Mav's mom, Blanche, watches us stroll toward her. She must've just come home from work because she's clutching a worn black purse, and her hair is gathered in a low bun.

The fine lines on her forehead and either side of her mouth have deepened even more, and her eyes have puffiness to them that wasn't there last time I saw her. She works too much and is exhausted most of the time. Today isn't an exception because the smile she gives her son and me is weary.

"Tara. I'm so thankful you're here," she says and reaches out to rub my arm.

Shifting my weight, I glance at the grass beneath my feet. "Of course, I would be," I say and lift my gaze off the ground.

Blanche sighs and shakes her head when she registers the box with the cake in my hands and the gift in Mav's.

My heart feels heavy. How could it not? I've known Mav since we were little. I didn't have siblings to play with, and the boy living in the house next to our mansion was the only person my age I could talk to.

We might've grown up, but he's still one of my closest friends, and I'm not here because of pity, even though his mom seems to think that's why I keep visiting them. Her gratitude shouldn't bother me, but it does. I don't want Mav to think spending his birthday with him is an obligation.

"Let's have some tea," Blanche says, pointing a hand toward the house.

I draw an arm around Mav's shoulders as we follow her there. At five foot eight, I'm not short, but he's a couple of inches taller than me. Probably more than a couple if he straightened completely.

As Blanche turns the key in the lock, I steal a glance at Mav. A smile is glued to his lips. He's studying the butterfly tee, looking happy for the first time in a long while, which makes him even more handsome. I can't help but wonder if anyone else will ever see that or will care enough to get to know him.

Back when we were kids, Mav and I spent hours in his garden, observing butterflies. Maverick's dad had a lot to do with his son's hobby. Blake gave him a book about insects, and soon there wasn't a species Mav didn't know.

Fast forward a couple of years, and his parents split up. Maverick didn't take it well. He was shy before, but after his dad abandoned him, his shyness turned into long stretches of silence and refusal to spend time with kids his age other than me.

While I went on with my life, he never did the same. His body might've grown and changed, but he remained the same nine-year-old boy who found comfort in watching the creatures inhabiting his garden.

In the kitchen, Blanche puts the old kettle on and gives me saucers and teacups to place on the wobbly table. The chipped ceramic is another reminder of how different our lives are. I'd give her new cups if I was sure she wouldn't take it the wrong way.

After Blanche pours tea into the cups, I stick the candle in the center of Maverick's chocolate cake and light it.

"Make a wish," I say, kissing his cheek.

He casts a timid glance at my face and inhales deeply. As he blows out a rush of air, the delicate flame trembles before dying. A thin thread of smoke curls and dissipates in the kitchen air, and as it does, I clap, grinning at him.

I hope to hear him say more than his usual couple of words, but it doesn't happen. We eat the dessert, and I fill the sad silence with meaningless chatter about my classes and plans for the break despite not knowing whether Mav pays attention.

The evening settles in subtly. Blanche yawns, and I take it as my cue to leave. I help her do the dishes and wish Mav a happy birthday before exiting the house.

Blanche accompanies me outside and halts by the front door.

"Thank you for what you did, Tara," she says, not meeting my eyes.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Don't. Please. He's my friend."

"Your special friend," Blanche says. "You know, sometimes I wish things were different. I wish he got a chance to study or make friends like other kids, but we both know it won't happen."

"Maybe it will. He probably needs more time than others, but it doesn't mean—"

Blanche sighs. "Tara."

Somehow, I imagine hearing the words she didn't say—the 'let's not do this' part, so I say nothing and hug her briefly instead.

"I'll stop by tomorrow to keep Mav company. Good night, Blanche."

She nods. "Night, Tara."

I turn and march to the old fence. When I'm on the other side of the rusty gate, I exhale and take a lungful of fresh air.

A mix of orange and vanilla hits my nostrils barely five minutes later. The things I love about the Van Doren mansion aren't that many, but the smell will forever be one of them. Knowing how much I love it, Cara makes sure to burn those particular scented candles each time I visit.

I kick off my Manolos and wince when the cold marble makes contact with the soles of my feet.

"Carita." I pick up the shoes and shout, heading to the kitchen.

"I'm here," she sing-songs from the family room.

