THE MORNING AFTER, I WOKE UP to a raging headache and five missed phone calls.

        Aaron's room―this was Aaron's room. But how had I gotten here? The party . . . Skylar in the bathtub . . . Cody in the sink . . . Aaron making out with Brady . . . and then what? And then what?

       The realization hit me―like a bolt of lightning. I clapped one hand to my forehead, and remembering the kiss with Samantha Reyez felt about as close to electrocution as I'd ever get. Jesus fucking Christ. And Monroe―Monroe.

       Monroe had seen. Had said . . . no. What had she said?

       Everything blurred after I saw her. Jade eyes blinking, wide, and then a shadow on her face. Samantha's slurring voice in my ear, saying, saying, saying―

      God. I had no idea what she'd said. 

      With one shaky hand, I picked up my phone. Scrolling through the five calls: Claudia. Aaron. Aunt Whitney. And two unknown numbers.

      Either call them back, or think harder about what happened last night between me and Monroe.

      Okay, I thought. And I dialed Claudia's number.

      The second the call connected, she squealed into the phone. "Talia!"

      I held the speaker at arm's length. Wincing. "Claudia. Yes. Hi."

      "Tell me―tell me―you got back together! Tell me you had make-up sex last night! Where's Monroe? Let me talk to her! You guys were so stupid for breaking up, I don't―"

      "She's not here," I mumbled.

      "She's not―you didn't get back together?"

      "No. I don't―want to remember. We went outside. That's it."

      Claudia's voice weakened. "But. She took you home. She carried you onto her motorcycle, she―you're still broken up with her? Talia, I'm going to wrangle your―"

       I hung up. Maybe I'd broken up with Monroe, but I didn't think she wanted me anymore. And I wasn't really in the mood to hear it from my little sister.

       Next was Aaron. He had left me a voicemail, so instead of calling him, I opened it up: "Hey, Tal."  Sounds of the party, and glasses shattering, reverberated behind him. Cheers and shouts and something that splashed like water.

       Oh, God. I hoped he hadn't drowned in the swimming pool.

       "Hey, sorry, Tal,"  he continued. "Background noise. Um. I know I was supposed to be your ride home―but I think―I'm slightly intoxicated. So. I'm very, very sorry."

       And then something that sounded suspiciously like Brady's voice said: "Come on, man, let's go swimming. I know a few underwater tricks . . ."

      Except the undertone was so dirty my mouth fell open. 

      Maybe Aaron had lost his virginity last night. 

      "I probably, definitely, won't be home tonight,"  Aaron continued. "Try not to―I don't know, do anything dangerous."  Like get ass-over-tits drunk? Already checked that box. "Don't be fucking stupid. Have some fun. Live a little. Fuckin' loser. Love you."

       The voicemail ended, and I found myself smiling. Just a little. No wonder I was in Aaron's bed―he wasn't home. Hadn't been home the whole night. Which meant Claudia was right, and Monroe had brought me home.

       Why? Why didn't she just leave me in the middle of the road for someone to run over? That'd be more bearable than remembering just what, exactly, it was I'd said to her. Her arms, braced beneath my knees, my neck, my cheek on her chest . . . I'd whispered . . . I'd whispered . . . Kiss me . . . 

       No. No, no, no. I didn't want to remember.

       Although. I did want to know. What had her answer been?

       No. I don't care. Don't care. Don't care.

       Next up to call was Aunt Whitney: I remembered her mane of curly red ringlets, the colourful crystal gems that had adorned her rings. The way she'd said, The world, while looking into Elena's eyes. When I dialed her number, she answered after the eighth ring.

       "Talia!" She sounded breathless. From what kind of exertion, I didn't want to know. Elena giggled in the background. "Hi! Baby! My beautiful niece!"

       "You called me last night, right?"

       "Oh, yes. I did do that . . . yes. I did. Guess where I am right now."

       Last I remembered, her and Elena sold their house in Houston to travel around the world. So, really, she could be anywhere. "Egypt?" I ventured.

       Aunt Whitney laughed loudly, dizzily. "No, I am currently in Bora Bora. Would you like to come?"

      "Bora Bora? Would I―" I pressed a hand over my mouth. "Yes!"  And then I hesitated. "But school. And Mom and Dad. And―I don't know. It's expensive. I can't."

       Elena said, "Already paid for."

       Breezily, Aunt Whitney added, "Your mother and father know. I told them. It's a surprise―for you. The flight is in a month, for about a week. And there's two tickets."

