For a second, I did not understand what Ross said. A corner of my mind registered his phrase, but the part of my brain responsible for interpreting the words refused to do its job.

I was aware of the anticipation in Ross's eyes, and Avan's gaze on me as they waited for me to react. Maybe their stares finally triggered something in my head and pushed my brain to work, and Ross's words replayed in my mind in an endless echo.

I had no idea how my voice sounded calm when I spoke again. "I— Why are you telling me this?" But really in my mind, I was internally screaming as the accident I had not even witnessed filled my mind.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I know my dad would have wanted to say that if he could. Not that this changes anything, because I know it doesn't... I just— I don't know how to help."

"It wasn't your fault, son."

I hadn't even noticed that Dad had followed me outside until he spoke. His eyes did not meet mine. His eyelids drooped as if they would shut by their own will if he didn't close them sometime soon. His shoulders sagged as he spoke, a pale representation of how he looked a few minutes earlier, when we were still inside, bursting everyone's eardrums.

A soft wind moved the sign dangling from the post, and I stepped away from it, deciding it was way too close.

"I wanted to speak with you guys before, but I didn't know how to. I didn't think I'd have the guts to look at you in the eyes."

I remembered the look of shock on his face when he heard my name at the fair. I had not given it a second thought after it happened. Maybe I would have pieced everything together if I had.

"Hence the stalking," Avan pointed out, and Ross scowled at him.

"Stalking? You were the one following me?"

"That's a strong word. I just wanted to check that you were okay without getting too close," Ross said. "I was not ready to talk about what happened yet and— I'm sorry if I scared you."

"So, your dad hasn't woken up yet?" Dad asked.

Ross shook his head. "They said it's unlikely that he will at this point, but he's not completely dead yet," he said, and an optimistic undertone highlighted his words.

Maybe this strange in-between was an even worse place to be. As long as the person still breathed, there was still hope, and hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

I couldn't come up with anything intelligible to tell Ross. He seemed to expect some sort of response, and I had nothing. Nothing the least bit helpful.

Nothing but a simple "I'm sorry about your dad." And I was. I was sorry that his dad was dying and that he had to experience all of this. But, I knew that my words wouldn't mean anything. If I had learned anything this past year, it was that sweet nothings never helped. Nothing could speed up a process that chose to linger.

So, I held Ross's hand as he continued to speak. And I knew that contact wouldn't help either, but I was grateful for all the times my friends had reminded me that I wasn't alone. I hoped I could communicate to him whatever strength still lived inside me.

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Perhaps it was because I thought turning eighteen meant that I had to start acting mature now, but I agreed to talk to Mom, Sunday afternoon.

Dad and I met her at a small coffee place not too far from her hotel.

I had the honor of making the phone call myself. Mom had been shocked to hear my voice and sounded a bit disappointed when I simply said. "I think we should talk." The confidence in my voice gave nothing away about the anxiety I actually felt.

As Dad and I walked into the coffee place, I immediately regretted my decision to meet with her, and nervous anticipation built up inside me. Mom raised her hand as though it was necessary for us to locate her. In her fashionable clothing, she already stood out from the college and high school students, running solely on caffeine, that filled the room.

She wiggled out of her coat and turned to the guy behind the counter.

"Hello. What can I get you?" he asked without looking up from the computer in front of him.

Strands, dyed bright red, fell over his round glasses as he subtly tapped his foot, waiting for our orders.

"I'll have water. Iced latte, as usual, Richard?" she asked Dad and he answered with a nod and a small smile.

She turned to me, about to order for me as she probably did for her son too, and froze when she noticed she had no idea what I wanted. She looked down and cleared her throat.

"I'm fine," I said with a shrug.

The guy tapped something on his computer screen before he finally looked up at us. His eyes widened when he saw my mom as if he had just met his favorite superhero.

"Are you Rebecca Olson?" he asked. "As in the Rebecca Olson, the violinist?"

She nodded and smiled at him, though her eyes flickered to me for a quick second.

