A loud crash wakes me from the slumber I wasn't even aware of having fallen into. I jump to my feet with my heart pounding out of my chest and brace myself as whoever just broke in approaches. Without my glasses, they're just a vaguely human-like blob.

The blob sighs as its shoulders drop. "Sigue viva," Rigo declares to someone else I can't see, sounding just a tad annoyed but unable to fully mask his relief.

"Babe, I think you broke the door," Chris mutters in bewilderment.

"Está bien," Rigo replies dismissively. His blob moves toward the couch, leaning down to swipe something up and sticking his hand out to me. "You need these?"

I hesitantly reach out, pausing when I feel the plastic of my black and red Ray Ban frames, then snatch them away quickly. They're smudged with tears and fingerprints when I put them on, but it's still a million times better than trying to see the world without them. I meet Rigo's eyes meekly for a millisecond before averting them in search of Chris. He comes up behind Rigo cautiously, watching me as he moves.

"Sorry about your doorknob," Chris apologizes with a grimace. "You weren't answering, and we wanted to make sure you were okay."

My cheeks flush in embarrassment. "It's fine. My phone died," I lie.

"You don't have a charger?" Rigo counters, crossing his arms as his eyes narrow.

"I didn't feel like looking for it," I fire back defensively. I don't feel the same obligation to play nice with him as I do with Chris, although right now, I don't even really feel that for Chris.

"Where is it?" he presses.

"I don't know."

He turns to Chris immediately and starts speaking in quick Spanish. Chris's eyes widen in surprise, then they're confused, and then he nods. He looks at me with a pursed-lip smile as he takes a step toward the front door.

"I'll be right back."

He's gone before I can protest, leaving me alone with Rigo. I step backward uncomfortably, refusing to meet his eyes as my arms slide around my body. He doesn't seem to feel out-of-place at all, despite the fact that he is. I could only dream of walking around with his confidence. Perhaps that's exactly what not having a mother to stifle you does: fill you with unearned confidence.

"Your mom is leaving today," Rigo says suddenly. I look at him cautiously, but I don't see anything sinister in his expression. After a beat, he adds, "in a few hours."

I nod, still not particularly interested in speaking to him.

"So you're coming back with us," he clarifies.

"My mom isn't the reason I left," I correct him calmly.

"I don't care about your fight with Xavi. You both need to get over it before the baby gets here anyway," he answers with a shrug. "My niece or nephew is not growing up in this shithole."

"It's not a shithole," I say in offense.

His shoulders drop as his expression turns exasperated. "I grew up in shitholes. I know shitholes. This is a shithole."

"Well, it's a pretty nice shithole."

"Still a shithole. Grab your stuff so we can go," he commands me as his arms fold across his chest.

My arms tighten around me. "I said I'm not going back there."

"Don't make me drag you out of here. I will," he threatens.

"Why are you acting like you give a fuck?" I demand in mounting irritation.

Surprisingly, his face softens. "Because I do."

"No, you don't." The words come out automatically; a knee-jerk reaction to any show of affection for as long as I can remember.

He holds firm. "Yes, I do."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I counter quietly, fighting back another bout of sobs. If I don't stop with the damn crying soon, they just might come out as frustrated screams.

"I didn't always care," he admits with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm sorry about your family."

I laugh humorlessly. "That's what it took for me to deserve human decency from you?" I'm trembling so badly, they're nearly full-on shakes. Rigo is perfectly still as he watches me, not reacting. "You had to see just how bad my mom was in-person? Was it entertaining enough?"

"It pissed me off," he counters firmly, a hint of that anger seeping into his voice and expression as he speaks. "I heard her talking to you last night on the phone. I am sorry, Lola."

I fight back the tears for as long as I can, but they steadily slip out as my lips quiver. "God damn it, I am so sick of crying," I laugh with frustration. But seriously, I'm about to glue my tear ducts shut. This can't be normal.

Rigo cracks a small smile. "That's why you need to come with us."

Chris appears behind him then, having reentered silently thanks to my now-broken doorknob. He holds up a charger with a sheepish smile. "You can charge your phone now."

I laugh, wiping my tears away as my sobs finally calm. "Thanks, Chris."

Rigo takes the charger to plug in my phone while I pack, shooting me a pointed glare when it powers on and he sees it wasn't dead after all. I shrug sheepishly and focus on packing, unsure of what to make of our new dynamic but immeasurably relieved by it. Chris inspects the apartment curiously as I pack, talking as he walks about paying a mover to take care of the rest for me. They sound more like personal musings, so I try not to pay him any mind. It's way too generous of an offer anyway, and I don't know how I would even respond to it.

Thanks to the occasional spending-spree, I still have plenty of clothes here that I can pack to avoid going into Xavi's room. I fill a bag with all kinds of outfits, and another with shoes, then hurriedly pick up the script that I sent flying last night during my fit. Work feels like it last happened so long ago that it's as if the wind's been knocked right out of me when I catch a glimpse the time and the day on my bedside clock.

