The hustle and bustle of end-of-semester finals and projects consumed me.

After I told Nat and Amari about my upcoming move to DC, I tried to spend as much time as possible with my two best friends. Nat and I became closer than ever. My friendship with Amari, however, remained in a slightly more fragile state. Better in some ways, strained in others.

In January, true to his word, my dad uprooted all of us from Wellesley. Bea and Trick chose to tag along to DC instead of moving back to Houston to live with their mom. My dad told them about his cancer. Bea cried, I cried, and even Trick got misty-eyed, and we all took turns accompanying our dad to his chemo treatments. When my dad's hair started falling out, he asked Andrea to shave his head. I'd like to think it was his way of taking control over a shit situation.

By February, my dad's condition was still a way's off from remission, but Dr. Samson reassured us that his body was responding well to the chemo. His prognosis grew increasingly more and more promising, and I became cautiously optimistic that he might actually beat a scaryass disease like cancer.

Andrea became our rock during this turbulent time in our lives.

The phrase "in sickness and in health" was something that most brides and grooms were familiar with on their wedding day. However, the "sickness" part of their vows was probably something that no wife or husband ever wanted to face. Thanks to my dad's NHL, however, I was handed the opportunity to discern Andrea's true character—or, at least, a semi-accurate version of it—in a shorter amount of time than it usually took to suss out a stranger.

My stepmom was nothing like I'd imagined. She was probably the last woman on earth that I would've picked for a man like my dad since he had always gone for flighty, dramatic types like Mamma and Madeline. Andrea and my dad were both such non-communicative, robotic creatures. It was like my dad stumbled upon a female version of himself and chose to marry her because the bastard was so enamored with himself.

To be honest, their similarities kind of freaked me out even while I wished them well. Andrea's stoic demeanor reminded me of Dr. Williams. Yet, Dr. Williams seemed to purposely hold herself in check because social interactions made her uncomfortable while Andrea was completely unapologetic about who she was as a person. Like my dad, Andrea was a woman of few words. Quiet, soft-spoken, and very competent at whatever she set out to achieve. The woman was gorgeous, too. She had bold, beautiful facial features. Dark skin, dark hair. Her eyes, though, were her most striking asset. Green. Just like Mamma's.

It was mostly her actions that spoke to me louder than her words. Andrea never complained. She never nagged. She simply did what needed to be done to make Bea, Trick, and I feel more at home in DC. She treated my dad and his illness with the same steady hand and level head. I can't say that I felt an instant connection to my stepmom, but I definitely respected her. She didn't seem like a gold digger at all. Little by little, even Bea and Trick started warming up to her.

A few weeks after I started my first day at Emerson High, my dad's case against Harvey Waldron and the others hurdled into full swing, and, much like my dad predicted, Ashton Wellesley Academy fell into disarray. Nat and Amari informed me that Vince and Madison withdrew and transferred to different schools to escape the insanity. Only Aleah stayed on campus. My dad told me that it was going to be harder for the prosecuting team to pin down Dr. McLeary. Her crimes were comparatively less serious in nature than the other members of her cohort. Not to mention, her husband was a pretty influential member in Congress.

As the vicious scandal with Harvey and company played out on the news and in my house, my dad became even more difficult and withdrawn around us due to the stress from chemo and his job. Andrea did her best to hold down the fort. Bea clung to Evonne tighter than ever for support. Trick struggled to cope with the drama and started acting out at our new school. Each of us dealt with this shitstorm in different ways. I submerged myself entirely into my element: Studying, joining clubs and councils, kicking ass and taking names in class, and doing everything in my power to rank in the top ten of my junior class at Emerson.

I even made a few new friends along the way. None of them could hold a candle to Nat or Amari, but it was nice to be around kids my age who seemed to be more... normal? It made me question if I really wanted to attend an elite school like Stanford and throw myself back into my old world with a career in corporate law. At least, my new classmates' brand of dumbass, prick-like behavior was far more palatable and creative than the entitled, borderline sociopathic, one-percenter gems I often encountered back at Ashton Wellesley. At first, the guys loved me, and the girls hated me—probably because I was pretty, smart, and confident—but I turned that shit around within a few months.

