Present day

“Hey, careful with that!”

I yelp as the box labeled ‘Bathroom’ is smashed against the doorframe to my new apartment. There are at least four glass bottles in there, and I’m pretty sure I hear one of them breaking. Jamie ignores my warning and pushes through with a, “Relax, it’s fine.”

Unfortunately I can’t take it from him because I’m too busy holding the door open for Enzo, who’s right on his heels with a bin full of my clothes. “I have like four boxes, Enzo. Why’d you have to bring your lame-o friend to help me move?”

“Lame-o, good one. Remind me, when do you graduate high school again?”

I stick my tongue out at Jamie’s back. 

“Children, children, play nice.” Enzo sets the bin on the floor and turns it so he can slide it through the doorway. “And Lissa, I know I’m super buff, but even I can’t carry your dresser up a flight of stairs by myself.”

“I could’ve helped,” I protest. 

The boys snicker like I’ve just told a good joke. 

“Oh shut up.” I cross my arms. “I should’ve just hired professionals.”

“You know any professionals who work for pizza?” Enzo pauses in the hallway. “Which room—”

“The one on the right,” Jamie and I answer at the same time. It’s only the fourth time he’s asked this.  

Outside, Amanda finally reaches the top of the stairs, balancing two boxes on top of each other because she’s Amanda. I stick my foot in the door and grab the top one, which was looking like it wanted to slide off.

“This place is nice,” she says appreciatively, setting her remaining box down.

It is nice. It’s also on the mainland, which makes me a little sad, but is more practical considering I won’t be an hour late for my shift every time Point Bridge calls it quits.  I couldn’t afford an apartment on the island anyway. They’re all priced for the tourists who read on Google that St. Martin’s is a “quaint” and “picturesque” place to stop on their way from Toronto to NYC, or vice versa. So considering this place is cheap, modern, and only ten minutes away from work, it’s a miracle my parents found it.

There’s still something painful about the thought that I’m officially not an islander anymore.

“Hey Amanda.” Enzo comes out from my room and pretends to consider my friend. “Is it just me or are you getting shorter?”

He reaches out to ruffle her hair, but she grabs his arm. Faster than you can say “girl boss,” Amanda’s flipped my 200 pound brother over her shoulder like it’s nothing. He lands on the carpeting with a thud.

Jamie looks down at him, shaking his head. “Smooth moves, DeLuca.”

Enzo just wheezes.

I throw my arm around Amanda and squeeze her. “I’m so glad you’re back in town.”

Amanda and I got closer in my senior year, and since she went to NYU, we were able to keep in pretty good touch. She’s just graduated with her master’s in Business Administration and came home to take over The Vineyard, her family’s inn. For the first time in a while, I have a friend my own age that I can hang out with outside of video calls. The fact that she can make Enzo shut up is just a bonus.

Looking embarrassed, Amanda offers Enzo her hand. “Sorry. Reflex.”

“How,” he croaks, using her hand to pull himself upright, “is judo flipping someone a reflex?”

“I teach a women’s self-defense course on the weekends.” She’s blushing now, the color warming her honey-toned skin. “We just finished a session and I guess I’m a little… wired.”

Amanda’s tough and no-nonsense personality clashes horribly with her appearance, since she looks like some kind of fairy. Her big dark eyes and shiny black hair, paired with her heart shaped face, dimples, and slender body type, tend to make people underestimate her, which I know she hates. Reflex or not, she got some satisfaction out of laying out my giant of a brother.

When Enzo can breathe normally again, we finish moving my stuff into my bedroom. My roommate, a quiet girl named Rebecca, is at work, so there’s no one to object when we order pizza and sprawl out across my new living room slash kitchen. After bothering us like the 12-year-old boys they secretly are, Jamie and Enzo head out. Amanda stays to drink wine and catch up for about an hour. Eventually, though, she leaves too, and I’m on my own. 

I know I should start unpacking. That would be the adult thing to do. Instead, I change into the first pair of pajamas I find in the box, throw my blanket and pillows over my bed, and snuggle up with my laptop. I need my comfort shows right now.

An error window pops up when I try to log in.

Password incorrect.

I frown and type in Marco’s Netflix password again. Same results. He must have changed it.

I check the time and mentally calculate the difference for Seattle. He should be finishing up with dinner right about now. It’s a good enough time to call.

He answers with a faraway, “Boys, say hi to your aunt Lissa!”

Shrieks and thuds blare over the speaker, like small children knocking over chairs. I pull the phone away before the ear-piercingly loud “Aunt Lissa! Aunt Lissa!” can make me temporarily deaf. As always, the twins and Jeremy immediately try to catch me up on everything important that’s going on in their lives, all at the same time. 

“Aunt Lissa Daddy fixed my bike and now I ride it super good—”

“I’m going to a birthday party on tomorrow and it’s at the jumpy place—”  

“I lothted two more teef and my fwiend Avewy ith gonna give me fwee dollarth—” 

“That’s so awesome,” I get in, before Marco takes back the phone.

“Well now that you’re all caught up, what’s up baby sis?”

“Not much. Just my life as I knew it is over and everyone I love has betrayed me and by the way what are utilities because Mom and Dad said I have to pay them but I was too embarrassed to ask what it means?” I realize I’m rambling and pause to breathe. “Oh, and how’s Amy?”

“Ugh, the worst.” She must be standing nearby, because his voice is teasing. “Just complaining all the time, yelling at the kids, throwing stuff at me. Pregnancy hormones are scary.”

“That’s right they are,” my sister-in-law says in the background, but I can tell she’s in on the joke. “Do the dishes before I start talking about my feet again.”

“No, not the feet!” Marco’s voice is mock horrified. Then, to me, “Also, there’s no way everyone who loves you has betrayed you, because Jeremy is only six and he just doesn’t have it in him. And utilities are things like water and electricity and heating.”

“I have to pay for that separately?” I groan.

“Welcome to adulthood, kiddo.”

I sigh. “I swear I didn’t call to gripe about my life. I actually just wanted to re-watch the first season of Sweet Tooth, but my computer’s not letting me log in. Did you change the password?”

Marco takes a weirdly long amount of time to answer. “Yes.”

“Okaaaaay…” I wait. “So what is it?”

Another strange, long pause. “I can’t tell you.”

I sit up. “Marco. Brother. Friend. What do you mean, you can’t tell me?”

“I mean, I think it’s time for you to get your own Netflix account.”

“You’re breaking up with me?” I squawk.

He laughs. “Lissa, when I started sharing this account you were twelve and I was a single guy in my twenties. Now you're an adult and I’ve got a wife who’s memorized every episode of Stranger Things verbatim and three boys who won’t sit still for five seconds unless they’re watching cartoons about dragons.”

“What does me being an adult have to do with anything?”

“Adults pay for their own streaming services. Didn’t they tell you that at the last Adulting Support Group meeting?”

“Marco,” I all but whine. “Why are you doing this to me? Everyone else is all over me about growing up, but I thought at least you’d understand.”

“I do understand,” he promises. “But maybe it is time to grow up, at least a little bit.”

I tense up. Marco’s never said that kind of thing to me before. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I love you, but…” He hesitates. “You’re twenty-four now and you’re basically doing the same thing you were in high school. I’m just worried you’re going to wake up one day and regret the opportunities you missed out on.”

Those words sound strangely familiar. Where have I heard that before? 

You’re twenty-four and you do the same thing as when you was sixteen.

We’re just afraid that you’re missing out. 

He. Didn’t.