"You are amazing! I— I literally have a collection of all your CDs. My mom was a fan and she— she used to play too back in college. I was hooked when I listened to your first piece. You're the reason I started taking music classes. I—" He seemed to realize he was rambling and stopped talking.

My mom flushed and shook the hand he was offering. She seemed conscious that Dad and I were staring.

After he asked her to autograph everything he had within reach, he finally gave us our orders, and we headed to the stools by the window. I pulled my seat as far away from her as I could without making it obvious but from the look in her eyes as she watched my movements, she knew.

She was not particularly famous, according to Dad when I dared to ask him about her. She mostly performed in black-tie galas and wine-tasting events-- likely for those who loved to brag about their tastes in sophisticated music as they sipped old wine and ate expensive cheese.

She had a small group of fans who hysterically posted recordings of her music and their reactions to them in all-caps letters with emojis.

I only knew this because I researched the website after Dad told me about it, though I would deny it if he asked.

Mom kept her eyes fixed on her glass of water as if it was the most fascinating thing she had seen, and for a while, none of us said anything.

I grew uncomfortable with the silence. I was painfully aware of the intense lights above our heads. Maybe I was just seeking a distraction, but they hypnotized me, and I struggled to look away.

Then Mom finally cleared her throat and started with hesitation, "I know you have a lot of questions for me—"

"Actually, no, I don't," I said, interrupting her. "I only have one." From the corner of my eyes, I noticed Dad shifting uncomfortably. "Only one," I repeated under my breath.

Why?

She nodded as if she understood. "I know what you want to ask. I also know you already have the answer," she said, and I scoffed. "You want to ask why I left because you hope there's a deeper reason. One that would make sense... that would help you forgive me."

"Is there?"

She breathed in and polished the coat on her lap before answering, "No."

Dad finished his coffee and ran out of ways to keep himself busy as he tried to stay out of our conversation.

An awkward silence settled at our table while I blamed myself for starting it. The best of family reunions.

If Riley had been here, maybe she would have somehow found a way to lighten up the mood. I imagined her sitting on a stool across the table with a much softer gaze in her eyes than the scowl that I was probably wearing.

"So, this is a little bit awkward, I guess. But, we'll get used to it." Her voice rang in my head, full of enthusiasm I could not reciprocate. "Say something."

"I have a son," my mom suddenly blurted out.

"I know."

I hesitated before looking at her. Dad had told me about it a few days ago, yet it still stung to hear it from her.

The lights above now seemed to be glaring into my eyes. It might have just been my imagination, but they seemed to flash furiously, warming me up even though the room was cold.

"His name is Roy. He's nine years old," she continued, probably at a loss of better conversation topics. I wished she had picked the weather instead. When in doubt, the weather was always your best bet.

Though I knew I would likely remember whatever I answered for a long time, I still spoke without thinking it through. "Congratulations? Is that a good thing? I know from experience that you don't seem to function well under commitment."

Maybe I should have left it at that, especially when I caught the look Dad shot me and the pained expression on my mother's face, yet I still went on and voiced my unfiltered thoughts. "You know what? I do have another question, after all, Mom. Why didn't you come to Riley's funeral? I'm sure it's not because you didn't know. Too busy with concertos? Recording a new piece? Autographing some CDs maybe?"

"Avery," Dad interrupted me with his calm and reasonable voice. But I didn't need calm and reasonable right now. I wanted anger and resentment.

Mom's face fell as if I had just punched the mask she had been wearing off her face. I couldn't help but regret my harsh tone. There was just something about her that made me want to both hurt and hug her.

She looked away and blinked. "How would you have reacted if I had shown up?" she asked.

I shrugged. "I guess we'll never know."

"I wanted to come back," she said, her eyes trained on her empty glass, "especially when Riley first got diagnosed but—"

From the corner of my eyes, I saw that Dad winced at her words, and only then did my brain register them.

"Diagnosed? What do you mean?"

No one answered my question. Instead of replying, my mother turned to Dad, her eyes widened.

"You didn't tell her? I thought she knew," Mom said.

"Tell her what... tell me what? What is she talking about, Dad?" I asked, and above me the lights  flared up, morphing into a blazing fire along with my mind.