The day I'm released from the hospital, I find out I have a girlfriend recently turned ex-girlfriend, and with whom I am apparently still quite good friends with. A fact no one had previously bothered to mention until she showed up in my hospital room and then told me so herself.

She's a pretty girl, the whole American Dream type of thing going on. She's got hair the color of sunshine and eyes the type of green you don't really notice at first are actually green. She's wearing a casual t-shirt that tells me she plays volleyball for her school and has long legs impressively bronzed from an avid amount of time in the sun.

My first impression of her is that she's very... open. The way she stands is smooth and relaxed and simple and without second thought. No crossed arms or ankles and no nuances to her face. She's easy to read but without many paragraphs.

"I would have come sooner," she says, as if I must be personally offended that she hadn't. "But Noah told me it'd be best to wait."

My eyes slide to Noah, who was my best friend as children, and turns out to still be my best friend to this very day. The glance he sends me gives enough explanation to understand that what she's been told and is currently telling me is not entirely the truth.

Whatever.

"Uh, Hey," I say, flashing her what I hope is a very neutral and friendly smile. "Layna is a pretty name," I say. Like an idiot.

"You said the same thing when we first met, too." She says it weird, an off time to her voice. Her smile shifts almost imperceptibly, the devil in the details.

I fight the way my face itches to stretch into a grimace.

"Sorry I'm late!"

All heads in the room whip towards the entrance, where Dalia is standing, smiling politely at all my family members. I'm smiling before I realize what's happening, and it only gets better when she meets my eyes and offers a wide smile.

As my newest best friend (Noah hasn't been replaced, just recently met his match, she's  met my older brother and my mother, but none of the rest. She's kind and friendly to them regardless. A special sort of Dalia charm. "I was helping my mom with an errand, and I got sidetracked with some of the nurses," she explains, the same moment I realize she's holding some sort of shopping bag in one hand.

"Hello, Dal," my mother says, and all of the Vittori boys are quick to exchange a look. My mother has always insisted on nicknames within the family; she says it gives us a familiarity no one can take away from us. For her to have taken such a liberty to the girl standing before us... It's definitely new territory.

My mother's face is warm with recognition as she reaches out her arms, the gesture clear in its intention. Dalia recognizes it easily enough, not dense but not particularly as easygoing as she wishes to seem. She was walking forward until she noticed my mother's waiting signal, and for an insignificant moment, she stutters at the action as if some part of her doesn't want any part of it. Instinct pushes me to intervene for her, but I've only taken a step before she's moving into my mother's arms and returning the hug so fiercely that it almost tricks me into thinking I've seen nothing at all.

My older brother eyes me as I move back into my original stance, but I ignore the silent question in his gaze. Not now and not here and not so soon.

My mother squeezes Dalia like she's just returned from the war, overenthusiastic in the way that can sometimes be suffocating. Dalia's smile is diminutively tense and her arms fall to her side a fraction of a moment too quickly and I know without having to ask that I'm the only one who might've noticed it outside of Dalia herself. I've always been a little bit better at reading body language than everyone else, and I know for a fact no one's been paying Dalia as much attention as I have lately.

It's almost become a game for me. To look at all the little signs she sends that others can't really read. It makes me feel like I know her a little better. Which isn't saying much; Dalia seems like the sort of enigma that might take years to unravel.

My mother releases her Dalia from the hug, but her hand stays on her forearm, her wedding ring glinting in the day's sunlight and her smart watch winking its time at me. 1:35, it says.

"It's so nice of you join," my mother says, and Dalia's smile shifts again (she has millions of smiles, I've come to figure out) and it's so genuinely kind and loving that I suspect it could stop world wars.

Have I always been such a romantic? Disgusting.

The twins had begun talking, Danté was showing my dad something on his phone, and Noah was making polite—if somewhat forced—conversation with Layna, but I was busy watching the interaction of Dalia and my mom, intrigued at the newly forged kinship. The liking between them had been almost instant, bonded over the love for traveling Lia had yet to experience fully and the love my mother had let cool when she got serious about her family. Despite the fact that they'd both come to visit me, they'd ended up talking to each other for two hours.

Go figure.

Dalia, despite not having known any of us very long, was becoming the daughter my mother had never had but always wished for. Boys, as she had often complained, could be heathens.

It was not an entirely wrong sentiment.

"Hey," Layna said, stepping forward, and I realized that Dalia and my mother had stopped chatting. I had the feeling the girl had a knack for implementing herself into situations casually, but meaningfully. She was grinning a fairly genuine happy smile—as if my leaving from the hospital had just made her entire life instead of her day—and extended a hand I noticed had aquamarine painted nails. "I'm Layna."

I watched as Dalia grinned, that special polite grin she wore when she met anyone new from my family. I had come to understand it was just the sort of politeness she had towards any stranger at all. She glanced at the hand extended to her for a moment before she took it, which I could see was held lightly, and without meaning. From what I could tell, Dalia was not entirely a fan of being touched unless she initiated it. She did not offer her name. She was right in assuming Layna already knew it.

