I didn't see my mother for the next two days.

            In fact, she was a no-show until I was discharged from hospital, complete with about a thousand and one bandages, a wrist brace and a wheelchair (which, yes, I did have to stay in for at least two weeks). But I spent my time with Zach, who stayed by my side faithfully, reading to me or talking with me or lying in bed with me discussing our utopian world. I didn't see Perrie either, but she had come back in that night whilst Zach was drifting off to sleep beside me and told me she'd see me when I got out of hospital.

            It wasn't like I needed or missed my mother's presence, but the fact I hadn't seen her since she'd left with my father had me worried. Where had she been? What had she been doing all this time?

            But still, when they let me out with Zach guiding my wheelchair through the white halls, I found my mother at the check-out desk, filling out paperwork with the smooth finesse of a woman who has filled out many documents before in her lifetime.

            "Mom," I said, surprised. I supposed I should've guessed she'd turn up (since she was my legal guardian even though I was eighteen), but it still surprised me to see her there.

            She turned around, and I could see that she was not the Marie Stryker that I was used to. Her teal tunic hadn't been ironed, her pants weren't pressed, and she only wore ballet slippers. Her hair was combed, but not styled, and she looked old and frail; nothing like the put-together woman I was used to.

            She smiled warmly. "Cam," she said. I looked around, wondering if I'd stepped into an alternate universe. My mother had never taken that sweet tone with me, nor had she ever smiled so affectionately. That wasn't our kind of relationship. She gestured to the desk. "I just finished the paperwork. Have you collected your things?"

            I nodded and held up the duffel she'd packed for me the night of the accident, which only had a change of clothes, some pajamas, a hairbrush and a tube of toothpaste and my toothbrush. "All ready to go."

            She nodded. "Excellent." She stepped forward and threw Zach a timid smile. "I can take it from here, Zachary."

            "Please, call me Zach," he replied, but relinquished his hold of the wheelchair nonetheless.

            "Right," she replied. "Zach. Do you need a ride home?"

            What was this? Since when was my mother friendly with Zach? Last I'd checked, they'd totally disapproved of my relationship with Zach, and now she was offering to drop him home?

            "Thank you, anyway, Mrs. Stryker," he said. "But I drove my car here."

            She nodded. "Of course. And, please, call me Marie."

            He nodded and bid us goodbye, before starting off and out of the doors. Outside, it was a balmy sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit, and the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue.

            "How are you?" I asked as we started for the doors and stepped into the warm wind blowing from the east.

            "Better now that you're safe," my mother said. "It was touch and go, but I'm glad you pulled through. Are you okay?"

            I'd been receiving that question a lot over the past week that I'd been hospital bound. It had been uttered by doctors and police offers; boyfriends and best friends. But, coming from my mother, it sounded the strangest; especially under these circumstances. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't this sudden happiness—well, maybe not happiness, but this certain level of easiness and content.

            "I'm doing okay," I said slowly as she led me to her car. She helped me hobble into the seat and then collapsed and put away the wheelchair by herself. It was probably the sturdiest thing I'd seen her do. Normally she enjoyed things like manicures and, at the very most, gardening.

            She got into the car and started into the engine, before peeling out of the lot and starting us towards home. Sitting there, with no music and no air-conditioner to lessen the stifling tension, it felt like it may very well eat me up. I wasn't a very awkward person by nature, but this was a very tedious moment.

            "So," I said finally, unable to handle the tension and curiosity. "Are we just gonna ignore the massive elephant in the room, or are we going to handle it like mature adults?"

            "I take it you're talking about your two-timing, lying, cheating, masochistic pig of a father," my mother replied coolly, as if we were discussing sports statistics.

            "Well, that's one way to describe him, I suppose," I admitted, impressed by her colorful sentence.

            "What's there to discuss?" my mother asked. "He's gone. I kicked him out two days ago. It's just you and me now, kiddo."

            I didn't respond, because, honestly, I had no idea how to do that. What do you even say once your father was caught cheating and is no longer a part of your household? Do you send a condolence card? What, exactly, is the protocol?

            "I'm sorry, Mom," I said finally, needing to let her know that I wasn't some emotionless chain of armor. That I did feel, and I did care.

