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October 24

I'm sitting in bed with my laptop resting on my knees when my door opens.

Looking up, I see my mom and dad enter awkwardly and look around. I don't react, waiting for them to explain why they're here. I'm sure they didn't suddenly realize they need to talk to me. There has to be more to it.

"We need to talk," Dad begins.

To prove that I agree, I close my laptop and put it beside me on the bed, sitting up and folding my legs under myself.

"Let's do it," I say.

Mom and Dad glance at each other and slowly come into my room. Mom stands next to a wall and buries her hands in the pockets of her trousers as Dad pulls out my reading desk chair and sits down, facing me.

"Your mother told me you had a boy over today," Dad says.

Not knowing why I'm even surprised, I turn my gaze to look at mom who avoids my eye.

"Wow," I breathe, resisting an urge to laugh. "I can't believe this." I shake my head, smiling to myself.

"Taylor, we're your parents," Dad says. "We're just looking out --"

"Is this all parents are supposed to be doing?" I ask, lifting my gaze to stare straight into Dad's brown eyes. "When was the last time you asked me how I am? How school's been? If I need anything? You guys don't even care how I go to school and come back or how I'm coping with my college applications because --"

"Taylor, I'm only asking --"

"You're asking me who that boy was, yes, I know," I snap, my temper rising. I curl my hands into fists in my lap and struggle to keep my tone even. "His name is Shane Gray. He's our school's backup quarterback, a star student, rich, popular, and probably going to Stanford because of his amazing application. Is there anything else you'd like to know, Mr. Ming?"

Dad winces, his face swelling red and nostrils flaring. My dad has never been the kind of man to burst out in flames of rage. He would rather sit and wait for things to sort out on their own than have a heated discussion about whatever upsets him.

Carter hated it.

He always ranted about how numb Dad is. I didn't mind, not seeing why Carter wanted Dad to shout and yell when he was usually so calm.

'I just want a freaking reaction from him,' he'd say.

He didn't even get a reaction from Dad when he died.

"I don't know how to handle you anymore, Taylor," Dad says, looking away as he stands up. "You're becoming impossible."

"You know what's impossible? Dealing with the two of you," I snap. "You're supposed to be the adults here, aren't you? Then how come I'm the one wondering how to stop my mom from becoming a freaking alcoholic and my dad from turning into a block of stone? Because that's what I feel like I have for parents."

My parents stare at me, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Hurt flashes on their faces but I'm not ashamed of speaking my mind anymore. I'm sick and tired of making excuses for them, telling myself they're still recovering from the loss of their son and that they'll be fine eventually. They're not fine anymore and neither am I, and I'm not going to pretend that's okay anymore.

"I've applied at Washington U," I tell my parents, lowering my gaze to my hands. "If I get in, I'll go to Washington and probably stay there. Not that you guys care but ..."

I look up to see Mom squeezing her eyes shut before heading for the door. She jerks it open and walks out while I watch her leave. Dad stares at the ground, his brow furrowed darkly.

"You're hurting us, Taylor," he says in a low voice.

Swallowing hard, I almost wish I felt a little guilty. I don't.

"Yeah, well, I could say the same thing to you two," I answer.

Sighing, Dad turns away and leaves my room, not closing the door behind him. I sit in bed and stare at the empty space between the doorframe, catching a glimpse of Carter's closed bedroom door through it. A part of me wants to go and just spend some time with his abandoned belongings. I force myself not to do it, though, getting up and closing the door before returning to bed.

Hours pass by but neither of my parents comes back to talk to me. I almost wish they would, but I can't really blame them. Perhaps I have my bitterness to blame for the increasing emotional distance between us. Maybe trying to be more understanding of their side of the story would help us more. Nonetheless, I can't bring myself to do that.

They don't ask me if I've had anything to eat or drink. They don't ask me about Washington. They don't ask me anything. I have half a mind to tell them I fainted in school. Would they even care, though? I feel like the answer is no.

So I sit in bed -- lying down when my butt starts to hurt from sitting too long -- and watch Netflix all evening. When I get bored of the reruns of random shows, I open YouTube and listen to any songs it recommends me. I end up switching between TikTok and Instagram, where I finally settle on Shane's account.

I tell myself it's not stalking. I tell myself I'm completely normal and me scrolling through his pictures and reading all his captions doesn't mean anything. I tell myself it's not deep and whatever is between Shane and I is nothing but some light fun. Sure, he asked me out the other day before we were interrupted by Mom. But that was that. Besides, it's not like I said yes. I mean, he can get any girl he wants.

Why would he even want me?

Shane has more Instagram followers than me and all my friends combined.

I like some of his pictures, laugh at some random videos he's posted of him and his friends, and read all his captions. Some of them are simple and straightforward -- such as 'Game night with the boys' or 'life sucks but school sucks worse' -- while others are deeper. Under one quite an aesthetic picture of the sunset, he's written 'every end is a new beginning'. For another picture, this time of the cast of his broken leg, he's written 'success isn't just winning a game; sometimes it's winning hearts'.

A smile slides onto his lips when I see my name written on his cast, the words I wrote half-visible. 

It's some time in the evening that the doorbell rings. I don't get up until I hear Dad calling me from downstairs. I leave my room and make my way down the stairs, frowning when I see Marla's sister standing at the entrance to my house.

"Hey, where's Marla?" I ask her, panic rising inside me at the sight of her.

"Can you come home with me? I think we kind of need you," she says.

