Professor MacDowell bolts to his feet, nearly upsetting his glass of wine, pale with shock and relief. With a whisper of Hazel's name on his lips, he crosses the room in three strides and snatches his son in a crushing embrace.

"Jesus Christ," he grates through clenched teeth, giving Hazel a combination bear hug and shake. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been? You could at least have acknowledged my texts—let me know you were alive, for God's sake!"

"I'm surprised you noticed I was gone," Hazel huffs, shaking free of his father's hold. "I figured it would be a month before you even thought to check my room."

MacDowell lets his hands drop to his side with a look of devastation. "You know that isn't true."

Hazel tries to glare, but can't hold his father's gaze, and looks away, biting his lip as fresh pain twists his face. His eyes meet mine where I still sit at the table, frozen in place like a thief caught red-handed, and my gut churns with misplaced guilt. He would never admit it, but I see how much he envies me and wishes he was in my place, having dinner and an open, honest conversation with his dad.

I set my napkin aside and rise. "I'll give you some privacy," I say, keeping my attention on the professor.

"Don't bother," Hazel interjects, a tearful, angry warble in his voice, and focuses on his dad. "He's the son you've always wanted. You're perfect for each other. I'm the one intruding. I'll go."

He turns and takes a step towards the door.

"Hazelius!"

Hazel flinches a little; I practically jump out of my skin. MacDowell's voice is like a thunderclap—as if Zeus himself had spoken—carrying the stentorian tone and lung power of someone accustomed to giving long lectures in large halls.

Hazel turns and glowers, but says nothing.

MacDowell exhales heavily and speaks in a far quieter tone. "I should have told you this a long time ago, Hazel; and I'm sorry it took a poor excuse for a father to make me want to be a better one. I love you. I always have, and I always will. I've done a lousy job proving it so far, but I want to change that, if you'll give me half a chance."

"Why should I?" Hazel's lip curls, and I flinch again. There's poison in his tone; it's born of hurt, not hate, and it's not aimed at me, but I shy away from it nonetheless.

His father's expression deflates further, from sadness to resignation. "Hazel... I'm fifty-seven years old, pushing fifty-eight. If I'm lucky in health, I have another decade or so of good years ahead of me. Maybe more, maybe less. I don't want us to spend them like this—angry at each other; hurting one another. I want something better for us."

Hazel narrows his eyes. "Right. I should have known you'd make it about you. You want us on good term so I'll take care of you—like you did so well for Mom."

MacDowell flinches as if struck, but to his credit he maintains his calm, and takes the blow without anger.

"You're young," he remarks after a brief pause, "but I hope you're wise enough to admit you've made your share of mistakes." He casts a meaningful glance my way. "If you could go back in time—say something different, set things right—wouldn't you do almost anything for that chance? But you can't. You have to live with it, and hope that those whom you've hurt, and whom you love, will forgive you."

Hazel continues to glare, but nothing the professor has said is untrue or unfair, and he knows it. "Took you long enough to come to that conclusion," he grumbles sullenly.

The lines of MacDowell's face lift with a slight, sad smile. "Another thing you will discover, if you have not already, is that habits are hard things to break—bad ones, especially. I'm trying, Hazel; I'm trying, but I need you to meet me half way. I can't do this alone. I'm not asking you to forget the past, or to forgive everything at once. All I'm asking is that you give me a chance."

Gradually, like melting ice, Hazel's demeanor shifts. He stops scowling, and his mouth twitches with emotion. "Yeah," he says, in a smaller, tighter voice. "I guess I can do that."

He starts to turn towards me, with a different expression and different words on his lips: words I'm not ready to hear.

"Charlie—"

I turn away so quickly I bump the table, making the plates rattle. "I'll give you two some space. Don't worry about the dishes, professor. I'll clean up later." I take a few steps, then stop and turn, meeting Hazel's eyes with a brief glance. "I'm glad you're okay," I say, my words coming out as a strained whisper. "I was worried, too."

His brows pinch, but he keeps his mouth shut and only nods.

