Jenny picks my mother up from the hotel the next morning.

It's as if the world quits spinning as soon as my mom waltz back into the house again. All of us flood into the living room like white blood cells looking to defend against infection, sans Lauren and Jun who are at Maver's house.

"Didn't realize I'd get a welcome party," she says, yanking the strap of her purse further up on her shoulder.

"They just live here." I close the door with my foot, sealing us into the vacuum. "I'll show you to Lauren's room. You can stay there while you're here."

I wait by the stairs while she says hello to Seira and good morning to Rami. When she's finished, I walk ahead of her to Lauren's room, feeling her eyes on my back the entire time. Suddenly, I find myself wishing we were busy for the week. At least that would give me an excuse to stay away from the house, though part of me hates the idea of leaving her here alone. Not that I think she'll ransack the entire place; I don't want her snooping around and finding out things about me she's not entitled to anymore.

"Lauren shares a bathroom with Seira. She's territorial about her skincare so don't touch it. Don't use any of Lauren's stuff either. If you need something, check the closet in the hallway. I keep travel-sized products in there. And there's an annoying bird that always hangs out right by her window in the morning so try not to open it. We don't need to spend an hour trying to chase it out of the house again."

Once inside the room, she runs her hands along the smooth bedspread, a glistening sheen under the bright morning sunlight like ripples through a sea of rubies beneath her fingers.

        "Red was always her favorite color," my mom comments.

        For as long as it's been since I've seen my mother, it's been even longer for Lauren. I'm surprised she remembers that about her and find myself wondering if she remembers it's my favorite color as well.

        "How long were you planning on staying? I need to let Jun and Lauren know."

        She shrugs. "About a week."

        I choke down the pained groan crawling its way up my throat. "That's a long time."

        She glances around at the remnants of Lauren's soul, the parts of her most of the world doesn't get the honor of viewing. A torn movie poster of Bend It Like Beckham ("those cowards couldn't make them lesbians, I hate them"), the first vinyl Lauren ever owned, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, a half-eaten bag of sour gummy worms, a picture of her, Jun, and me on graduation day.

        These people—my mom and Lauren—are two clashing figures of my childhood and the unsteady incline into adulthood.

        Since we're alone, I finally ask, "Why are you here? I told you to leave me alone the last time we talked."

        "I think your mother is entitled to see you when she wants."

        "Luckily I have enough autonomy as an adult to understand that my personal space is my right. Cut the crap."

My brain doesn't allow me to think about how the world would hate me for speaking like this if these conversations were broadcast for all to see. And yeah, sure, maybe I am acting like a brat, but I find it hard to talk to someone who once told me when she was drunk that I would never be enough to take away the pain of losing her husband.

I was a child. I knew I couldn't, but having it said to me hurt.

I don't know how a kid moves on. As if the hole in my heart isn't as exponentially big. As if I haven't spent my entire life questioning if I'm worth the space I occupy.

If I'm not enough to help with her pain, I'll allow myself whatever outlet I need to take away mine, even if that means making myself look like the bad guy.

"I'm not here because I want money," she claims. "I bought my own ticket."

"Safe to assume this ticket wasn't bought using money Marty sent you then?"

Her silence is the answer her words fail to provide.

"It's okay. I figured."

She levels a look; uncertain but stern. "It feels like you're just looking for ways to argue."

"Sound observation."

My mother sighs. "Are we going to have a real conversation while I'm here?"

The impatience in her tone only irritates me. Not calling me back for months on end, damn near an entire year, and then being upset I'm not keen to meet her in the middle is a choice.

"Why do you keep acting like I'm the one who hasn't been trying for years to reconnect?" I stride toward her with purpose, even if I'm not certain of it myself. "It's tiring and lazy and I deserve better than that."

"You didn't answer the question."

I cross my arms. "I don't think it deserves an answer."

"Fine." She shuts down. "We can talk another day. Before I leave."

"Why do you think you get to dictate how this goes? Don't think because you caught me off guard that I'll just follow your lead. You're only here because my friends convinced me to be the better person."

My mother starts unpacking her bag, laying out items I can vividly remember in various places at home, all snapshots of a life that no longer feels mine.