By the end of junior year, all the females on campus wanted to dress like me, act like me, and be my friend while only the most confident and self-assured guys dared to enter my orbit. The rest of the assholes started smack-talking behind my back, calling me names while secretly crushing on me from a distance like sad, little puppy dogs in heat.

I didn't care about those boys and their wagging tongues. My heart belonged entirely to another boy, and our forced separation did nothing to curb my feelings for Zac. It only deepened and stretched out our bond into brand new territory. Zac and I became friends. Without fail, he continued to update me on his life and check on me from time to time even though it was tricky for him to get a hold of his phone in rehab. I was more than happy to do the same for him.

Nothing ever happened with Ashlynn, by the way. Zac told me that the girl was nice, and she seemed to be into him, but he just wanted to stay friends.

When I texted him, Why?

He wrote back, babygirl, you should know whyyyy :P

Okay, maybe we weren't exactly in friendzone territory anymore.

I had giggled like a loon when I read Zac's response. It was the first time he'd called me 'babygirl' after his accident, and the all too familiar term of endearment soared through my heart like a gift with wings. I think it was a testament to our bond that Zac and I never lost touch over the past few months even though we were both chin deep in shit, trying to deal and wade through our own messy lives. His memories still hadn't returned at this point. For this reason and this reason alone, I made sure to maintain a constant, albeit shallow, presence in his life. I was careful to steer our conversations away from controversial topics.

Every time Zac tried to press me for more, I'd ghost him for a few days, and then pop back into his life by sending him a funny TikTok video or silly meme making fun of guys with too many tattoos. I wasn't proud of my dodgy behavior, but I did what I had to do to protect him in my own way.

After my man finally wrapped up all of his recuperative therapies at the Iris-Cowan Center, we started chatting more regularly over the summer. Surprisingly, his mother didn't do anything to block our communication.

One day in the middle of June, Zac texted me out of the blue, hey

I responded right away, What's up?

funny story. i found my old phone today. the one i supposedly lost at the hospital. my mom was hiding it from me for some reason.

I sucked in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. It seemed my day of reckoning had finally come. Good. I was ready. My life had calmed down somewhat from the stressful move to DC and dealing with my dad's cancer treatments alongside the whole Harvey Waldron fiasco. Zac was almost fully recovered and out of rehab. The timing, at last, felt right.

We were long overdue for this conversation. I messaged Zac back, You know, I've been waiting for you to say something like this. We should try to meet up, though. To talk. I need to do this shit in person.

His reply was instant. when? where?

Doesn't matter. Whenever you're free. I'll go to you.

fuck

This gave me pause. I frowned and tapped out a quick apology, Sorry, am I being too forward?

fuck no... can't wait to see u, babygirl

We proceeded to make plans to meet up in New York City in a week's time. Afterwards, I set down my phone and snuck myself a small glass of my dad's best scotch. I sat down and sighed and sipped. As the smooth alcohol trickled down my throat, a profoundly contemplative mood washed over me.

Despite the uncertainty of my future with Zac—

Despite the ongoing trials with Harvey Waldron and the stress that came with my dad's cancer treatments—

Despite all the shit was happening to me—

I was no longer afraid of the unknowns. I was no longer worried about my best laid plans going awry. I no longer lived in fear of opening myself up to getting hurt.

Because all of that shit had already happened to me. And I was still breathing. Still standing. Still fighting.

Still... hopeful.

Cages weren't made of iron or steel; they were made up of the lies and half-truths I had built my realities upon. I felt as though I'd stepped out of an invisible cage. A gilded cage that Ashton Wellesley had placed around me. A wretched cage that Mamma's death had ensnared me inside for years. Cages of all shapes and sizes that I hadn't even recognized until all the fucked up events from this cataclysmic year brought them to my attention.

I celebrated my birthday back in December. For the first time in my seventeen years, I no longer felt shackled by the past, I was ready to sink my teeth into the present, and roll with whatever might come my way in the future.

For the first time in seventeen years, I felt free.