“You didn’t hit me.” He smiles. A real smile that reaches his eyes, just like it used to when Mom was still here. I can’t help but smile back. “Well . . . not too hard, anyway.”

I grab a pillow and toss it at him. “Dad! That’s not funny.”

“You didn’t hit me, Miki. You just mumbled something about some game and rolled over. You slept”—he glances at his watch—“for sixteen hours.”

I scrub my hand over my face. “It’s . . . Saturday?”

“Ten a.m. Saturday morning.” Dad walks over and rests his hand on my forehead. Sometimes I think he just needs to touch me, sort of reassuring himself that I’m not gone, like Mom. “You don’t feel warm.”

“I’m not sick, Dad. I think I was just really tired.” I respawned yesterday on my front porch in exactly the spot I was in when I got pulled. I didn’t get to see Jackson. Didn’t get to talk to him. My gaze slides to my phone. I want to check for a message from him, but I don’t want to do it with Dad here.

“Still tired?” he asks.

I laugh. “Not even slightly. I’m a ball of energy.” Then I crack my jaw on an enormous yawn.

“So I see.” He pauses. “I’m going grocery shopping. Do you want to come along?”

There have been moments lately when I wished Dad would reach out, sit down with me, and just talk. This isn’t one of them.

I make a vague gesture at my backpack. “Tons of homework.” Not a lie. I’m way behind on that English essay for Mr. Shomper.

Dad looks like he’s going to say something more, but then he just nods and goes. I hear his footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of the front door closing.

I snatch my phone. A ton of texts. Three voice mails from Carly, one at 8:09 last night, another at 10:06, and a third from 9:30 this morning. One text from Dee. One from Luka. Nothing from Jackson. My heart sinks until I realize that there’s a good chance he did the same thing I did—crashed for sixteen hours. He might even still be asleep.

I play the first message from Carly.

“Done with the family meal from hell. Where are you?”

My stomach clenches. I completely forgot I told her to come over after dinner last night. I exhale and press my forehead to my balled fist as I play her second message.

“’Kay. Guess you ditched me. Again. Whatever.”

I don’t want to play her final message, the one from this morning, but I do anyway because I need to know just how pissed she is before I call her back and grovel.

“Just came by and spoke to your dad. He told me you fell asleep as soon as you got in last night. I guess that panic attack yesterday really did a number. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about it. And sorry I got so mad. Hope you’re feeling better. Oh, and I left a skinny latte with your dad. It’s probably cold now but you can nuke it. I’m at work from ten till two. Junior class then the private lesson for the trouble twins, then me and Kelley are lifeguarding a birthday party. Call you after.”

I’m slammed by both relief and guilt. Relief that Carly’s not mad and, if I’m honest, that I don’t have to deal with her this morning.

What happened to the endless hours we used to share when we could do anything and everything and just be happy to be together?

That’s where the guilt comes in. I hate feeling that way about my best friend. I hate knowing it’s way more my fault than hers. Maybe I don’t deserve her easy forgiveness. I should have remembered to call her before I crashed. If this is my life now, the two worlds I jump between, then I need to learn to balance them both.

It’s on me, not Carly. I’m the one lying and hiding shit. I need to get my head together.

“Self-pity party, much?” I mutter, not very happy with myself right now.

I check my other messages. Nothing important. And nothing from Jackson.

I try Luka—first a text, then a call, but I can’t reach him.

After a quick shower, I head down to the kitchen. There’s a bowl on the table with about a quarter inch of milk at the bottom, a half-full mug of coffee, and an empty beer bottle.

I think back to that instant when Dad laid his hand on my forehead. Did I smell beer? I don’t know.

I turn to the counter and see five more.

For a second, I’m blindingly furious at Dad. Then that anger turns on myself. The gray fog that’s slunk after me like a shadow for the past two years creeps out from whatever hole it was hiding in. I feel like two hands that are ten times normal size are pressing on my ribs, stealing my breath. The voice of condemnation shrieks and roars, blaming me for things that were never my fault, demanding that I blame myself.

But I’m not the girl I was two years ago. I push through the fog, bury it, and snatch the bottle off the table.

It’s time for me to stop feeling like I can fix whatever’s wrong with him, time for me to stop taking his choices on my shoulders. He’s an adult. He’s choosing to drink; he’s choosing not to get help and stop.

This isn’t on me. I can only let him know how I feel about what he’s doing—which I have. But it isn’t my fault and I don’t have to enable him or feed the problem.

This is Dad’s problem. His choices. No matter how much I want to control this, I can’t.

He’s gone to get groceries. That means he’s driving. Did he drink all these this morning or are they left from last night? I touch the rims of each bottle on the counter. Dry.