Cara is dusting off the furniture, moving her hips to one of the early hits of Jennifer Lopez.

"I know the name for a soap opera," she says when her vivacious chocolate eyes land on me. "The Rich Also Cry."

"It already exists, Carita," I say, dropping the pale pink stilettos on the rug before slumping into the beige leather couch. "And we watched it."

"Then we'll call it Simply Tara."

I hurl a white throw pillow at her. She giggles, but barely a couple of seconds later, sadness floods her eyes, and she seats beside me.

"The lurking boy didn't talk to you, did he? My poor girl."

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. "I told you this already—he wasn't lurking. He was waiting for me because I promised I'd visit, and I took months."

"But you always come in the afternoon, never at night, and it was dark. It was a dark and stormy night..."

Cara howls, and I laugh despite myself. My mood lifts a fraction at her dorkiness and less-than-stellar acting skills.

"That's better." She pats my knee and stands. "Let's have dinner."

The cake I'd had at Mav's was enough to kill my hunger, but I make an effort to eat a few bites because Cara cooked when she didn't even have to with my father dining at The Flavor.

"You can't fix everyone, Tarita," she says when I push my plate aside and toy with my napkin, folding and unfolding it several times in a row.

"I know. But maybe doctors can. Mav might be depressed. What if he can snap out of it with some treatment?"

"Didn't his momma take him to the doctor?"

"She did, but maybe..."

Cara slides off the stool at the breakfast bar and pads to me. Her soft arms squeeze me, and she rubs my back. If I didn't want to cry before, I certainly do now.

"I know why you're doing it," she says. "But people have too many demons to battle. The light of one person isn't enough to illuminate the whole world."

"It's the demons of only one person, Cara," I mumble against the top of her head. "I don't want to help everyone, just him. Okay, and maybe Drew. His mom has it rough, and they need money."

"And what about all those girls who hire you?"

I snort. "My clients? They pay me well, Carita."

"And the blue-eyed man candy?"

"Kenny's a good friend. You'd also help a friend."

"If he looked like that guy? I'd sell my soul to the devil." Cara releases me and hoists herself up so she can sit on a stool by my side.

A giggle flies out of my mouth. "You're ridiculous. And you know what? To prove I'm not that charitable, I'm gonna tell you who I'd never help."

Cara squints and leans in closer. "Who?" she whispers as if I'm about to reveal I sneaked a guy into my bedroom or smoked a joint.

Been there, done that, and she was the first and the only one to know.

"The Nerd," I whisper back. "Cause he's obnoxious, rude, and disgusting. Like a wine stain on a white Gucci dress. Or manure on a pair of cream Louboutins."

Cara makes a cross gesture. "Not those shoes, Tarita. Those shoes can get the girl a husband cause they lift the booty like no other."

"See my point? He's the worst guy I've met. He left me at the library because I was five minutes late. Students looked at me with pity, and you know how much I hate that. And with all that, The Nerd still got an excellent grade, thanks to me. I could've refused to do my part of the project."

"Is he into you or something?" She cocks her head to the side.

"Into making my life hell? For sure. Guys don't mistreat the girls they like, Cara. Whoever said that nonsense needs a reality check."

"I know." Cara rubs her chin. "But if you hate someone, you act indifferent like I do with Rosa the snake and my cheating ex-husband who now has to put up with her."

"He's just...Ugh." I press the heels of my palms to my temples and rub them in circular motions. "See? I'm getting a headache just thinking about him. I was so happy when our last class together finished. I won't have to see his smug smirk next academic year. Can't wait."

"He clearly doesn't know you," Cara says. "And once he does, he'll regret behaving like a jerk with my girl."

Would he regret anything? I doubt it. Sebastian has never said a kind word to me even though I did nothing to deserve his harshness and unfair assumptions. I tried to convince myself it was his defense mechanism—hurting others before they hurt him. That's something my therapist would say, anyway.

Me? After the recent events, I'm pretty confident Basti is as awful as he tries to appear. And if I have to do something nice for someone, it sure as hell won't be for him.

Unlike my ex project partner, I only judge people by their actions, and his tell a lot about the kind of guy he is.

The one I'll do my best to avoid.

Thoughts?

More soon!