"Fine." My arms uncross on my way back to the door, hand poised on the handle. If she's going to sulk, let her do it alone.

...

After spending hours alone in my room, I venture downstairs to the sight of my mom in the kitchen with Rami and Seira. All of them are standing around the counter making spam musubi.

        "These used to be your favorite." My mom catches my eye.

         "They're spam musubis. They're everyone's favorite."

        She points at Rami. "Not his."

        "Only because he doesn't eat anything with a face."

        Seira pats the empty stool next to her. "Come help. Make yourself useful."

      I cautiously take a seat. Once Seira pulls together another setup for me, the motions come naturally.

      Without realizing I've fallen into silence, I'm shaken out of it with Seira looking back at me. "Sorry, what?"

      "Your mom asked how your New York trip went," Rami explains.

        My mother adds, "I saw something about it in the news. You went to some guy's concert?"

        "My friend Maverick. Weekend was fine. Concert was great. Went to dim sum with some friends the night before."

        "At Din Tai Fung?" she asks, not waiting for me to answer. "I've been wanting to go. I heard it's so good."

        "There's a location in Vegas. You can eat your weight in dumplings and then gamble all of your money away."

        My mother smiles for the sake of the other two, but she senses the snark. I'm not sure if I even intended for there to be any. Maybe she is right; maybe I am looking for reasons to fight.

        "Vegas is so different," Seira says. "Should definitely go."

        "Gosh, it's been so long." My mom taps her chin. "I think the last time was before Stevie was born. We went up with Marty and Aunty Kehlani. First place we went to eat at once we landed was Hawaiian food." She laughs. "Can you believe that?"

        "Dad went?" I ask. I can't remember the last time she mentioned him.

        "Loved it there. Complained how dry it was but couldn't wait to blow all his money."

        Before I can say anything, someone knocks at the door.

        "Who is it this time," I mutter and stomp over to the door before anyone else can offer to get it. I'd rather do it myself than let even just one less human barricade disappear between my mother and me.

         When it swings open more forcefully than I intend it to, I come face-to-face with Brendon Ellis. Instinctively, I slamming it shut because he's definitely not here right now. He should be in Europe. I open the door again to confirm he is here. "Brendon?"

        He waves. "Hi."

        "What are you doing here?"

        "Nice to see you, too."

        "I thought it was race weekend." After second thought, "Or was that next weekend?"

        "Next weekend. Thought I'd surprise you." His eyes cast toward the suitcase by the door. "Someone going on a trip?"

        Since I can't kick him out without raising suspicion, I decide my best course of action is to let him inside.

       "My mother decided to pay a visit."

        His eyes go wide. "Uninvited?"

        "Of course."

        A loud clanking noise rings out from the kitchen, and both of our heads turn. After waiting a few beats, we turn back to each other, stepping closer in the process and lowering our voices.

        "Is she staying here?"

        "Yes."

        "Where is she sleeping? On the couch?"

        "Lauren's room. She went to spend a few days at Maver's house so my mom could use her bed. Probably could've slept on the couch but I guess she's nicer than I am."

        His reaction to that news justifies my concern for Jun and Lauren's sake, but I move along since the rest of the house will become suspicious if I'm gone for too long.

        "I'm not trying to kick you out but you have full permission to leave if you want. I'll pretend like I never saw you. It's...awkward."

        Brendon taps a finger under my chin and tilts my face toward his. The last time we were this close was back in New York, and if I look hard enough, I can still see the snow and the glisten behind his eyes as it fell. Oh, how I'd give anything to go back to that night.

        "I'm not doing anything so—" Brendon breaks the connection and pulls me out of our personal snowglobe. "Seems only fair since you had to deal with my parents."

        I roll my eyes. "You don't owe me anything."

        "Then consider it me wanting to be here." He lifts his chin in defiance. "It'll be easier for all of us if you accept I'm here and I'm not leaving."

         I don't want to process the implications of us having both met each other's parents, but I also don't want him to leave, as much as he'd be better off not having to endure spending time between my mother and me.

        "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

        Brendon tugs on my hand until we walk into the kitchen where the rest of the crew is waiting. Once in their presence, he drops my hand but stays close enough I feel the ghost of him on my skin.

