He stands, and I don’t have the heart to watch him walk around the break room. I just keep talking—trying to explain and justify why I’m here.

“She’s waiting for me to run out of money,” I clarify. “She doesn’t have any vacation days left to leave work, so she can’t come get me.” I sound like the villain. My hard-working mother is left at home while I’m off chasing a long-lost brother, leaving her to worry.

If she worried so much, she would’ve called. A hot tear rolls down my cheek.

Loren plops back on the couch with a box of tissues. That’s what he went to find? “How much money do you have left?” He hands me the box.

I take one tissue. “I’m not going back.” It hits me now. I don’t want to return home. My dad can’t look me in the eyes. I expect after this, my mom will have trouble too.

“Willow,” Loren says forcefully, “how much money?”

He’s worried. My stomach has all but curdled. “Enough for a couple more nights at the motel,” I lie.

His nose flares, upset. “I’ll pay for a hotel tonight and tomorrow, and I can get you a plane ticket back to Maine.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. “No, no,” I cry. “Please don’t make me go back. I just met you, and…” I hiccup and remove my glasses, wiping the fogged lenses with my striped blue and green shirt that peeks from my overalls.

I’ve never felt more alone or lost, and if I go home, these sentiments will only intensify. I can see it—all of it. An unbearable pressure mounts on my chest at this purposed future that may become real.

“Aren’t you in high school?” he asks.

I don’t speak, afraid that if I say yes, he’ll grab his computer and book me the next flight to Maine.

He’s more closed off towards me than before. He shakes his head a couple times. “Your mom is probably sick over this,” he says to me.

“Our mom,” I say, reminding him why I’m here to begin with. I set my glasses back on.

He’s scrutinizing me a little more, his eyes flitting over my features.

I wipe beneath my nose. “And I don’t care what she is.” She can be sick. She can be angry. I feel just as hurt as her over this, and I’m acknowledging my own feelings for the first time in my life instead of burying them to make room for everyone else’s.

He grimaces. “Willow—”

“She lied to me.” I point to my chest. He has to understand how much this hurts. Doesn’t he see? “I don’t want to be around her ever again.”

“How about I call Emily and see where her head is at?” His muscles seem to flex, and he scratches the back of his neck again. He offers me a single weak smile, but I realize that he’s nervous…to talk to her, his mom.

She didn’t want him. He should be so angry. He should hate her, shouldn’t he? How does someone become a bigger person that way, I wonder. How much time will it take because right now I feel like it’d be centuries before I grew a new pair of eyes, a new brain, and thought differently of my mom.