I can’t hear his side of the conversation, so I instead watch my mom’s reactions to his words in order to figure out what’s going on.

At first, something he says softens her slightly, even getting her to crack a smile. I let go of the breath I’m holding.

But I relax too soon.

As she continues to listen, a sense of déjà vu settles over me. Her body language becomes so familiar until I’m struck with a harsh memory. We’re back in the kitchen, the day she got the call about Grandpa Ben. But, today, she doesn’t stare at my father with helpless devastation.

Her eyes are locked on me.

27

HOLLY

Finally, on Saturday, I get a text from Ben.

Ben: Dialysis today 2 p.m.?

I guess his phone isn’t broken. The message leaves much to be desired, but I’m not about to be petty because I’m annoyed with him.

Holly: I’ll be there.

Hopefully, when I show up, he’ll have an explanation for why he ignored my messages for two days.

An hour and two bus rides later, I’m back in front of his parents’ house. I wonder if, one day, I’ll ever be comfortable enough to just walk in without ringing the bell. The idea makes me smile, and I’m still wearing the expression when Ben answers the door.

It falls away immediately when I take a good look at him. He’s pale with dark circles under his eyes, and his lips are chapped and drawn tight. Without thinking about it, my hand immediately presses against his forehead. I expected to find him feverish, but his skin isn’t more than pleasantly warm.

“You look sick, Ben. Are you okay?”

Instead of answering, he removes my hand and uses his grip to pull me forward. I let him, pressing up against his chest. Ben runs his fingers up my neck before cupping the back of my head. He angles me how he wants and then slowly kisses me.

All the while, the front door hangs wide, letting in cold air. While I enjoy his affectionate greeting, the impracticality of leaving a door open in the beginning of winter has me stepping away, so I can shut it.

When I turn back to Ben, he still seems off, but before I can ask him what’s wrong again, he laces his fingers with mine and tugs me farther into the house. Instead of heading to the stairs, we move toward the kitchen.

It being the weekend, I’m not surprised to see Mrs. and Mr. Gerhard. This is their house after all. Ben’s dad is leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, legs crossed, eyes on his shoes. Mrs. Gerhard is standing at the kitchen island, hands spread wide on the granite counter, watching me without blinking. Their agitation is clear.

“Hello.” My greeting works its way through air so thick with tension that I’m surprised it even reaches them.

Mrs. Gerhard gives me a tight smile. She moves to pull out one of the tall chairs tucked under the island. “Hello, Holly. Please take a seat. We were hoping to speak with you for a moment.”