I made a lot of mistakes whenever I listened to Mom.

When I was seven, she got me to see a therapist for my nightmares. Two sessions later, I had a meltdown and missed a month of school. Last time I ever cried.

Many more instances twirled incomplete circles around my brain, revisiting clips of babysitting, camping trips, trying out for varsity teams, and all the accidents associated with them.

They were apparently not enough to teach me the reasonable lifelong principle of tuning out Mom's advice. Her proximity was bringing back the bad habits I thought I had grown out of.

That was what lingered in the back of my mind when I found myself at a coffee shop in the evening when Ace invited me to join him and Emma.

I was planning on refusing the offer as I always did on reflex when I was worn out—and when I didn't—but Mom had a better idea.

"You're just planning on working on homework tonight, right?" she had asked, the scheming neurons in her brain working overtime.

Naturally, I fell right into the trap. "Yeah, I have to work on a French presentation for next week."

"Well, you know, my French is pretty good from the years your Dad and I spent there trying to open up our company to an international level."

I must have been the most clueless person in history because I still hadn't understood where this was going. "So?"

"So, I could give you a hand with your presentation," she said, a matter-of-fact tone that seemed to express concern at my apparent lack of discernment abilities.

"Why would you do that?" I asked, eyeing her, suspicious of her motives. She had been emphasizing that I get my own work done without her and Dad's help since elementary school. This wasn't the right time for regression.

Mom leaned back on the couch, closed the book she had been reading, and removed her reading glasses to fully turn to me. I could almost sense the smoke in her head from the hard work of planning the rest of my life.

"Because I want to help, of course. And, also because it would give you one less excuse not to go out tonight."

I scoffed. "Mom, I don't know if you've noticed, but I am drowning in things to do."

"So what? College is a busy time. Add a social life to your wish list for the year."

One annoying detail about my mom she still hadn't dusted off was that, once she thought she was right, it wasn't much trouble to convince everyone to agree.

"Kelly," she said, and I sighed at the speech I could sense was coming. "You need to have some things on your planner that make you happier. Can you honestly say that you have a balanced schedule? You're a junior—you'll graduate soon. You'll never get back that time to be around your friends. Do you think you guys will be as close when you all find yourselves in a different corner of the world? Take advantage of the time. Multitask or something."

I didn't think she understood that if I added one more activity to the ones I was already juggling, they would all turn against me and smack me in the face.

Yet, some part of me still considered it long enough to side with her. Adding one more thing to the stack that already dangerously leaned to the side couldn't hurt.

So, I joined them at their hangout that evening at the coffee shop we found our senior year.

It had a reputation for being the most chaotic coffee shop in Raleigh. The atmosphere at "Coffee Hideout" constantly changed to accommodate the various special events it held.

Most mornings, it was well-lit, classy, with comfy, reader-friendly spots. Most nights, it was pitch dark for dramatic poetry readings, music gigs, and dancing time.

The nights were a lot more popular among high schoolers, which was a very good reason to avoid them. But, I had a flair for placing myself in situations I would regret, so there I was, sitting on a high stool across from Ace and Emma.

And it got worse.

I invited Miles.

In my defense, it made a lot more sense when Mom walked me through it with her reassuring little phrases that sounded sensible then but now felt ridiculous. Not a date, a casual business meeting about our future partnership. He wouldn't misunderstand it, of course. "He looks like a reasonable guy."

If Miles had been just a bit more logical than I was, he wouldn't have taken me up on my offer.

But, of course, he came and became Ace and Emma's new toy as they peered into his soul and asked questions I wished he wouldn't answer so honestly. No one had taught that guy about the times when it was much more convenient to lie.

"I think I read your book," Emma said after an odd silence had joined us at our table, sipping on our coffees without asking. "I loved that you featured a lyrical dancer—I think ballet and hip-hop are the most obvious genres writers run to."

Miles's face brightened up at the mention of his book. "Do you dance?"

"Ever since I was twelve, just like Clara from your book. It was a bit of a struggle to get people to take me seriously," she said. "Still is," she added, humorless laughter bubbling out of her lips.

It came naturally to her to open up to people—I envied that ability of hers but the memories I enjoyed repressing probably wouldn't fit the concept of lighthearted coffee shop chat.

Teenagers bristled past our table, forming a crowd towards the front of the room for the poetry reading segment to act as emotional support for their buddies.

