That's true, at least.

"I thought something happened to you!"

"I'm fine, Mom," I say. "I just talked to you the day before yesterday… or the one before that. Nothing's going to happen to me."

She lets out a deep sigh. She doesn't argue with my words, but I know they don't reassure her. Switching the subject, I ask her how everything's going in Watertown and how things are working out at the flower shop she opened.

Watertown is where we lived the longest, the place that finally started to feel like home. We moved there from Syracuse right after my sixteenth birthday and she hasn't left yet.

Yet.

She's rambling on and on about how spring's coming and the flowers will soon bloom, and I'm trying to pay attention, but the words are fading away into a fog. The door flings open after a few minutes as I'm humming in acknowledgement to something my mom says, Melody appearing in the doorway. She does a double take when she sees me, her eyes wide. I can see the questions written all over her face and know, in about twenty seconds, an interrogation is coming.

"Mom, I need to go," I say, not wanting to be on the phone when it happens. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay," she says, hesitating like she doesn't want to hang up. "I love you, Karissa."

"Love you, too."

I hang up with my finger still touching the screen when the dam breaks and the questions start flooding out. "What happened to you? Where did you go? Where have you been? Why haven't you called? And why the hell are you still wearing that?"

Rolling my eyes, I sit up. My head is still throbbing, despite the handful of pills I popped when I got to the room. I've had hangovers before, but this is more. This is a fuzziness I can't seem to shake.

"You first," I say. "What happened to you at Timbers?"

"I met a guy. Your turn."

Melody stares at me, awaiting some sort of response as I try to get my thoughts together and decide how much to tell her.

"Same," I respond. "I met a guy, too."

Her eyes widen. "Really? Who?"

"He's nobody," I say, not believing it even as the words leave my lips. That man is indisputably somebody. "So did you leave with the douche in the flight suit or what?"

She eyes me for a moment in silence, as if debating whether to push me for more, but she thankfully shrugs it off. "Yeah. His name's Pat or Pete or something, I can't remember. Maybe it's Parker? We made out and then passed out."

"Same," I say again. "Except for the whole making out part."

"So you went home with a guy and… passed out?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, that's disappointing."

I let out a light laugh as I stand up and stretch, setting my phone down to let it finish charging. "Yeah, it made for one hell of an awkward morning. So tell me about Pat-Pete-Parker-whatever."

She shifts the subject, going back to talking about whatever his name is, as I gather some clothes to take a shower. I don't mention Naz any more. She'll have more questions—questions I don't have answers for.

"Ugh, I have one hell of a hangover," Melody says eventually. "How are you feeling?"

"Like hell," I say. "I think there was something in one of those drinks last night… a roofie or something. I don't know. It's fuzzy."

She looks at me, horrified. "That's scary. Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure." I hesitate. "I think it was the last one… the one you got from whatever-his-name is."

"No way," she says. "He was totally a gentleman. It must've been another."

"Yeah," I mumble. "Maybe, but be careful, you know, just in case."

"Are you sure you can't come?" Melody asks, exaggeratedly frowning as she sits across from me, clothes piled high all around her—this time on purpose. An empty suitcase sits on the floor by her feet, waiting to be filled.

"I'm sure," I say. "If I could, I would, but I can't."

"If it's about money, I—"

Before she can even finish that sentence, my eyes narrow and I cut her off. "I can't go."

She makes a face at me, somewhere between annoyance and pity. I know she's feeling both. It's Sunday, and tomorrow is the official start of spring break. With midterms behind us, we have nothing to worry about until classes start up again next week. Melody's off to Aruba with some old friends from high school—girls I've met but wouldn't recognize if I ever ran into them on the street. Melody's the only one in her group that stayed in New York for college.

So while she's at the beach, celebrating freedom and soaking up the sun, I'll be here alone. It is about the money, yeah… I could never afford to keep up with her lifestyle, even if she insists on including me whenever possible. I'm gracious when she buys dinner, or drags me for a night on the town, but I draw the line at a Caribbean vacation. There's a thin line between accepting help and being a charity case, a line I felt myself toeing earlier in the weekend.

But it's more than that, too.

I can't go.

"I told you I don't have a passport."

"Well, I told you we could go to Florida instead."

"And I told you I won't let you change your plans because of me," I say. "So go, have fun. I'm just going to hang around here, maybe panhandle, you know, make a little money."