            "What's there to be sorry about?" she asked. "I'm pretty sure not even your father is sorry for what he's done?"

            I wasn't so sure about that. He'd certainly seemed remorseful when I'd caught him on that table with Janet DeLuca. "Why do you say that?" I asked.

            "I'm certain he's sorry," my mother answered effortlessly, flicking on her indicator and turning down a pretty side street filled with brownstone mansions and rose gardens. "But not about that. I think he's less sorry about carrying on an affair with that worthless lawyer, and more sorry that he go caught doing so."

            "Fair call," I admitted.

            "Oh, well," my mother said breezily. "We don't need him, do we, Cam? We've got each other." She patted my braced leg. "And that's all we need, right?"

            And you know what? In an ideal world, I might have just believed her. Maybe I would've believed her when she said we'd be okay. We had the money, the house, the assets, and the stocks to fall back on if we needed them. We had a pantry full of food and a house cleaning crew and an abundance of money to keep us afloat for the rest of our lives.

            But it's not about that. It's not about the materialistic side of life—a lot of people in Leighton Fields need to learn about that. It's about the principle—the fact that my mother had just lost the man she'd married at merely twenty years old.

            I wanted to believe she'd be okay; that she was as strong and distant toward my father as her front suggested she was. And judging by the perfect posture and look in her eyes, she almost seemed serious.

            If it hadn't been for the slight shake in her hand and the thick swallow she gave as she turned into our street.

            Or the way she couldn't seem to look me in the eye anymore.

            ~          *          ~

            My mother had been excellent at keeping visitors away in the days passing my 'accident.' Don't get me wrong, either. It's not like people were lining up at our doorstep to make sure I looked okay. I had a feeling most of the people that came knocking on our door with tuna casseroles and caramel slices could care less about my health; they just wanted a good scoop to discuss at Tuesday night bridge club.

            Not that I could blame them. Right now, the gossip mill was on fire with Stryker rumors. A car accident, a broken-up Camila, and a separated Richard and Marie Stryker. Things were heating up in the once-cool family, and the sadists of Leighton Fields were feeding off of the drama.

            But not even my mother's admirable defense efforts could stop Perrie from barging into my room Friday afternoon, pale and drawn. Her hair fell around her face in erratic wisps, and she took a seat beside me, her fingers twitching as if she was craving a cigarette or something stronger.

            "How'd you get in here?" I asked curiously, adjusting the purple throw pillow in which my leg was currently situated on.

            Perrie shrugged. "I just used the spare key underneath the Venus flytrap to unlock the laundry door. Then I snuck past your mother and into your room. Pretty easy."

            I raised an eyebrow. "Nice work." I studied her carefully, the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes darted around, never settling on anything. "You okay?" I asked.

            She looked up. "Huh? Oh, yeah, no, I'm fine."

            "Really?" I asked. "Because you know I can spot a lie from a mile away. What's up?"

            She shrugged. "Withdrawals. They just make me jumpy. That's all."

            I started. It wasn't like I had forgotten about Perrie, but hearing it brought up so blatantly in conversation still shocked me. But, still, after everything, I owed it to Perrie to be that supportive friend, so I reached out and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "How many days sober?"

            She looked away, refusing to make eye contact, and I knew I was going to have to be a little more forceful if I really wanted answers from her. "Per," I said. "How long?"

            She sighed and pushed her bangs back, which were looking considerably more lanky than her normally voluminous platinum locks. "Two days," she said, sounding ashamed. "But so far it's my record. I almost lasted three, but I broke."

            I hadn't realized until that moment just how much cocaine Perrie must have been ingesting in order for two days to be such an amazing record. Had this been a daily occurrence? Or more often? Just how deep did her addiction lie?

            "Per," I said softly.

            She looked down at her hands, which were small and thin and pale and birdlike. Nothing like the toned and tanned Perrie I'd befriended years ago. Back when she was a classy cheerleader with stilettoes and skirts and tanned legs. Nothing like the Perrie I knew now.

            "I know it's bad, Cam," she said. "I don't need the lecture. I get it. I'm an addict. I'm a junkie who belongs in a rehab, right?"

            "That wasn't what I was going to say," I told her, and I meant it. My whole perspective of Perrie Donovan had changed after she'd come to my aid all those days ago when I was hit by the car. "I was just going to say that... if you need someone, I'm here for you."

