TODAY WAS JANUARY 27th, and possibly the end of the fucking world.

Monroe was coming over for dinner tonight. And it would either go terribly . . . or terribly.

It wasn't that I didn't have faith in Mom. She had apologized, after all. But Dad refused to acknowledge Monroe's existence, so a whole meal in which he ignored her wouldn't exactly be pleasant.

When Monroe arrived, six o'clock sharp, she brought a bouquet of orchids, petunias, and―of course―violets. I melted as I took it from her, and she kissed the corner of my mouth.

"Monroe," said Mom, faltering a bit. For a moment, I froze. What if she took back everything she had said? What if she hadn't really meant it? But then she added, "It's―um, it's good to have you."

She was trying. At least she was trying.

Dad was already seated at the table. When Monroe and I entered the kitchen, he didn't even look up. Mom bustled around, her yellow oven mitts glaringly bright in the evening dimness, and I cleared my throat.

"Dad, this is . . . Monroe," I said.

Don't be awkward. Don't be awkward. Dad coughed. He flipped to the middle of his newspaper. The headline read: SWIMMING POOL BREAK-IN. He turned the page.

I glanced at Monroe. She glanced back. There was a faint smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. At least one of us was at ease here. I was about to lose my mind.

The silence seemed too loud in between the clatter of the plates and Mom opening the oven. A wave of heat brought warmth to my cheeks, and I felt oddly like I was blushing. Monroe's hand cupped my waist, pulling me slightly into her. I didn't think anyone noticed, thank God. The touch relaxed me.

"Here, take your, um, seats," said Mom, setting down a tray of glazed lamb chops. "Honey, have you . . ." She wiped her hands nervously on her apron. "Honey?"

"Yes, Celia?"

Why was he being so petty? I couldn't believe Dad had it in him to act like a child. Ignoring my girlfriend's existence while she was right here in front of him? That was a whole new level of asshole.

Something hummed inside of me, and I was about to smack my palm flat on the table and say―I didn't know what. Something. But then Claudia skipped down the stairs. When she saw Monroe, her face lit up.

Monroe grinned. Claudia launched herself into Monroe. A hug that took them both back several steps.

"How's my favourite fourteen-year-old?" said Monroe.

"I'm wonderful," said Claudia. "Jubilant. Exuberant, now that you're here."

Mom watched the exchange with her head tilted, just a bit, a faraway look in her eyes. I couldn't tell what she was thinking―I just hoped she wasn't regretting the dinner invitation. As we took our seats, a small smile grew on her lips. "Who's first?"

Once we all had food―honey-glazed lamb and spiced edamame beans―Dad cleared his throat.

"So," he said. "Monroe."

It was . . . progress. Until he peered at her above his glasses, frowning.

"What career are you interested in?" he asked.

Monroe glanced at me before answering. "Something in the justice department, sir. A firefighter, I hope."

"She got into NYU," I added, squeezing her hand under the table. "Early acceptance. It's official."

Mom clasped her hands together. "That's―ah, that's wonderful, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs. Decker." Monroe gave her a half-smile. Dad still didn't say anything.

"So you're gonna be in the city next year?" said Claudia, aghast. "Where'll you stay?"

"In an apartment, probably," Monroe replied.

"But aren't apartments in the city really expensive . . ." Claudia trailed off. Mom had just set down some iced wine. She honed in on it liked a rabid dog.

I shot her a glare and mouthed, What are you, an alcoholic?

She grinned sheepishly and mouthed back, I want to save some for Amita.

I gave her a look that hopefully said, Good fucking luck with that. Mom would never let her have a glass of iced wine, let alone save some of it.

I cleared my throat. "Claudia's right. Aren't apartments in the city expensive? Like, really expensive?"

Monroe shifted in her seat. Beneath the table, she let go of my hand. "No . . ." she said. "Not really."

There was something wrong with that. But before I could question it, Mom announced, "It's time for dessert!"

WHEN MONROE WAS GONE, CLAUDIA SQUEALED. Me and her were the only ones in the kitchen―both Mom and Dad were watching TV in the other room.

"What?"

"You bing-bang-bonged Monroe Kingston!"

"What? I―get that look off your face! No, I didn't!"

"I can tell," Claudia said smugly. "I can so tell. It's all over your face. You're so red it'd make a tomato jealous."