It's Wednesday, fifteen past ten. I'm supposed to be at work right now.

I drop everything and run out to the living room, practically shoving Rigo out of my way to get to my phone. There's one missed call from Alex, three from Chris, and about a hundred from Kyle. My hands are so shaky that I keep hitting the wrong thing as I attempt to navigate to Alex's missed call.

"I talked to Alex already," Chris chimes in, right as I nearly hit the call button.

I freeze and look at him, still panicking. "You did? How? When?"

"When you didn't answer, they called me just in case it was a phone problem," he explains. "I told them you had a rough night and needed the day off. They said you're good and they'll see you tomorrow."

"I'm good?" I repeat, still frozen.

He smirks, but tries to suppress it. "You're good."

With that settled, my heart rate slowly returns to normal and I grab my bags. I sling them over each of my shoulders, then follow Chris and Rigo down to the Escalade. My apartment door closes for now, but it also opens easily. I hope no one bumps into it before Rigo gets back here to replace the doorknob.

It's not a straight shot to Beverly Hills thankfully, because I continue to put up a fight despite finally leveling with Rigo. He's adamant that I'm not allowed to stay alone no matter what, so he tells me to call either Kyle or Mariluz. Unfortunately for me, they're both in the office already.

I call Kyle anyway to talk about staying with him until I figure things out, and he's chanting yes excitedly before I even finish saying the words. Chris and Rigo drive me around to kill time, listening to music and occasionally bickering over it. By noon, I'm at the office and getting into Mariluz's Compass with her and Kyle to head to Kyle's apartment.

"Girl, I'm sorry," he says from the passenger seat. "I'm sure Xavi will come to his senses soon enough. Until then, I got you."

I finally got him out of my head for a minute, and hearing his name brings the pain rushing back like a tsunami. Still, I smile softly. "Thanks, Ky."

The two of them stay at the apartment and have lunch with me before heading back to the office and leaving me at the mercy of my thoughts and emotions for a few more hours. The tsunami comes back for a second crash into my sanity, and I settle into Kyle's plush couch for the storm. By the time he comes back, I feel both dehydrated and exhausted from all the crying.

"Okay," he sighs as he plops down onto the couch beside me. "What the hell happened yesterday? Don't leave a thing out."

I look at him with visible exhaustion and sigh. "Bad things. Now I'm here. What's for dinner?"

"Nuh uh," he refuses, with his mouth hanging open in shock. "Chris Ellington and Rigo Reyes handed you over to me like a child in a split custody agreement this morning. Now I need you to explain how I ended up sharing custody of you with America's favorite gays they didn't know were gay."

"Kyle!" I groan to stifle laughter.

"Lola!"

Another heavy sigh escapes me, and I stare at the ceiling with dread. "I just stopped crying, Ky," I say quietly.

He's clearly dying to know anyway, but he nods after a moment. "Okay. Another time," he relents.

I try staving off "another time" for as long as I can, watching my phone for Xavi's name and still being disappointed each night when I haven't seen it. After a week calling out of work and establishing myself as a permanent fixture on his couch, Kyle and Mariluz finally corner me for an explanation in what I like to call "the gay agenda's second intervention." They're lucky I adore them, or I'd have a much bigger problem with all these interventions.

Speaking as quickly as I can, I tell them about everything: my family's nosiness pushing me into engagement, my affair with Jazmin, realizing I love Xavi, my mom showing up unannounced, and my confrontation with Jazmin and Xavi that ended all that mattered to me. I focus on the drama of it all, watching Kyle's face for some sign of satisfaction, but he remains eager even when I'm done.

"And the baby?" he inquires animatedly. "Niece or nephew? I gotta know, girl!"

"That's what you're worried about?" I ask with an incredulous laugh.

"Girl, I'm worried about all of it," he counters, scooting closer and taking my hands in his. "I'm excited for the baby, yeah, but I'm worried about you more than anything else."

I nod and shrink back, feeling uncomfortable with his outward concern. "Nephew."

Kyle shrieks and jumps to his feet, squealing as he hops around excitedly. "Lola! You're having a baby boy!"

"Congratulations, Lola!" Mariluz chirps, grinning brightly as she joins the excitement from the other end of the couch.

"Thank you guys," I chuckle as Kyle continues buzzing.

"Okay, my turn to lead the intervention," Kyle announces once he's calmed. He plops down on the couch between Mariluz and me as I sit up, eyeing him cautiously. "That baby needs a mom who is of sound mind and body. It's time to get help, Lo."

"Help with what? Can a doctor fix my failed engagement?" I fire back. My walls have already started to come back up.

His face gets serious. "That's your condition for continuing to stay here. Alex gets it, but they won't get it forever. Please, Lola," he begs.

"I tried therapy," I remind them both desperately. "It was awful."

"Not therapy," Mariluz says, pulling a pamphlet out. "There are these programs over at the local hospital called partial hospitalization and intensive outpatient treatment."

"You mean like, the psych ward?" I clarify skeptically.

