I don't go back to the house until the sun sets and my mind stops racing. There is a good chance my dad won't want to speak to me, but I know my brother will be back by now and I come bearing an olive branch in the form of a hot dinner. My brother isn't the type to turn down free food. None of us are.

The screen door makes a shrill noise when I kick it. I wait in silence before I hear the muffled thudding of incoming steps, and then I'm greeted by Anthony's expectant face which is quick to zero in on the take-out bags in my hands.

"Is that from Keoni's?" he questions as he holds open the door for me, his nose and his stomach guiding his every move.

I step back inside the house for the second time today, scoffing as I pass by him. "As if there's anywhere else I'd get fried chicken from."

The dining table, which has been a backdrop to many arguments and disagreements over the years, becomes a safe haven once there's food on it. I drop the bags down and the sound reverberates throughout the entire room, a reminder that this home is much emptier than it used to be.

My brother rifles through the bags while I pull two glasses out of the cabinet.

"I hope you got the collard greens this time," he says when he pulls out a chair.

"Where they should go is in the trash."

"You have no taste," he rebukes with a look of disappointment.

"I and my lack of taste can take our food somewhere else," I challenge.

"You would never."

My brother is right; I would never do such a thing. If my brother lost all of his belongings in a fire tomorrow, I would empty my entire bank account for him. We joke, pass judgment, and throw jabs freely, but he's someone I trust with my life and I'll do anything for him. Even if it means getting an order of collard greens I will never touch.

"Dad said he saw Zach earlier," he grunts through a mouthful of greens.

I throw a napkin at his face. "Did he see him when he was spying on us?"

"What was he doing here? I thought he was on the Big Island?" Anthony pretends he's disinterested, but his protective nature hardens his voice with an extra layer of defensiveness.

I produce my own strained sort of grunt as my eyes flick down to the food I'm pushing around my plate. It's a bad sign when I can't even eat through my feelings. "Seems he's back."

"What did he want?" he asks.

I shrug my shoulders trying to appear less bothered by the events of the past twenty-four hours. "To come and be the good guy so he can feel better about himself? How the hell am I supposed to know why Zach does what he does anymore."

My brother hums to himself and I know he has an opinion already forming. For a moment, I contemplate asking him for it—maybe it will give me some needed clarification—but I realize sometimes I just want to forget, not work through my problems. Ignorance is bliss, even if it's temporary.

"I ran into Emmie at the bank today," he offers and I assume it's because he thinks she's less offensive to my current state. "She asked me to hug Dad. And tell you she really is sorry about what happened."

He doesn't ask me what she's referring to and I don't offer it to him. My brother doesn't care to know every detail about what happens in my life, but he cares enough and shows it in his way, one that involves vague mentions of run-ins and without intrusive questions.

"Well, did you?" I inquire with a smirk on my face. "Hug Dad, that is."

My brother shudders at the thought of physical affection. "Oh yeah, and then we spent the rest of the day braiding each other's hair."

"You are looking a little shaggy," I tease as I lean across the table and reach for his hair. "Real men aren't afraid of a little affection, you know."

"Are you not a real woman then?" he rebuttals. "Because you're about as emotionally shut off as I am."

I glance down the hall at the door still closed.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," I mutter quietly. "I was just irritated. I know he's trying."

Anthony nods understandingly, more forgiving than I would be in his position.

"He knows that. Doesn't make it hurt any less." He turns his eyes in the same direction. "He'll be fine by tomorrow. He always is."

...

Our living room is a perfect representation of two people who live together but aren't friends. We're just two roommates who need someone else to relieve some of the financial burden—our willingness to give up our privacy for the sake of independence.

The items cluttering our living room encapsulate our two clashing personalities—a textbook for one of her grad school classes, the apron for my bartending job, the single chair she sits in that's bare and in pristine condition, the sofa I prefer with dips and valleys from overuse.

The phone rings and I wait for him to pick up. There's a three-hour difference but it's early enough that I expect him to be awake, even if he isn't fully functioning. He has trouble sleeping at night.

I found a person almost a year ago now, except my person is separated by an entire ocean. The coincidence that this person lives in Seattle, the place Emmie moved to two years ago, the place she has now returned from, is not lost on me.

His face appears on the screen. I take one look and that's when I notice—

"What happened to your mustache?"

Pablo smiles and runs his finger over the smooth skin of his upper lip. I can vaguely tell from the desk in the background that he's sitting on his bed but it's hard to pay attention to the small details when I'm faced with his facial hair-less mug.

"What, you don't like it?"

"No. Grow it back."

"I think that might take a little while," he quips.

After meeting through a pen pal therapy program, our usual avenue of communication involves texts and emails but involves the occasional video call. It's nice to have someone slightly removed that can help you through all of your problems at home.

"I'm kidding," I sigh as I lean back into the sofa, feeling it mold to my body. "Mustache-less Pablo looks like he has his shit together."

Pablo displays both sides of his face like he's admiring his own view. "I've had three people tell me that today so I think I can safely say the consensus on mustache-less Pablo is good."

I click my tongue as my hand drifts over the remote, turning the television on quietly to drown out some of the silence of the empty apartment. "What does Darren think about it?"

"Darren didn't say shit because his opinion of my facial hair is irrelevant."

I stare back at him, deadpan.

"He said he has to get used to it being gone but he likes it. Still loves me the same," he finally admits. "How was the party?"

I contemplate the likeliness of my ability to sink further into the couch until the both of us become one. Then maybe I can truly spend all of my days doing absolutely nothing. The prospect sounds enticing.

"I ended the night with a drink thrown in my face, so I suppose it was good," I answer sarcastically.

His eyes widen and it's a wonder his jaw doesn't drop straight to the ground. When I told him about Calum inviting me to his party last week, neither of us anticipated anything like this.

"This morning was even better because Zach showed up at my dad's house and I just about spontaneously combusted on the spot."

I pause.

"Anyway, how was your day?"

Pablo shakes his head, leaning back before he eventually decides his desk chair is more appropriate. "Hold up, you're not brushing this off. How did all of that happen? Who threw the drink on you?"

I mentally prepare myself to tell the whole story—and then I do. Somehow I get through explaining the whole night, from my and Katerina's ride over to the long walk back, and I manage not to light myself on fire throughout the process. Pablo sits there and listens to the whole thing. He doesn't interrupt me, doesn't show any reaction to each new turn of events, and instead lets me word-vomit all over him.

When I'm done, he gathers his thoughts before saying anything. I appreciate that he's trying to balance support and feedback.

"I think you've spent the past two years trying to move on from everything. It's not unreasonable to want to keep distancing yourself from them. But I also think you should maybe give yourself a week or two to think about what happened before you decide how you want to move forward with knowing they're back home."

It sounds so easy coming from him. Like it's the most simple solution.

"And if that doesn't work, you're more than welcome to run away to Seattle," he continues with a devilish smirk on his face. "Island fever has to be kicking in. I'll even be your personal Seattle tour guide."

"You're only saying that because your ass can't swim and you refuse to come here."

I think about it more, though; the idea of going to Seattle. If I go, I'll be able to finally meet my friend and, more importantly, spend time away from this island that is starting to feel too small for its own good.

"But don't be surprised if I take you up on your offer."

"I'm counting on it."