"Stop it," I hissed, glancing over to where Mom and Dad sat on the couch. Neither of them seemed to have heard. "Really?"

"Just be honest."

"Okay," I relented. "Yes . . . I―I did. We slept together. I . . . bing-bang-bonged Monroe."

In awe, she repeated, "You bing-bang-bonged Monroe Kingston. Oh, my God."

"Yeah. But . . . let's talk about the fact that Dad barely even looked at Monroe. That was . . ." My face was heating up again. "So fucking embarrassing."

Claudia winced. "Maybe change takes time. At least . . . at least Mom is starting to be okay."

"She was so awkward," I laughed.

"She's trying, anyway," said Claudia with a grin. "How's Skylarks doing, by the way?"

I blinked. "Skylar?"

"Just for . . . curiosity purposes. Her break-up. Because we're friends. You know. Um."

"Then ask her yourself, if you're such good friends."

I didn't know if I was hallucinating, but Claudia's whole face had pinkened, up to even the roots of her honey-blonde hair. "Fine, I will."

"By the way . . . make sure you're free this Saturday."

"Why?"

A sly smile formed on my mouth. "Olivia and I are gonna perform at the Hamilton café."

"But―Jordana―"

Even though Jordana had quit the band, we were still registered to perform. I'd managed to convince Olivia to go, using my powers of persuasion. Or the fact that it would be the last show we ever did together, now that our band was broken up.

A pinch of sorrow welled up inside of me. I hadn't meant everything to end up like this.

But . . . things could be worse. They could definitely be worse.

As long as Jordana didn't find out about the show, it would go great.

Olivia had also promised to call up her guitarist.

"Jordana doesn't know," I said firmly. "It's gonna be me, Olivia, and someone Olivia knows who can play the guitar. It'll be fun. We can get ice cream or something afteerwards."

"Can I bring Amita?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Fine. But keep it PG-13."

"Please!" Claudia scoffed. "You and Monroe are all over each other, all the time. Haven't you noticed? You, like, make out as a public statement."

"Our one-month mark is this Saturday, too," I murmured, thinking of the feeling of her lips against mine. "Perfect timing."

"Did you see that?" Claudia demanded. "You said it so dreamily. With cartoonish heart eyes, like, popping out of your skull." Her blue eyes flashed. "Oh, my God. You're in love."

"I―am―not," I sputtered.

"Yes, you are," Claudia said smugly. "You love Monroe."

"Keep it down!" I glanced over to our parents. Who, miraculously, still hadn't noticed. "I'm not―that's―"

"You are so in love it's not even funny."

"We haven't even been dating a month."

"So? You're lesbians. And lesbians move in a different time zone. Like, one week is practically marriage. By those standards, you're really slow. Besides . . . you've had the whole slow-burn, sexual-tension thing going on for six months, so . . ."

"Alright, alright!" The room was getting too hot. "Shut up. Also, Saturday, remember? Don't you dare forget. It's really important to me. If you forget, I will literally never speak to you again. We'll be estranged. I won't even attend your funeral."

"Harsh," said Claudia mildly, still grinning.

I rolled my eyes.

And then, to my horror, she started singing: "Talia and Monroe, sitting in a tree . . . B-I-N-G-B-A-N-G-B-O-N-G-I-N-G . . ."

ON SATURDAY, I FOUND CODY AND THE CUTE waiter sitting together at a table near the front.

"You two are early," I said suspiciously.

Cody shrugged, his hand entwined with the waiter's, whose name I still hadn't learned. "He got off his shift half an hour ago. We figured we should just wait for you."

The performance would be starting in twenty minutes. On the stage, Olivia was setting up the microphones. My drum set was already positioned, gleaming under the bright spotlight.

Glimpsing through the curtains, I saw the front door open. Aaron waved excitedly when he saw me, and he lifted me into a giant bear hug, spinning me around.

"I know you're worried 'cause this is your last show as a band," he said, "but maybe Olivia will change her mind. And maybe the guitarist will like you guys so much she decides to join the Cum Glowsticks. Who knows?"

"Yeah, I guess," I mumbled. How had he known exactly what I was afraid of? "Actually, that―that made me feel better. Thanks, asshole."

"No problem, fucker." He patted me, and he took a seat next to Cody.