"No," Mariluz disagrees flatly. She leans forward to offer the pamphlet, and I hesitantly take it. "They can help you quickly figure out what's going on and pick treatment, because they see you every day. You sleep at home."

"Which is here," Kyle adds, "as long as you get help somehow."

More therapy? Every single day? I wish Kyle and Mariluz were cognizant of how unappealing this truly sounds. With Beverly Hills as my only alternative living arrangement, though, I have little choice but to agree.

"Fine. I'll do it," I concede.

Although as I walk into my first appointment another week later, I'm wishing I hadn't agreed. It's been a whole two weeks since I've seen or heard from Xavi, and instead of getting easier, it feels like it's getting so much harder. I don't want to see people right now. I don't want to talk about my feelings. I want to wedge myself back into Kyle's couch and cry into a pint of Ben and Jerry's for the rest of my life.

The intensive outpatient treatment program is best for me, they decide after a quick discussion of my situation. That means more individual sessions as opposed to group sessions, I'm told. Good. I don't want to talk about this around other people.

I follow a nurse to a cozy office with cushioned chairs on either side of a desk, a big sunny window, and lots of flowers. She sits across from me and pulls out a clipboard and pen, clipping some mental health questionnaires to it before setting it all on the desk and asking me an entirely different set of health questions. She leaves after, so I guess those mental health questions are for the doctor to ask.

The doctor comes in after; a shorter man with buzzed brown hair and glasses, wearing khakis and a light blue button-down. He's an unintimidating presence, and I feel myself noticeably relax as he stands beside me and extends his hand.

"My name is Jason. It's nice to meet you, Lola," he tells me with a friendly smile.

"I'm Lo—" I choke off, realizing he just said that, and my cheeks burn up. He chuckles right away, and I exhale as my own laughter easily follows.

I like this doctor, and that makes me hopeful.

"How many weeks along are you?" he asks conversationally as he takes the seat across from me.

"Um, eighteen," I answer uncomfortably, resting my hand over my bump. Ariel has been asleep so far this morning, but my touch seems to wake him and he kicks me again. Still just a pop, but a notably stronger pop. It makes me smile.

"Just under halfway, that's exciting," he says with a nod. He reaches for the clipboard then, and I feel my chest tighten with nerves. "We're going to start with some questions about your emotions and moods, and then I'll ask for some more info about your specific situation, okay?"

I simply nod for him to begin, entirely too scared to speak now. This feels like a pivotal moment suddenly, and I'm on high alert. Jason starts with questions about anxiety and depression.

These are familiar questions, asked almost every time I've gone to a doctor in the last five years. Over the last two weeks, how often have you... had little interest or pleasure in doing things? Felt down, depressed or hopeless? Felt bad about yourself? Thought you would be better off dead? Felt nervous, anxious, or on edge? Been restless? For almost every question, the answer is "nearly every day." It's always been like that. I watch Jason as I answer the questions, searching for that telltale nervousness that says I've been too honest, but he keeps on writing as if I'm just telling him about the weather.

"These next questions might have some similarities to the ones you just answered, but bear with me. They're yes or no," he explains. I nod. "First, has there ever been a period of time when you felt so good or hyper that others noticed or you got yourself into trouble?"

"Yes," I answer, feeling something like surprise. I've never been asked this question before, but it fits.

He scratches my answer down on the page. "How about being so irritable that you shouted at people or started fights?"

My heart is pounding in my ears now. "Yes."

I listen in disbelief as he essentially describes the past few months of my life with his next round of questions. Have you ever gotten less sleep than usual and not really missed it? Have your thoughts ever raced? Have you had more energy than normal? Have you done things that were unusual for you or that others would think were excessive, foolish, or risky? Yes. To all of it. Whatever this is... this is what I have.

After his questionnaires, he asks about my life. The details of how it's all fallen apart these last few months. I tell him everything gladly, hoping he'll find the pieces to the puzzle I didn't even know was there. After lots of note-scribbling and nodding, it appears he has.

"Okay, I think I have enough evidence here to diagnose you with bipolar II disorder," he announces at last. "I recommend waiting to start medication until after the baby is born because there have been some side-effects, but only if you've got a good support system at home. You'll be continuing through this unmedicated for twenty-two more weeks at least, most likely," he cautions me.

Xavi.

He's the first coherent thought I have, followed by: That's it? Can it really be that easy to put a name to the way I've struggled? I imagined months of appointments and therapy crammed into this week before they would give me an answer, not that they'd try to find it right away. Linda had me convinced that imaginary waterfalls and sobbing were all they could offer me.

But still... Xavi...

I nod mechanically. "I have a good support system."

He smiles with satisfaction. "Great. After the baby is born, we'll start you on ten milligrams of an antipsychotic to get a feel for how it helps, and then we'll reassess."

That's really it? How can that be it?

A pill to make me normal again, in just twenty-two weeks. It almost feels too good to be true. I just have to survive that long without my "support system." Maybe it is too good to be true.