            "Why?" she asked. "I thought you were gung-ho on getting me off the drugs."

            "I still am," I told her. "That certainly hasn't changed. But, you know, I wanna be there for you if you need me."

            "Why?" she asked again. "I'm just some junkie. I belong on a street pushing a shopping cart and begging for a spare dime."

            "That's not true," I replied, shocked by her talk. "Per, that's not true at all. I'm not saying I condone what you did, but... I get it. You were stressed and scared. Granted, I would've probably taking martial arts classes or bought a stress ball, but I understand what you did."

            "Jeremy's not who you think he is, you know," Perrie said, as if that had been pent up inside of her for ages, and had suddenly burst free of its own accord. "I mean, I know he doesn't seem like a great person. But he kept me safe the whole time. He always stayed sober when I got high, and he stayed with me, just in case something went wrong. He at least tried to make it better—and he always listened to me. He's a good guy, beneath that scary exterior."

            "Did you and he ever... you know...?" I said, unsure how to broach the topic that had, admittedly, been on my mind a lot lately.

            She looked away and gently bit on her lip. Her leg twitched up and down to an unknown rhythm, and I could tell that not even the serious conversation had distracted her from the cravings. "Yeah," she whispered, so low that I almost couldn't hear her. She cleared her throat. "I'm not proud of it, but... yeah, sometimes."

            "You spent the night with him last Friday night, didn't you?" I asked. "When I came over to your house in the morning. When I called, you were at his place, weren't you?"

            She nodded. "Yeah. I got a little too high and drunk and he had a bit to drink and one thing led to another and I spent the night."

            I nodded, attempting to keep an open mind. There were so many bitter thoughts raging on in my head; things I could never voice. Because I didn't want to jeopardize my chances of fixing my friendship with Perrie. Sometimes it felt like we were the only ones we had left.

            Except I had Zach.

            And, apparently, she had Jeremy.

            "How are you feeling?" Perrie asked, probably eager to change the topic.

            "Better," I said. "I've reduced my painkiller load, so that's a good sign."

            "Have you talked to the cops yet?" Perrie asked.

            "I told you in the hospital. I told them everything I knew. They're working on it. Patience is a virtue, Per."

            "You have to try harder!" Perrie said desperately. "You have to get them to find out who did it. How good can this person be at covering their tracks? Make them look harder!"

            "Why are you so desperate to find this person?" I asked. I was beginning to feel sleepy as the painkillers kicked in, and my words were getting slurred together. Still, I tried to keep alert for Perrie's benefit.

            "Are you kidding?" she spluttered. "You're my best friend, and someone just hit you with a car—on purpose. I'm scared, Cam. What if something happens to you?"

            "Nothing is going to happen to me," I promised her. "I'm not going that easy, Perrie. I still have to help you, don't I?" I smiled at her, but she seemed far less amused than I'd been hoping.

            "This isn't a joking matter, Cam!" Perrie argued, her voice growing back some strength. "Come on! This is serious. Someone's trying to kill you. This is worse than goo in a locker. This is the big game. And I'm worried about you."

            "I know it's bad, okay?" I said tiredly. My head was beginning to throb from thinking too much. "I'm the one who got hit by the car, remember? Something's wrong, and I know that. But there's nothing more I can do."

            "Make them find the person who did this to you!" Perrie said, throwing her hands into the air. "Run it through the DMV. Find the cars in the area with your DNA on it. Make the police look. If anyone has a pull in this town to find someone, it's you."

            "I'll keep trying," I promised her, wanting nothing more than to set her mind at ease. "Okay? I promise I'll look into it."

            "Just find them, Cam," Perrie said, standing up. "Before it's too late for you to do anything."

            She walked out, and I looked down at the crocheted blanket beneath my fingertips, wondering when, exactly, things had gotten so complicated. Trying to pinpoint a time when everything went from the average day to notes in lockers and pranks and car accidents and drug addictions and risky friendships and taboo relationships. Before my life turned into a horrible soap opera where everything that could possibly go wrong did.

            When did everything become so damned difficult?

            And when did it begin to feel like maybe I'm the one to blame for this?