IT'S UNUSUALLY LOUD when Holden enters his house at the crack of dawn, his footsteps soft on the carpeted floor and the click of the door behind him almost noiseless. The subtle smell of marmalade hugs the air when he steps into the little hallway that separates the living room from the kitchen.

          He hears the argument taking place between his parents and shock draws itself on his face, but he stays away, choosing to hang near the staircase and not meddle in the ongoing affair. He's out of sight from where he's standing, but can hear the strained bits of conversation transpiring.

          His hands massage his forehead as pain spreads out above his eyes and extends to his ears, a direct result of snagging third-row seats at a concert so early in the morning. But, seeing the smile on his friend's face was worth it.

         He's about to retire to his bedroom when the conversation becomes fainter, but decides to stay planted as it picks up in volume again.

          "I don't care if he's eighteen. He's just not ready. Do you not understand?"

          It's his mom, her usually-feeble voice rising with every word she utters and becoming exponentially higher than anything his dad attempts to respond with.

          "She has the right to meet him, that's all I'm saying."

          He hears shuffling, causing his feet to step up two stairs on instinct. There's a dip in the tone of their conversation as his mom says vulnerably, "And I'm saying we did for him what Kourtney couldn't. We've raised that boy since he was born."

          His breath hitches just as his dad murmurs a string of expletives. "I know."

          "Your sister hasn't done anything for him."

          "I know." His dad's voice is more aggressive this time and Holden can almost imagine him taking his glasses off and massaging his temples to fight off an impending headache. "But, if she's asking for him now, I can't refuse her."

         "Yes, you can." His mother's voice is firm, her footsteps defiant as they edge closer to where the living room ends and the hallway begins, and Holden's own edge up the staircase.

          "For God's sake," his dad's voice bellows, evoking Holden's fingertips to stir against the railing of the staircase, "she's my damn sister and she wants to see her son!"

          He lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding and forces his numb legs up the stairs and into the safety of his bedroom just before his mother exits the living room.

          He slides against his bedroom door, his heart thundering and his mind running through a thousand thoughts simultaneously. He hears muffled sounds from downstairs of doors slamming and plates crashing against the tiled floor, but he drowns them all out.

          He finds his legs carrying him to the framed picture of him and his parents on his bedside table. He almost drops the frame against the glass table with his shaking hands as his vision blurs.

          The sun is continuing its trek into the sky when he opens his window and clambers to the roof of their two-story townhouse. It's in one of the nicer neighborhoods of New York, at the outskirts of the city, nestled in between a row of petite houses with comfortable front porches and lively backyards.

          He's overlooking the garden his mom had spent years maintaining, various flowers lining up against the white picket fence, their colors faded in the crisp winter air. The sun is peeking up behind dull branches and dead leaves when Holden looks up, squinting to make out the shape of it against the clouds in the sky.

          The revving of an engine below him throws his gaze back to the ground where his dad is backing out of their two-car driveway and onto the road. For a brief moment, he thinks their eyes meet but he's not entirely sure. As soon as he turns at an intersection, Holden lets out a breath.

          True Brew is all roasted coffee in paper cups and hushed whispers strewn across wood tabletops. Its considerably cheap prices and tendency to lean towards environmentally-friendly options have rendered it one of the city's best coffee shop chains, rivaling even Starbucks.

          Holden's hands are drumming against the wooden tabletop, his thoughts swimming fastly against the current of the rational side of his mind. He swipes across his phone on the table, a futile attempt at distraction.

          The notification of a recent local car accident news story is the first thing he sees and he finds himself scrolling through the entirety of the article. It's about the "accidental murder" of a high school senior that took place in Brooklyn. He stops at the low-quality mugshot of one of the three college-aged kids involved in the accident. He stares at his face, his gray sweatshirt, and the brief glimpse of a silver chain around his neck, when the door to True Brew rattles open.

          Looking up would be unnecessary because he can already tell who it is. Her shoes hit the ground with a sense of urgency and her breaths are fast-paced as she closes the distance between them.

          The drink his fingertips teeter against is gradually melting and producing a pool of condensation around the contour of the cup by the time he slides it across to her. He finally catches her gaze, takes note of the way the lamp above them outlines her irises. Her expression is characteristically unreadable and, like always, Holden doesn't make the effort to decipher it. He'll figure out what's on her mind when she utters a statement.

          "Not a fan, but I know you like it," he murmurs, gesturing to the cup. Streaks of pink line the edges like contrails in a clear sky. The barista had looked at him with raised eyebrows when he said he wanted an iced latte, even though he hadn't stuttered.

          She wedges the straw between her lips, catching it between her teeth while Holden stares out the window. People scurry past the nestled coffee shop with winter coats wrapped around their frames, exasperation tracing their cheekbones as they continuously jostle one another to get to their individual destinations.

          "Holden, what's wrong?"

          Her words are an anchor in a tumultuous storm and he's drowning. The water is pouring into his lungs and he's searching for oxygen, polluted air clogging his vision and hopelessness intertwining his every thought.