The conversation had switched to Ace when I blanked out. He seemed much more interested in pursuing a conversation with Miles than he had with Sebastian.

"Are you a photographer?" Miles asked, gesturing to the camera hanging around his neck.

Ace responded with no hint of self-doubt. "Yes, well, since the beginning of this week. It feels right so far."

I looked down at my cup of coffee where a small latte heart had been drawn with steamed milk.

The lights at the coffee shop went out, and as we went to the couches at the back to avoid the crowds. It all felt very much like a double date I hadn't signed up for.

The first speaker that graced us with his original masterpiece wore huge glasses and seemed petrified as he went up the small stage and spoke about teenage infatuation and crushes.

I felt Miles's eyes on me from where he sat at the other end of the couch. Too far to cause much damage, but still close enough that every nerve cell in my body was much too aware of his presence. I pretended to be paying attention to the stuttered words reaching me from the stage.

My fingers played with the couch's material, and I waited for the boy to run out of words. I sipped on the coffee that tasted like stress and awkwardness.

But the guy was on a roll. What with all the different analogies and metaphors that existed to describe first love, he wasn't about to stop now.

People soon broke out their brief vow of silence to mumble words to each other as the poem went on and on. I must have said something about restrooms before leaving my cup of coffee on the table that stood in between the couches.

The only light in the shop filtered in from the back kitchen, too weak to actually be of any help. I felt my way around the walls, using them as both support and a compass to the ladies' restrooms.

When I entered, my eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the bright lights again. My hands rested on each side of the sink and the mirror reflection of my face stared back at me. Except that it wasn't really my face as I remembered it. My eyes were now bloodshot from designing a terrible sleep schedule, and my cheeks were flushed to complement the freckles around my nose.

The pressure lifted off my muscles as my palms dug into the sides of the sink. But every bone remained drained and unresponsive.

I didn't know how to even begin to walk back to the couch. If I took too long, someone might come looking for me. If I didn't take long enough, they would suspect that I didn't really need to go. What was considered a reasonable amount of time to spend in the bathroom?

The door opened up softly behind me, and Emma glanced at me, concerned.

"Hey, Kells. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, of course." I didn't recognize my voice either, sharp, doing slight oscillations I had no control over. "A little exhausted."

She nodded though she didn't seem convinced. "You need to catch up on some sleep."

When my breath patterns got as close as possible to the usual, my lips pulled off a small smile just for Emma.

"Thanks for checking in. We can head back now," I told her, ready to face the dark path that led to the couches, only to find that a pale light had replaced the darkness and some people walked around in circles around each other in some moves I supposed were intended to look like dance.

I sat back down, careful to sit as far away as possible from Miles, leaving a weird middle space for a nonexistent third party.

"Do you dance?" he asked, and his voice reached me despite the distance.

I was not going to dance with him when just sitting next to him made my thoughts unclear.

Detached. Unbothered. I remembered the mantra but it felt like a distant concept now.

"I used to, a long time ago. I haven't danced in forever."

Emma smiled as the memories of us both in tutus crossed both of our minds, way before we drifted apart, because I grew out of dance, and she grew into it.

He didn't insist or ask me to dance, even as Ace and Emma slow danced, away from the stream of people twirling in the middle. His constant staring must have actually been useful in interpreting the grimace my face scrunched up to.

"Have you been writing?" I asked him before he could consider the idea of saying something else in that warm voice of his that resounded in my head long after he stopped talking.

"Not a word." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he let it spread. "Let's make it a game."

That was the origin of all bad ideas. But I blamed it on the coffee when the concept sounded exciting to me at the time.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I have to come up with a concept for my next book, and you have to write something a little messy." Miles's eyes came alive under the excitement of the challenge.

"What will I get when I win?" I asked, as a smile came too soon and infringed on the smug tone of my voice.

"If you win," he corrected, and the nervous smile on his lips was endearing, "you get to come with me to my mom's wedding, and if I win, I get to take you to my mom's wedding."

I scoffed. "I have a better idea, genius. If I win, you have to honestly consider signing with your brother without dismissing the very idea."

He thought about it for a moment, his gaze electric as he watched me, seizing me up, weighing whether the thrill of the game was worth it.

"Deal."

I offered my hand for him to shake and immediately regretted it when it slipped into his.

Mom!