Skylar arrived five minutes later, her white hair lit with a sheen of violet, like the inside of the moon. She seemed to glow, almost ethereal. Next to her, Claudia nearly missed a step trying to catch up. I saw her face turn bright red.

Behind Claudia, I noticed Amita. She stayed far, far away from Skylar.

I almost smiled.

Skylar kissed me hello, and Claudia said, "Break a leg."

Less than fifteen minutes until the show started.

I climbed back onto the stage, helping Olivia adjust the microphone. "Where's your guitarist?"

Olivia frowned. "She's not here yet?"

"No," I said. "No one with a guitar in sight." And speaking of people who weren't here, neither was Monroe. I'd asked her to come when I first made with the plan; she knew how much this event mattered to me. But I wasn't worried. I knew she'd be here.

I couldn't say the same about the guitarist.

Ten minutes left.

This felt the same as waiting for Jordana. Only worse. Because this was our last performance. And if it went badly, the band would never get back together.

"Talia?" said Olivia in a small, too-high voice.

"Yeah?" I was testing out the feel of my drumsticks, tapping them lightly against the bass, the cymbals.

I didn't look up until Olivia said, "Did you invite Jordana by any chance?"

"No," I said sharply. "Why?"

But I didn't need Olivia to answer. Because right at the front, arguing with the manager, gesturing towards us, was Jordana herself.

Skylar hopped onto the stage. I barely heard her speak. "That fucking bitch is here. Want me to get rid of her?"

Olivia nodded frantically.

I glanced down at my watch. Five minutes left. Where was the guitarist?

If the guitarist didn't show up, Jordana would be so smug about watching us embarrass ourselves. We'd have to cancel the show. We'd . . . have proven her right.

The shame flushed through me, so hot I couldn't breathe. Like fire.

And Monroe. Where was Monroe? I'd asked her to come, and she'd assured me―with that sweet, cocky smile of hers―that she would be here. That she wouldn't miss it for the world.

"I'm going to go drag that bitch out into the parking lot," Skylar said.

I hadn't noticed Claudia standing a few feet away from Skylar. But I did now, as Claudia bit her lip eagerly. She watched Skylar in a way that was so familiar I couldn't place it. "I'll come with you!" she offered.

She looked back. At Amita, who was shying away as if ready to bolt.

"Will you come, too?" she asked Amita.

I didn't think that question was so much about the parking lot fight as it was about loyalty.

"No way," Amita said.

Claudia's jaw flickered. I had a feeling Amita had said the wrong thing.

Not entirely sure of what had just happened, I focused on Jordana again. A sneer curled her lip as she strode towards us, cutting between the cafe's tables. Right to the stage.

"Humiliating," Jordana said. "You thought you could be Jordana and the Fairies without Jordana?"

"You picked that name," I reminded her.

She placed both palms on the stage floor, hoisting herself up so she could be level with Olivia and I. Then she advanced.

Her face only inches from mine, she spat, "You thought I wouldn't find out? It was my reservation. Without me, you and Olivia are nothing. Worthless. Look at you now, for God's sake! Where's your guitarist?"

Olivia stumbled back, tripping on one of my drums. She fell back into a cymbal, and the loud, echoing nose of it drew the attention of the whole café.

Complete silence dripped through the air.

I had never been more aware of everything. The harsh spotlights. The drumsticks still loosely grasped between my fingers. The daze that crawled through my veins, numbing all sensation. Every single person in the café was watching us. Watching Jordana humiliate us.

"We don't need you," I said in a half-choked, raspy voice.

Not enough.

"We don't need you," I said, louder. "And Olivia started this band. We can do it without you. You're"―and I stood up now, making sure she could see me, could see the rage in my eyes―"replaceable."

Her lips parted. A scowl was already creasing her forehead.

"We have a guitarist," I said, hoping to hell the guitarist would show up right now and make a grand entrance.

"You need me. Admit it."

"No," I said, leaning over my drums, even closer towards her. From another angle, it might have looked like we were about to kiss. But there was no romance in the air between us―only a storm that had been brewing for a long, long time. "We don't."

Jordana's face twisted.

And I whispered, "Fuck you."

There might have been applause―probably from Skylar, who was one of the only people who could hear me whisper those two words―but I barely registered it. Jordana's palm collided with the side of my face, and the sting made me so dizzy I stepped back. Crashing into my drums.