       "Two tickets? Claudia's going to be thrilled―"

       "Claudia's not coming," said Aunt Whitney. "She has a―what was it again, Elena dear? What'd she say?" 

        Elena whispered, "Soccer try-outs, love."

        "Soccer try-outs!" Aunt Whitney laughed again, louder. If sound could sparkle, it would sound like that. "Yes, she didn't want to miss those, she told us. So I'm afraid there's one extra ticket left. How's your . . . boyfriend?"

        For a moment, I froze. Boyfriend? What boyfriend?

        Then I realized the last time I'd seen Aunt Whitney and Elena, I'd still been with Aaron. I hadn't updated them on the break-up . . . or the subsequent girlfriend. 

        "I'm―single," I managed to say, without falling apart.

        "Oh, that's lovely," Aunt Whitney exclaimed. She must have been glad I wasn't with Aaron, but I had a feeling she wouldn't think so if she knew about Monroe.

        "Yeah. Yeah, it's . . ."

        "Anyways! Find out who you're going to bring, and I'll see you in a month, darling. Goodbye." And she was laughing again, but she must have thought she'd hung up, because I heard Elena make a noise that certainly wasn't meant for my ears―

        I ended the call. Swallowed. Thinking, They must be having a good time in Bora Bora.

        THE LAST TWO NUMBERS were harder to figure out. I had no idea who they were, but morning sunlight had begun slanting through Aaron's windows, and it'd only be a matter of time before his dad came in or Aaron came home. When I left, it was inevitable: I'd have to see Monroe. She was right across the hall. 

        Again, I wished she had left me to die in a ditch. Why, why, hadn't she left me to die in a ditch?

       I called the first unknown number, and an unfamiliar, hesitant-sounding girl's voice said, "Hi."

      "Hi?"

      "It's Samantha. Sam. Reyez. I think―we met last night." She giggled―nervously. "I don't really remember much, but . . ."

      "Oh," I said. "Hi. Sam."

      "I just wanted to let you know"―and here, she inhaled a shaky breath―"I've thought you were cute since ninth grade. I mean, you in that band. It's really cool. And as a drummer, I thought you were"―a squeak―"hot."

      She was . . . shooting her shot over the phone. Even as Monroe's face came to mind, even though I knew it would be a long, long time before I even thought about another girl like that, I still respected Sam's guts. This must have been hard.

       "Sam, I―"

      "I know, I know," she said quickly. "I figured. It's okay. I just wanted to let you know."

      "Sam. It's not that you're not beautiful. From what I remember of last night, you really are. And maybe, maybe, if I'd never met . . . if I'd never . . . well, I don't think I'm really over my ex. I'm sorry."

      "It's okay," Sam said, voice growing smaller. "Don't worry."

      "No, really. I think you're . . . pretty. I do. But I'm just not . . . ready." Because it was Monroe; it had always been Monroe; it was always going to be Monroe. Maybe I couldn't know that, maybe I couldn't be sure, maybe I was only fucking sixteen and a kid and I didn't know much about love, but whatever was between me and her, it had done something to me. When it came to love, there was the whole world―and then there was Monroe.

       And I'd pick Monroe. I'd pick her a thousand times over.

      I didn't deserve it: her kindness, the soft way she treated me, even after I'd taken out all my humiliation and hurt and anger on her. Last night, she'd . . . made sure I was tucked safe and sound into bed. Even when we weren't together, even when I'd broken up with her, she'd never been anything but kind to me. Kind . . . and distant. But kind all the same.

       Damn it. Why did she have to be such a good fucking person? Why couldn't she just be an asshole to me? It'd make moving on a hell of a lot easier.

       And after last night―the reply she'd given me, which had been none at all . . .

       "It's okay," Sam whispered. "I . . . hope you have the best of luck. And if not, I guess you know my number now."

       THE LAST NUMBER TURNED OUT TO BE the DMV. The Department of Motor Vehicles was calling me―why?

       "Talia Decker," said an automated voice, "we are calling to inform you that your request for a full motorcycle license has been granted, and you are now the owner of an M classification vehicle . . ."

        Motorcycle license?

        It had worked?

        A few weeks ago, I'd decided to apply at the DMV. Without telling a single soul, without hoping I'd actually succeed. Since I did own a motorcycle―or, at least, there was one in my garage―and if I did have a license, I'd be able to ride anywhere I wanted. So I'd taken both tests, one for knowledge and one on the road with an instructor watching, and they'd told me I'd get my results later, and―

       I'd passed?