I nod instantly, looking over my shoulder to see my mom and dad standing by and watching me.

"I'm going to Marla's," I tell them before heading out of the door. I don't even care that I'm wearing slacks. It's only Marla after all.

On the way to her house, Marla's sister Georgia tells me how Marla had come back from Boston three days ago but refused to leave her room. Not only has she been in bed for the past three days, but she's also neither eating nor talking to anyone. Even though Marla's mom thinks yelling at Marla is going to help, Georgia disagrees.

"I think she'll be more comfortable talking to you," she says, stopping the family Chevy outside her house. "We just want her to be okay, Taylor."

"I know," I mumble, throwing open the door and jumping out of the car.

I enter the house echoing with multiple sounds and head straight for the stairs leading up to Marla's room. Georgia doesn't follow me, taking her mother aside and telling her to keep the yelling at a minimum. I understand why the lady is worried; her loud-mouth and always-so-sassy daughter has locked herself away from the world after coming home a week before she was due. I'm not Marla's mom but even I'm freaking out.

Knocking on Marla's door, I wait for a response. There isn't a reaction at all and I knock again.

"Marla, it's me," I call when her younger brothers begin to peek out of their rooms because of all the knocking. They're two years younger than Marla and already tall and gangly like the rest of the family, with their tufts of dark hair and long arms and legs.

"She might've died inside," says Cole.

"Shut it, Kay," Mika reprimands him.

The scuffle that begins between them causes me to roll my eyes and turn back to stare at the warning sign on Marla's door.

'Queen's territory: do not fucking disturb.'

Although somebody has rightfully cut out 'fucking' with a black marker, I can read it well enough. Smiling to myself and hoping I'm wrong about whatever happened to Marla while she was in Boston, I knock again, continuing to do so while Cole and Mika slowly get louder and louder.

"Can you two take that somewhere else?" I ask them.

Cole sticks out his tongue at me, choking when Mika wraps an arm around his neck and begins to steer him back into their shared room. The door slams shut behind them but the noise doesn't cease. I sigh and place my ear over the door, flattening my palms against the cool wooden surface.

"My legs hurt, Marla," I call through. "You know I'm sick. What if I have cancer and die on your doorstep?"

The sound of scuffling reaches me from the other side and I smile to myself. Even when she's probably going through shit, Marla can't handle the prospect of me getting hurt. That's probably the only reason she pulls open the door, revealing red eyes and blotchy cheeks, hair that is a crow's nest and clothes she clearly hasn't changed out of since she got back.

"Hey, sorry, I was asleep," Marla lies, sniffling and forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace than anything else.

"Why didn't you tell me you were back?" I ask, entering the room after her and closing the door behind me.

"I just got back today," she says, turning away from me so I won't see her face.

"Really?" I play along. "I can't believe Georgia would lie to me. She said you came back three days ago."

Marla sighs, sitting at the edge of the bed and staring at the floor with hooded eyes.

I walk up to her and stop when I'm close enough to wrap my arms around her shoulders.

"Tell me I need to kill Hashir and I will," I tell her.

Marla drops her head and sniffles.

"What did he do?" I ask, not sure if I should be asking anything at all.

"He broke up with me," Marla whimpers.

I don't know how to feel. Ever since I can remember, Marla and Hashir have been inseparable. They were neighbors before they started dating which was a year before he moved to Boston for college. Even when everyone said long distance would not work out for them, they never let distance come between them. Calling everyday, talking whenever they could squeeze in a few moments ... how could it all fall apart?

"Hashir ... he's dying," Marla weeps.

"What?" I gasp, my brow furrowing.

"He's got HIV, Tay," Marla says, pulling back but continuing to sob.

Unable to believe the shocking piece of information, I stare at Marla.

"Are you serious? But why would he break up with you?"

Marla nods, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "He doesn't know how he got it," she tells me. "Maybe some infected needle? Some razor his barber used? He doesn't know. But he's positive and he says we can't be together because he's afraid I'll contract it and die. Can you believe it? Can you believe he'd do that or that this is even possible? I can't believe it's possible."

"Are you sure he isn't lying?" I ask before I can stop myself. "Maybe he's making up an excuse when he's actually cheating on you or --"

"He said there are treatments and all but it's not easy and he doesn't want to lead me on. I told him it's not like this is the end of life but he said he doesn't want me to waste my life --"

Marla shakes her head and scoffs, wiping her face.

"Dumbass be acting like he already in his coffin," she mumbles.

"You're not worried?" I ask uncertainly.

"Of course, I'm worried. But I'm also angry that he'd break up with me over this. It's not like he's dead. We can work it out."

I nod and she sighs.

"Stay," she pleads. "Please don't go."

I nod without a beat. The thought of Hashir stings me, but even more so the thought of what he must be going through. He loves Marla, I'm sure of it, and Marla loves him.

But sometimes, love just isn't enough.

*.*.*.*.*.*

A/N: Did you know that an estimated 1.1 million people aged 13 and older had HIV in the United States according to a report in 2016, including an estimated 162,500 (14%) people whose infections had not been diagnosed? HIV is transmitted through bodily fluids including blood and semen. The most common methods of transmission include sharing needles with someone or unprotected sex.

Just random information I wanted to share because I'm not your doctor but I write what I want people to know so yeah ... Next chapter, more Shane!

P. S. I changed Marla's boyfriend's name because Shafi and Shane were too similar. Sorry for the confusion.