If I thought it had been embarrassing before, it was worse now. I had fallen right into my bass drum, and I had definitely bruised something. The smash was deafening. My cymbal rattled against the floor, louder than anything I had ever heard in my life.

The spotlight was blinding. Olivia rushed to help me up, but it was too late. The damage had been done.

Our last performance―ruined.

Jordana leered above me.

But even though she had just destroyed any chance of our band, I knew I had won.

I had hurt her. I had hurt her so badly she had slapped me.

Good, I thought, even as tears of frustration sparked in my eyes. Olivia's hand was steady against mine, pulling me up. And I noticed Skylar dragging Jordana off the stage, fingers clutched in her collar. But it didn't help. Because now that the focus was off her, it was on Olivia and me.

The entirety of the Hamilton café was staring at us. The spotlights were blinding. I felt like I was in a really bad dream―because this couldn't be real. This couldn't possibly be real.

The knowledge of my victory faded under the scrutiny of the crowd. I felt like I was alone, standing naked and bared for all the world to see. They were judging me―everyone.

Heat raced up my arms. Each breath echoed in my ears. I heard nothing but the sound of my own wild heartbeat. I picked myself up, and I didn't hesitate: I ran.

THE GUITARIST STILL HADN'T shown up, an hour later. Not that it mattered. Not that it mattered at all. But I couldn't stop thinking of it.

Because even if the fight with Jordana hadn't gone down, even if she hadn't pushed me into one of my drums, we wouldn't have been able to perform anyway. We had no fucking guitarist.

Maybe the universe just . . . really, really, really fucking hated me.

"It's okay," Aaron tried to soothe. "She's a bitch. And Skylar gave her a black eye. Actually, two."

"Whatever," I snapped. I couldn't be consoled, not right now. The band―this last chance to redeem ourselves―had gone right out the window.

I didn't know who I was more mad at. Monroe, or the missing guitarist.

I was pretty fucking furious with both.

Monroe hadn't come. I'd texted her. Called her. If there was one person I wanted after that humiliating ordeal, it was her. I wanted her to hold me in her arms and tell me it wasn't a big deal, that everyone would forget, that everything was going to be fine.

I knew Aaron was trying to do the same thing. Knew who he was doing his best.

But I was just―furious. Maybe, most of all, with myself.

All four of us were sitting in a table near the back. Olivia had left, and so had Claudia and Amita. I would have, too, but Skylar had mistakenly ordered everything on the menu right before my show, so now it was up to us to eat all of it. It was the only possible reason I would have lingered in the Hamilton café after that ordeal.

"Oh, shit, Talia," said Skylar, reaching over a platter of shrimp to tilt my face. "There's a cut on your cheek. That bitch must have had rings on."

I jerked back from Skylar's hand. She paused in mid-air. "Just―don't, okay? Whatever. Don't fucking touch it."

I was being a bitch, I knew. But the anger had boiled down to every pore.

The one person I wanted wasn't here when I needed her the most.

And that hurt. That hurt like hell.

Maybe I . . . maybe I did love her.

Maybe that was why this hurt so much.

And then, rumbling through the floor, I heard the sound of a motorcycle engine.

I heard the sound of the front door opening, and the curtains swishing, and a beautiful, terrible voice saying, "Talia!"

She held an enormous bouquet of violets. She was breathless, as though she'd just run all the way here from God knew where.

"Monroe," I said coldly.

She stopped at our table, setting down the gigantic bouquet. Her eyes met mine, and she raised one eyebrow. A smile was still on her lips. Those beautiful, infuriating, luscious lips.

I had never hated her so much as in that moment, beautiful as she was. It might have been due to the fact that I'd just figured out I loved her.

"Talia," she said.

"You're late," was all I could come up with.

"I'm―I'm sorry." The smile faded. Her chest still rose, up and down, up and down. Her leather jacket carried with it the scent of jasmine.

Jasmine?

That wasn't sea salt. That wasn't lemon. That wasn't her scent.

I recognized that perfume. I'd sprayed it on my wrist before.

Had she . . . no. I couldn't go there. That was too much, and it was too terrible, and I loved her, and I trusted her, and I knew she had to have a good reason.

But logic failed me at that moment.

"How about we go outside?" I suggested stiffly.

Cody's fingertips touched me lightly as I stood, a supportive gesture. I just shook him off. I was practically vibrating with the urge to let out all of my embarrassment, my frustration, my fury.

