They don’t go on fancy vacations, and the gifts they get each other are always nice, but useful, like a sweater or new kitchen mixer. And when my mom would find out my dad had to work late, she wouldn’t cry that she couldn’t spend a night without him, she’d mumble “well that sucks” before asking me if I wanted to go for a gals’ dinner.

But, when we watch TV, she always sits next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. When he leaves for work, she’ll run down the stairs, hair half-dry, to kiss him before he goes. And when she’s sick, he brings her tea and her favorite fuzzy blanket.

I also have a number of distinct memories of leaving a restaurant or movie theater when the weather was cold. He’d offer her his coat and make the same joke about how funny it is that she’s always cold when she “looks pretty hot to him.” And it just seems so sweet and easy.

My dad always told me not to judge a guy by how he treats me, but by how he treats the waiter. Because he might be trying to impress me now, but it’s how he treats people he’s not trying to win over that shows you his true character. And that after the initial flirtation fades, that is the person you’ll be in the relationship with. He would give me this speech when I was heading off to homecoming or another school event, even though I was always going with a group of friends, so it wasn’t too terribly relevant.

But now that I think about it, he has a point. Maybe a mean person who happens to be nice to you is still a mean person. And maybe you are the exception, but that doesn’t mean you’re special. It just means that they want something from you.

My phone buzzes.

Yaz: Have you made it home?

I stare at the words. I guess, I type, still not really sure I can say this dorm room is my home. I pause and click backspace. There’s no need to be melodramatic; she meant it quite literally.

Me: Yep

I slide the phone into my sweatpants pocket and pad into the living room, not bothering to click on the light, the shine of the streetlight outside the window making it easy enough to see.

I stare at the hulking flower arrangement that seems to take up most of the room. I think of the helicopters, the Instagram posts about me being the most beautiful girl in the world, the only one who could make me settle down. I reach out and touch one of the roses, and the edges of the petal crumple in my hand. No longer silky soft, the flowers are dry and fragile. They’re dying.