          "I found out I'm adopted." He chooses to not look at her, afraid of the emotion expressed on her features. When she doesn't say anything, he forces himself to continue even though the words feel surreal as they slide past his tongue. "Birth records suck in Zambia," he explains, drawing imaginary swirls in the pattern of the wood. "People just slap whatever on them, some don't even properly register their kids. You can get away with pretty much anything."

          She's quiet for a few more heartbeats, the sound of her fingernails against the cup in her hand speaking for her. The light above them dims minutely as the pale winter sunlight cascades over their table.

          "How'd you find out?" She doesn't stutter, she never does. Her composure is calm, regardless of how she might be feeling under the surface. Her hazel eyes meet his at the same time her free hand clasps around his.

          He explains slowly, working through the words as if they're foreign to him, telling her about walking in mid-argument and proceeding to peruse his dad's emails afterward for clarification. Apparently, his dad had kept in contact with his sister, Kourtney, a name Holden hasn't heard until today.

          "She had me young—really young," he tells Salice, as a girl with a green coat walks past them to the back, the puffy material of her sleeve brushing against their table. "And my grandparents decided she wasn't mentally prepared to have a kid, so my dad took me in because that was around the time he had gotten married."

          Salice nods slowly, pushing aside her drink and touching the silver ring on his finger absentmindedly. "How are you feeling?"

          "Confused. Like, I don't know what's real anymore." It's true, he no longer possesses any visual of the line that seemingly exists between reality and fantasy because everything is blurred. The paints have blended into each other well enough to be indiscernible on the canvas. "I never had any doubts or felt like I didn't belong. Nothing like that, so it's kind of hard to believe."

          "Would you be willing to meet her?" Salice asks slowly, hands still on his. She glows against the backdrop of a rising sun, brown hair curving her facial features. Her eyes are bright, burning stars in a dark sky, the undeniable sliver of hope.

          "I don't know," he answers truthfully, not knowing how to form the words to describe the feelings coursing through his veins. "I like what I have right now with my parents."

          "Well, then, no one's going to force you into anything," she replies, slipping in a brief smile. His heart warms immediately, cheeks heating up more due to her smile rather than the heat in the coffee shop. 

          After spending a couple of hours of his Sunday lounged out on a bench in Central Park with Salice by his side, Holden heads to his cousin's home in a desperate attempt to avoid his own. He's soaked in guilt after seeing the missed calls from his mom, but ventures into the Brooklyn-bound subway train anyway.

          When he reaches the apartment building, his throat closes up as the frigid air beckons him in. There's hesitation in his steps during his walk from the lobby to the third floor, trudging his feet up the stairs to delay the process as much as possible. He doesn't have a concrete reason for being here; all he knows is that he needs to get away.

           The last he had been here was a few months ago and his mistakes then precipitated a chain of events that blew up in his face and coerced his cousin into closing the door on him. The dingy smell of the building envelopes him as he makes it outside of the apartment door and rings the doorbell.

         There's shuffling on the other side, followed by whispers of obscenities as his cousin most likely looks through the peephole. The door opens gradually and his eyes slowly travel up Jeremiah's lean frame. He's clad in a T-shirt and sweatpants, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. There are dark circles under his red and puffy eyes.

         Time stops for a second as memories rush back in waves, soaking the sand between them. He sees the cigarettes, the empty bottles of alcohol, the fake IDs, the wrecked car, the angry faces.

          They both felt like disappointments that night, but the way Jeremiah looks at him now, nose scrunched up in absolute disgust, says all that needs to be said. Holden was the only one in the wrong that night and his cousin hasn't forgotten.

          "You got some nerve bringing your ass here," he whispers just as his mom materializes in the distance behind him. Repugnance coats his words like a knife dipped in fresh blood.

          "I'm sorry," he says quickly, wanting to get the words out before his aunt walks up to them. The words feel like second nature to him at this point. "I really am and I need your help."

          Jeremiah scoffs, the glasses on his face threatening to fall off as he ducks his head. "I can't even tell if this is a joke or not."

          "Please, Jeremiah."

          "Holden," his aunt's voice filters in, a small smile playing on her lips. She's dressed in her pajamas, despite it being nearly three in the afternoon. "How are you?" She still has no grudge against him because she blames the events of that night on her son entirely. That fact licks against Holden like a burning fire, the flames becoming exponentially more painful to bear as time goes on.

          "Good, Aunt Luisa, and you?"

          They slip into easy conversation that continues into the kitchen. He settles onto the barstool lining the island like he's a longtime acquaintance prone to making regular visits. Jeremiah has retreated to his spot on the couch, surrounded by worksheets.

          "He has a test coming up next week. Needs to pass it, so he can keep his GPA intact."

          He watches as his cousin slips his mother an annoyed expression, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His heart hurts more, knowing he's the reason the two have an even more strained relationship, caked in distrust and frustration.