       I threw my phone across the room, grabbed a pillow, and screamed into it. Was this what happiness was supposed to feel like? Getting to ride my own motorcycle?

       But before I could really revel in it―the fact that I was now a real motorcycle driver―my phone started vibrating. Another call? 

       I had to crawl across the room to reach it again, and when I did, it wasn't anyone I'd been expecting. It was Olivia.

      "Talia," she said. "I need you to come here, right now, no questions asked."

      I ENDED UP IN OLIVIA'S garage. It was a painful reminder of our band, or our lack thereof. Stupid absentee guitarist. Some nerve they had, never even showing up.

     "What is it?" I asked Olivia, sitting down hesitantly on her couch. I was farther away from her than I normally was. However much we were friends, that talk she'd had . . . about religion . . . I felt a little off-kilter.

     Shame lingers, I thought to myself, almost sadly. I still had a long way to go. Maybe I'd never be done figuring myself out.

     "Talia? Hello?"

     I looked up, feeling my face turn warm. How long had Olivia been trying to get my attention? She moved closer to me, and I tried my best not to stiffen. In her hand, she thrusted her phone so close to my face I had to blink a few times.

     "What's so important?" I said, squinting at the screen. "What are you . . ."

     An ad. An ad?  

     "Just look,"  said Olivia impatiently.

    "Holy shit, is this the Dark Web?"

    "That's not important! Read it, Talia!"

    "Alright, alright . . ." I scanned over the words. "A hiring service. For bad people? What? Do you have a child molester in mind? For a price, it says they'll . . . knock someone out, no bullshit?" I look up at Olivia, eyebrows raised. The grin died on my lips.

    "Do you understand?"

    "Are you okay?" I asked Olivia. "Is it . . . is someone hurting you?"

     "No!" Olivia pushed the phone into my hands and proceeded to bang her head into the wall. "For an overachieving academic smartass, you're so bloody stupid!"

     "I don't get it. Look, alright, I'll read it again. Okay . . . a hiring service . . . who knocks people around for a price? Evidence is required to prove the person you have in mind is a rapist or a predator or an abuser . . . Men only . . . state the level of injury you wish them to acquire . . . and call this number, right here." I looked up. "Okay, and?"

      "And!" Olivia exhaled sharply through her nose. "Does that sound like anyone to you? Like a certain ex, perhaps? Who beats up completely random men for fun? Who comes home with bruises on her knuckles? Who can win against a six foot two, two hundred pound man?"

      "Monroe?" I laugh. "That's . . ." Oh, shit. Strangely logical. 

     "You see it, don't you? The connection? How it might just work?"

      "Okay, but what's to say it's a girl behind all this? And, specifically, Monroe Kingston?"

     "Well, it's an easy fix. Let's call the phone number."

      I wasn't laughing anymore. I switched to the phone app on Olivia's phone and dialed the number from memory. I paused. Olivia's face held a look that said, What are you waiting for?  What was I waiting for? I wanted to know what Monroe did in her free time. I wanted to know how she always got hurt. And this . . . this could be the answer I'd been looking for, the whole time. 

      I pressed dial. 

      Really, I should have put the phone down, slipped on my shoes, and knocked on Monroe's front door. I should have demanded to know the truth, then and there. Asking if this was her, even if it was a long shot. Because in that moment, when the line on the other end picked up, I wasn't prepared.

       No, I wasn't prepared. Especially not for the truth.

      The quiet, dark, melodious voice that I had once loved . . . that I still loved, if I was being honest . . . said, "Give me a name, date and an address."

      Brisk. Commanding. No room for hesitation.

      Olivia's eyes met mine, and the stark realization on her face was more than I could bear. We both recognized the voice. There was no mistaking it.

      I debated hanging up. I debated ending the call right then and there. I could pretend I'd never discovered the truth; I could go on living without Monroe and whatever secret I'd just uncovered. 

      But . . . I didn't want to. And I was tired of things happening to me. 

     I wanted to do something for once.

     So I said, "Talia Decker, March 5th, 471 Willanova Lane."

     My name, today's date, and my address.

     And then I hung up.

     Olivia's wide, startled eyes didn't leave me as I set down her phone and got to my feet. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Are you . . ."

     "Going home?" I closed my hand around the keys to the motorcycle I'd driven here with, shrugging on my jacket. "Damn right. It's time to talk to Monroe, once for all. I need some answers."

***

I'm excited. I'm actually really excited.

From the moon and back,
Sarai