        Their eyes latch onto us. Brendon clears his throat after a few beats.

"This is my mother Joni."

        "I'm sensing a theme."

        "Unfortunately, the musical gene skipped a generation," she replies. "Didn't stop me from trying. Best you all never saw that tragedy."

        "And this is—"

        "Brendon Ellis." Something visibly clicks as soon as I mention his name. "I've seen you on TV. You're one of those drivers, right? The—oh, I don't know what it's called. Not Nascar. The really fast ones."

        "As opposed to the notoriously slow Nascar, of course."

        He spares me a worried glance before turning to her. "Maybe. There are a few of us that look alike," he laughs. "And Bash is fine."

        My mother taps her chin thoughtfully. "No, it's you. You race alongside that other guy. The one with all of the championships."

        "Idris. Yeah, he's my teammate."

        In no way has my mother ever expressed any interest in Formula One, so her recognition of two drivers, let alone one, surprises me.

        "It's nice to meet you." Bitterness brews at the thought that she's never given me such an impressed look, even if Brendon is deserving of the admiration. A sick feeling in the pit of my stomach curdles around the wish she'd have shown the same amount of affection toward anything MARS has done. "I didn't realize you were friends with Stevie. It's so cool that she gets to meet people from all over the world."

         "You'd have to call me back in order for me to tell you about my friends."

        Acting swiftly, Brendon places an arm on her elbow, guiding her back behind the counter and away from me. The only thing I'm willing to throw in her direction are sharp words, but I don't need clean air for those to land.

        Still, it's a silent request: don't push.

        Coming from anyone else, I'd be stubborn and treat it as a challenge. But it's Brendon, so I listen.

       "She's been to a couple of races. Between us, she's a bigger fan than she lets on."

        I roll my eyes at him, which he catches as he peeks back at me over the top of my mom's head, her back turned toward me.

        "That sounds fun. I'd love to go some time," she remarks suggestively.

        Before he can make an offhanded comment he doesn't intend to follow through on but that my mother will be all too willing to remember like it's a promise, I motion a line across my throat. He stops himself before the words can roll off his tongue.

        Brendon walks over to the sink, rolls up his sleeves, and washes his hands. "What can I help with?"

        Wordlessly, Seira already starts pulling another stool up next to me without being prompted. "Keep Stevie company and make sure she doesn't eat all of the ingredients."

...

"What do you think?"

        Brendon lowers the musubi onto the plate and clears his throat. "I think spam is an... acquired taste—"

        I point at the door. "Get out."

        "—but it's very good." He lowers my hand with his, unfazed.

        My mom nods proudly and begins to clean the counter. "The trick to making them really good is the teriyaki sauce."

        "This is so good." Brendon attempts to pick up another bite of fried saimin with his chopsticks, but most of the noodles fall between the utensils. I shift his hand to where it should be and he leans down happily to shovel another bite into his mouth. "I could eat this every day."

        Finishing much earlier than the rest of us, Seira disappeared upstairs to talk to Rix Tsui on the phone. Rami is sitting on the couch playing around with a song on his laptop.

        Hanging back with her should be more awkward than it is, but Brendon proves to be a good conversationalist. I manage to add a few comments, nothing too committal but a sound attempt at being cordial.

        But it's hard sitting here, watching my mom act like this is her usual behavior. As if we haven't gone years without being estranged. That familiar bitterness continues to build with every nice comment affectionately thrown at him, and all I can think about is how much I wish they were directed at me instead.

        "So, how did you two meet?" my mother asks.

        Brendon gathers our dishes and walks them to the sink. "We used to run into each other at parties and then they ended up moving in next time me."

        "You live next door?"

        "Yeah, right over there." He points out the kitchen window at his house. "The smaller one."

        "Smaller doesn't mean worse. I like small houses. They feel less lonely when you're in them by yourself."

        I want to scream at her that that's not true. All of those nights spent by myself in that tiny house in which I grew up, waiting for her to walk through the door or hoping my dad could breathe once again, weren't any less lonely. A lonely house is still a lonely house no matter the size; walls can cave in on you from any distance.

         "I'm flying around too much to get stuck feeling lonely here, anyway," Brendon replies. "And luckily for me, they're usually here when I'm in town."