          "Your mom was telling me you got into UCLA," his aunt continues, sliding out a glass to pour him orange juice. Holden's fingers tremble at the mention of his mother. She and Aunt Luisa are sisters, which makes him wonder if the latter knows about him being adopted. She probably does, Holden thinks, tapping against the glass in front of him. "That's amazing."

          He offers a brief smile before throwing Jeremiah a glance behind his shoulder. Their gazes connect and he raises his eyebrows like he's waiting for him to say something. Holden swallows, turning back to his aunt, who is still all smiles. She tells him how Jeremiah has yet to receive an acceptance to a "good" school, eliciting a groan from the guy on the couch.

          She's about to launch into a monologue about how her son has always failed to live up to her expectations when Holden stops her. "It was me."

          She blinks and at the same time, the papers in the background cease shuffling. The clock ticking on the wall is the only sound in his eardrums, blaring against the thoughts running haywire.

          "I crashed the car. I was the one drinking," he whispers, the words a painful pill to swallow. "Jeremiah had nothing to do with it." Aunt Luisa's eyebrows furrow slightly and her mouth opens. "He didn't influence me that night."

          He waits in anticipation for the words she has to say, but doesn't get the chance to. He's wordlessly being pulled away from the kitchen and out the apartment door.

          Jeremiah slips into a jean jacket, which Holden instantly recognizes as his. The jacket wraps around his frame perfectly like it's always been his. He remembers lending it to him that night before everything spiraled downhill.

          "Why did you come here?"

           He doesn't sound angry this time, words rushing into the winter air, as the both of them slip into a vehicle down the street. It's Jeremiah's brother's car, the one he had mistakenly crashed a few months ago after downing way too much alcohol. They left the scene unscathed, charged with just a fine, but the memory burns into his brain with sheer intensity. The bumper of the car has been fixed since then and it's the first time he's seeing it.

          Holden is still recovering from the words he spilled out inside. "You didn't want me to tell her everything?" He had kept those words hidden below the surface, allowing selfishness to swallow him after he failed to set the record straight after the accident.

          "You told her as much as she needs to know," he responds vaguely, turning on the engine and allowing the heat to spread across the interior of the vehicle. He places his phone on the center console, right next to an empty water bottle, before expertly maneuvering the car down the busy streets.

          "I need you to know that I meant it," Holden says, leaning against the window after buckling his seatbelt. The feeling of being in that same car is suffocating him. When he closes his eyes, he can still see Jeremiah's frightened expression and the car swerving out of control on a dark and barren street. "I regret not telling her that none of it was your fault earlier."

          Jeremiah spares him a quick glance, as he drives past brick apartment buildings and small shops. He doesn't know where he's taking him, but the mystery of it feels bizarrely comforting.

          "I chose to drink, I forced you to let me drive even though I don't have a license, and I crashed the car." The ending of the sentence is a mantra in his mind, a truth concealed under layers of guilt. Their parents knew it was him that drove them into someone's front fence, but Jeremiah's mom placed the blame on her son, deeming him responsible for influencing Holden to execute something so uncharacteristic. "And I'm sorry for not setting that clear before."

          "You know," Jeremiah speaks up after a couple more turns, "she took away my privilege to use Aidan's car for the past few months."

          "Well," he responds, amusement settling onto his words like a blanket, "I have a DUI and an unlicensed driving charge to my name."

          "You win."

          Their emanating chuckles in the sanctity of the car feel like fresh rain on sunny days and the subdued warmth of picnic blankets on vibrant grass. Hanging out with Jeremiah, letting the tension between them fade away like melted ice cream, feels like summer.

          "Where are we even going?"

          "I don't care," Holden responds. "I just don't want to be home." He looks away so he doesn't have to see his cousin's worried glance. The winter air blows relentlessly outside, carrying people to their destinations in frantic movements.

          The phone ringing between them brings him back to reality. The name 'Nayeli' flashes across the screen and Holden doesn't miss the way Jeremiah's eyes fraction marginally.

          "You can pick it up, you know."

          "I'll answer it later," he responds, swiftly turning off the ringer while maintaining his gaze on the road before them. Holden pushes his tongue against his cheek to halt himself from laughing as they make a quick exit off the highway and into an area devoid of skyscrapers and streams of city lights. He doesn't say anything else as the car eases into the outskirts of a park situated alongside the state borderline.

          "This is where I come when I wanna get away," the guy in the driver's seat reveals, switching off the engine and gradually unbuckling his seatbelt. It's empty in this corner of the park, apart from the two people gazing at the sky, entertaining stray thoughts.

          Holden and Jeremiah sink into the bench closest to the water, admiring the way it meets the sky in the far distance. The mountains dip into the river, creating a reflection within it as the clouds block them from the glare of the sun.

          Briefly, Holden turns towards his cousin, selfishness swirling around his spine at not telling him the full story of why he wanted to get away. Unsaid gratitude sweeps his tongue, realizing how he drove him out here despite the strains in their relationship. But, he stays silent because he doesn't know how to properly express the sentences threatening to synthesize in his mind.

          It doesn't matter, though, because he knows he's not the only one with secrets.