just clipped.

Where is a marine-grade polymer chair when I need one?!

I’m seriously stressing out and I have no idea what I’d do if my mother moves to Boston. I don’t have a garden, or a yard, or a patio, or weeds.

I have to find another outlet.

I decide to clean. I place all of my old shoeboxes full of journals and notes in my bedroom closet. Then I organize my entire closet. My jewelry, my shoes, my clothes . . .

She cannot move to Boston.

Chapter Three

Six months later

“Oh.”

That’s all she says.

My mother turns and assesses the building, running a finger over the windowsill next to her. She picks up a layer of dust and wipes it between her fingers. “It’s . . .”

“It needs a lot of work, I know,” I interrupt. I point at the windows behind her. “But look at the storefront. It has potential.”