Handshakes were the sort of thing I imagined would belonged to interviews or truces or something more official than two teenage girls in a hospital room. But it seemed fitting when it came from someone like Layna, who I imagined was possible of treating anything like it meant something more than it did. Not that it was a particularly bad trait. Just merely one I wasn't quite sure how to deal with.

In my head, Layna was the type of person you'd see in your daydreams as the role of the friendly neighbor you greeted over your white picket fence.

"You must be Dalia."

Dalia's head turned towards the owner of the statement, the bag in her hands swinging as her gaze settled on the twins. I watched her as she took notice of them, mirror images they'd be if not for the tiny scar Marc had along his jaw from a childhood incident. Dalia's eyes seemed to widen just a fraction, but she took it in stride when she calmly returned a, "Hello."

Leo was the one who said it; he was cocking his head at Dalia in the way that meant he was curious. He might have also found her pretty. His twin, Marc, on the other hand, was otherwise unimpressed. I couldn't remember if it was because of who he had grown to be or if Dalia was just not especially interesting to him.

I was slightly impressed when Dalia turned to my younger brothers and greeted them each by name. They seemed vaguely surprised, too. Leo's astonishment transformed itself into a grin, but Marc was quick to shift back into a blank slate. The emo little shit.

"He's been talking to you more than he's been talking to us," Marc says, his voice monotonous. I blink, but that's as much as a flinch as I can give him. I know he's right, but something in me cares little for it.

"I've been hospitalized," I said indignantly, wondering if Marc was always this exceptional about getting on my nerves. "What, exactly, were you expecting?"

"Not much," Marc said truthfully. "I'll tell you right now that it's been a pretty disappointing last few years. Since you can't remember."

"Marcello," Leo says, not unkind. His full name meant a warning, as it did with all the Voretti kids. No matter whether it was us our parents or each other who wielded it.

"Leonello," Marc spat in response, clearly not willing to bend to whimsy. Was he always such a pain the ass? So painstakingly adversarial?

"He's grumpy today," Leo excuses, turning towards Dalia with an apologetic grin.

Dante said, "He's grumpy every day."

"Boys," my mother warned, the same time Noah stepped up for his turn of introduction. He was glancing at us nervously as if we might break into a fight right then and there.

I was glad he was the last unfamiliar face, because it was becoming abundantly clear that Dalia was becoming less and less comfortable the more people she realized were in the room with us. She flashed me an almost-but-not-quite panicked look before she turned her attention my best friend.

The Voretti boys sunk into obedience as my father laughed and kissed my mother's temple. She elbowed him for trying to excuse our behavior, but smiled goodheartedly despite herself. I was happy to learn their dynamic hadn't changed much since my younger years.

"I'm Noah," he said, extending a hand. "I heard you've been giving me a run for my money in the best friend department."

Dalia laughed as she took his hand, and when he shifted it into a common but out of norm handshake, only hesitated for a second before following along fluidly. Noah grinned at this, and turned to me as if to say, major brownie points.

I grinned at him in the sort of way that meant, I know.

"Anyways," Dalia, finally reaching me. She's smiling softly, and I'm glad to see it comes without force. She extends the bag to me, and I take it mindlessly. "I can only stop by for a little, but here's a little something for your last day here." Dalia doesn't ask the question but I know it's there.

Will we see each other again?

"You say that as if you'll never see me again," I say, which I watch her long enough to see it seems to appease her, before I allow myself to look at the contents and—"Damn, Dalia."

Noah slides to my side effortlessly, peering into the bag and letting out a low whistle. "Talk about a treasure chest, dude. She's really adhering to your sweet tooth." Noah was right, and his words made sure everyone had a good idea what was in the bag. Dalia has gone out and bought chocolate bars and candy and stuffed the movies I'd enjoyed out of the ones we'd watched alongside them. She'd also good-naturedly thrown in a teddy bear, though I had to admit it was the generic kind that wished me well health.

Leo, as curious a shit as ever, slid to my other side, and let out a murmur under his breath as he laid his eyes across my stash. I quickly closed it and held it against my chest to make sure he wouldn't try to snatch some. I'd be hiding this as soon as I got home.

"I'd love a goodie bag too, please," he says jokingly, but I smack the back of his head anyways. Dalia chuckles.

"I've gotta go, but I'll see you later, yeah? Hope you and your future diabetes have a very happy future together," she says, recalling a family joke Danté had been quick to tell her about.

"Call me later, loser," I says, as she wishes the other goodbye and gives me mom a passing hug on the way out—more languid this time.

"She's cute," my dad says, and I'm suddenly infinitely more aware of their presence.

"Shut up," I grumble, my shoulders hunching forward in embarrassment as Noah laughs and slaps my shoulder. Layna' grin is more subdued but it's there, and even Marc seems a little amused at me. My mother's look is knowing, my brother's eyebrows quirked suggestive, and Leo is still eyeing all of my newly acquired sweets.

It's admittedly a little nice—even if it's at the cost of my embarrassment—to be like this. It's familiar in a way we haven't been through all my time in the hospital. The moment is pure and untainted, true and without pressure.

I'm a fool to think it can stay this way, but they really do mean it when they say that ignorance is bliss.