Professor MacDowell turns and addresses me. "I understand, Charlie; and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But our home is yours—now, more than ever. Please remember that."

With a quick nod, I turn away and retreat to my room. There, I shut the door, put my headphones on, and lie on the bed, trying to block out everything else—including my own thoughts.

Sometime later there's a knock, followed by the muffled sound of my own name. I take off my headphones and sit up. Swallowing, I call out softly. "Come in."

The handle turns, and the door creaks open, revealing Hazel. He hovers in the liminal space of the frame, neither in my room nor out of it.

"Can I... sit down?" he asks, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched sheepishly.

I gesture, and he perches on the edge of the bed, barely within arm's reach.

He winces and speaks carefully, as if his words are matches and we're surrounded by flammable gas. "Are you okay?"

I toy with my headphones, turning them over in my hands. They were a gift from my mom when I turned sixteen. Though wired, they were considered high-end when new. Now the padding is all flaky, and the connections are worn, so the jack has to go in just right, or they don't work.

"I am, now," I say, not looking at him. "No thanks to my dad, and all thanks to yours."

He flinches. "I'm so sorry, Charlie."

I nod. "I know you are. I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have said what I did. About not seeing you again, I mean."

He sighs. "Yeah, well, I shouldn't have done a lot of things," he says. "And I should have done others. I should have..."

His voice catches, and I risk a glance at him. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. He doesn't reek of BO, but it's clear he hasn't had a proper shower in days, and he looks like shit. His eyes are red-rimmed and sleep-deprived, and it's clear he feels terrible.

Sometimes, remorse is all a person has to offer. If you can't accept it, then the only thing left is punishment, and I don't want to punish Hazel.

"My relationship with my dad was a powder keg, anyway," I say. "I wasn't ready for it to blow up, but... done is done. Let's leave the past in the past, where it belongs."

Hazels expression lifts with hope. "Can you forgive me?"

I consider his words, and search my heart.

"Yeah, I can. Maybe not all at once, or right this moment; but yeah, I can forgive you. I do."

A laugh escapes him, but it's more of a sob. "Someday, I want to hear you say those last two words in a very different setting." He wipes his eyes. "Are we... Can we still be friends?"

I chew my lip, unsure I can give an honest answer that he likes. "Maybe," I say at last. "I hope so."

Tentatively, he asks, "More than friends?"

I look away, blinking against tears. "I don't know. I don't think so, Hazel."

He takes a quick, sharp breath, as if I'd stuck him with a pin—or knifed him in the heart. Releasing it, he lets his shoulders slump, and gives me a small, but genuine smile. "Friends, then," he says.

Still fighting the sting in my eyes, I shake my head. "That's my answer right now; but we don't need to figure everything out right now. You need to figure things out with your dad, first."

"I know." He nods. "This is weird, but... It's like I can see him as a person now. I mean, as not just my dad. Like as a whole person, with a history and... everything. Is that weird?"

I consider, remembering the first time I realized my parents were 'people,' too. Unfortunately, it hadn't made me like them any better.

"It's not weird. It just means you're growing up."

He sniffs. "Will you stay? Here, with us, I mean."

I hadn't thought that far, to be honest. "I don't—"

"Please." He cuts me off, his tone raw and vulnerable, and he touches me for the first time, laying a hand on my arm. "Please, stay. My dad wants you to, and... and so do I."

"I don't have anywhere else to go yet," I say, with a touch of humor.

Intensity undiminished, he stares back at me. "Even if you do—I mean when you do—I want, I mean we want..." He shakes his head. "Please, stay."

Defeated, but not unhappy, I nod. "I won't disappear if you don't."

With another mangled laugh-sob, he opens his arms, and I allow myself to be drawn therein, returning the gesture.

It feels good. His body is warm, and familiar, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't love him, even now.

At the same time, what I told him about my trust remains true: once broken, it can't be mended—at least not completely. Like shattered pottery puzzled back together, the cracks will remain. At the moment, though, it's still in pieces, and it's going be a while before it's anywhere near whole again.