        "I was just telling Rami earlier that I think I should come up here more," she says, her words feeling like a bolt of lightning against my chest. "Maybe you can help show me ar—"

        "Please stop."

        My mother stops, features sharpening into a distinct edge at my dismissive comment. "I'm sorry?"

        "Stop acting like you're here to make plans. Once you leave, you're not coming back and we all know it."

        Out of the corner of my eye, Brendon tries to discreetly get my attention, but my focus remains on my mother. After so many years, she somehow manages to look exactly the same, and yet I can't say if I truly know this woman in front of me. If my stubbornness refuses to entertain the idea her efforts might be genuine or if these shields I've built are doing what they're supposed to do.

        She issues Brendon a quiet apology which only irritates me further.

        "Fake," I mutter under my breath, placing my head in my hands and squeezing my eyes shut until it cuts off all of my other senses.

        "Stevie," I hear Brendon call out to me, but not even his voice can penetrate these steel walls.

        "Did you know I used to see him?" Craning my neck back up, I fix her with a pointed glare. "Dad. I used to see Dad at home. After he died. I knew it was a weird grief thing but I couldn't help it. Everywhere I looked, I saw him. Saw him breathing and smiling and loving me like he's always done. And then I'd try to touch him and remembered he wasn't there anymore. I couldn't even cry myself to sleep for days on end because that would've required me being able to go to sleep in the first place. What felt like a dream turned into a fucking nightmare and I just wanted you to make it all go away. I wanted my mother. Do you remember where you were?"

         Brendon steps toward me, but I retreat.

        My mother trades my face for the stark white counter. Shoulders sink, eyes soften, mouth tightens. My instinct tells me I should react to seeing my mother elicit negative responses to something I'm saying, but it only encourages me.

        "I think it might have been Miami that one really shitty time," I continue. "I actually can't remember. What I do remember, though, is when you came home plastered from your flight and proceeded to throw up all over the bathroom. Do you remember that?"

        "I—no."

        "Of course not. Took me an hour to clean it all up and get rid of the smell."

        Brendon gets Rami's attention and he walks back into the kitchen to place a hand on my shoulder, equal parts comforting as it is demanding.

        "I didn't even want you here," I laugh."My friends decided that for me. And now look who's stuck dealing with you while they're hiding away in the boyfriend's mansion."

        "Bash, can you take Stevie to your house?"

        I shake him off and step around the counter to stand directly in front of my mother. She continues to avoid my eyes, but it does nothing to deter me.

        "When you go home asking yourself why I've spent so long hating what we've become, I want you to remember all those nights you left me alone while you jetted off to lick your own wounds. How you left me fucking broken all by myself when I'd lost one of the most important people I've ever known at the most vulnerable time of my life. And when you hear those songs I sing about never feeling like I'll be enough for anyone, know it's because that's how you have always made me feel."

        "Brendon. Now."

        "I'm so sorry, Stevie."

        The walk over to Brendon's house doesn't register to me. One second he's touching my elbow trying to get me to walk away from her. The next, I'm inside his house thinking of how close yet far away she is. If there isn't an entire ocean separating us, I don't know how to think.

        "Do you hate me?"

        His brows furrow. Upset I even ask him such a thing. "What are you talking about?"

        "I hate me sometimes. Hate that I'm rude and stubborn and all up so far into my own head I can't think straight."

      "You're human. And hurting. You can't hate yourself for that."

        "Sure I can," I laugh. "I've done it for most of my life."

        Clasping a hand on each side of my face, his touch as gentle as a whisper, he forces me to look at him. Only a few spare inches away, I feel his breath against my lips, feel his touch deep in my bones, feel the steadiness of his beating heart racing against mine.

        "There is nothing to hate about you. Not to me and definitely not to you. Okay?"

        All I can do is nod, convinced if I react any differently, he'll see right through the lies I tell myself. "Why can't I forgive her?"

        "You can't force yourself to forgive someone before you're ready to."

        "Why couldn't I be enough?" Tears slip down my cheeks and he catches every single one of them. "Why am I never going to be enough?"

        Without saying anything, he wraps me in his arms.