I didn't even realize we were out of the café until I noticed the grey sky above us. It looked exactly as it had the day we met.

"Why weren't you here?"

We were alone, hidden in the back of the cafe's parking lot.

Monroe's jade eyes were clear, as crystalline as the Mediterranean. "What's . . ." She stepped closer, brushing my jaw with her thumb. The sensation brought a shiver to my spine. "What's on your face? Is that . . . a cut?"

"Why weren't you here?"

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "There was―something came up. And I couldn't make it in time."

Before she could protest, I grabbed her hands.

Examining them.

Her knuckles were red. But the blood wasn't fresh. And the bruises were there, but they had faded.

For the first time in my life, I was horrified to realize that she hadn't been fighting.

Because if there hadn't been a brawl . . .

Another girl. Another girl. Another girl. It became an anthem, beating hot and fast like a disembodied heart of its own. Another girl.

That jasmine perfume. The guilty look in her eyes. It had to be.

Even though Monroe had never given me a reason to doubt her. She had never given me a reason not to trust her.

But I couldn't help it. I really couldn't. All sense of rationality had evaporated. I needed―I just needed.

I loved her. I loved her, and she hadn't been there for me, and even if it wasn't her fault, I didn't know who else to blame. And God, I wanted someone to blame.

I crossed my arms. "Are you cheating on me?"

My voice didn't break. Didn't crack.

I was cold. So cold I didn't even recognize myself.

Monroe blinked, and she took a step back. Her dark eyebrows pulled together. Confusion marring the surface of her tan face. "What?"

"Did. You. Cheat. On. Me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I said―"

"I know what you said." Her eyes flashed, and anger of her own rose up to meet mine. I reveled in it; I embraced it. Fire. "Why would you―God. Talia. Why would you say that? What the fuck?"

Tears were blurring my vision. "Because I needed you! Because you weren't there! Because you keep avoiding my question! Why can't you just tell me where you fucking were, and if you weren't fighting, then where?"

It started to rain.

Droplets of water clung to Monroe's long lashes. Voice rough, she said, "That's what you think of me? That if I wasn't fighting, I had to be cheating on you?"

"No! I―" Some part of me recognized that she was right. That I had assumed the worst. But I couldn't back down now. The fire was too hot. "I need―needed you."

Some of the anger faded. She touched my cheek. Her fingertips ignited my skin, an electric shock. "Who did this to you?"

"What does it matter?" I shouted, turning my head so her fingers would slip away.

The rain fell harder.

"Because I l―"

For a half-second, the world stopped.

I froze.

She froze.

"Because I'm your girlfriend," she corrected, so quickly I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't been listening. "I care, okay? I care, Tal."

I almost screamed. "But you don't tell me anything. I just want you to trust me."

"Well, Talia." She set her jaw. Rain sluiced down her face. Darkening her hair. "Trust goes both ways."

"So," I said, blinking back tears. "I guess we're over."

"I―" Shock flitted over her expression, so fast I almost didn't notice. And then she hardened. "Is that what you want?"

My pride burned. It burned every little piece of me, every bit of rationality screaming, No! No! No!

It burned, and it devoured, and it ravaged me. This fire. This glorious fire. I let it.

"Yes," I said, in a voice so soft it seemed like someone else's. "That's what I want."

"So this is it?"

Our one-month anniversary. Our thirty days of happiness.

"This it it."

Monroe's eyes were cold, so cold. Lightning cracked overhead, but neither of us moved.

I could feel my clothes sticking to my body. I could feel my hair, drenched against my neck. I could feel the way my heart beat, traitorously, louder than the smattering rain. Liar, it whispered. Liar. Liar. Liar.

"We're breaking up, then," said Monroe. And there was so little emotion in her voice that something in me cracked in two. "You want to break up?"

I closed my eyes. I shut out my thoughts.

I thought of Monroe's jade stare. The bruises that smeared her knuckles, like paint. The way she'd moaned my name, the way she'd come with my head between her thighs. The way we had kissed, for the first time, with fireworks in the night sky.

No, not in a million years. Never. Never. Never.

"Yes," I whispered. "I want to break up with you."

A breath loosened from her chest. In the pouring rain, I heard her more clearly than I had ever heard anything in my life:

"Then so do I."

***

This hurt. This hurt so bad. I need to recover.

From the moon and back,
Sarai