She frowns. “Because he has a horrible last name.” I raise my brows, silently motioning for her to tell us. “It’s Litoris.” She hangs her head in shame as the both of us burst out laughing.

“I’m sorry,” I say in between trying to catch my breath. “But that can’t be true.”

“It is! I even Googled him.”

“Dude, that’s unfortunate,” Kendall adds. “But if he ever runs for Senate, I’ll be sure to vote for Mr. Litoris.” That cracks us up even more as Zoe shakes her head and scowls.

“Laugh all you want.” She groans. “But his tongue is definitely nothing to laugh at.”

“I bet not.” I smile, biting down on my lower lip to hold in the laughter at her embarrassment.

The waitress arrives with our food shortly after, and we start a new topic of conversation, one that doesn’t cause lack of air from laughing too hard.

“So your mom wants you to come home for spring break this year,” Kendall asks once we begin eating. “You going?”

I keep my head down and shrug. “I don’t know. I really don’t want to.”

“How pissed will she be if you don’t go?” Zoe asks.

“Probably pissed enough to never talk to me again, which just might be enough of a reason to not go in the first place.” I smirk, knowing they’ll understand what I mean. My parents and I never really mended our relationship after Ari’s death. It was just kind of there…not moving or evolving. Once I graduated high school, I couldn’t wait to move away.

“You know they have coffee here,” Zoe says, eyeing my Starbucks cup and changing the subject. She knows I hate talking about my family.

“Gah! What is it with you two? I do know.” I grab it and pull the straw into my mouth before setting it back down. “But they don’t have it the way I like it.”

“Filled with caramel and sugar?” Kendall laughs.

“I live on four hours or less of sleep every night. Caramel and sugar are the only things that keep my eyes open.”

Kendall lets out an audible sigh. “I’d feel sorry for you, but the fact that you have more strange men doing the walk of shame every weekend than I have pairs of shoes, I don’t feel sorry at all.”

“Stop exaggerating,” I retort as Zoe begins to laugh. “It’s not every weekend. And sometimes they only get to third base, thank you very much.”

“What’s your definition of third base?” Zoe asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

“No penetration,” I answer matter-of-factly.

Zoe snorts.

We continue talking and eating. If it weren’t for these two, I’d feel really lost—more than I already feel. They’re the closest thing I have to any kind of healthy relationship, even though they don’t really know all of me. They know what I show and tell them, but most of the time, they see what I want them to see. Not the inside that’s burning with unbearable pain and guilt. But they get more than I give anyone else, and sometimes I even find myself thinking of them like sisters—that is until the guilt eats at me.

MORGAN

I never expected to be back in California after the way I left five years ago. I hadn’t even come back to visit my parents, and thinking back on it makes me feel like absolute shit. However, six months ago, I said goodbye to Ohio and moved back to my home state.

Not by choice.

Fortunately, I found a house to rent close to the California School of Liberal Arts where I was able to get a teaching job. I had to leave Ohio without much notice, so once I arrived back home and secured a job, I had four months left until I started at CSLA. Between unpacking and prepping my semester syllabuses, those four months flew by. I did everything I could to ignore the ache in my chest at being back in the same town as her—Jennifer—one of the reasons I left in the first place. Everything to ignore the pain and focus on something else—anything else.

Natalia is the other reason those months flew by. She’s my high demanding and sarcastic eleven-year-old niece who’s complained about my cooking every night since she moved in with me.

She’s also taught me a lot in the time she’s lived with me.

Eleven-year-old girls do not like when you walk them into the school building. They also don’t like when you kneel down to tie their shoe. They also may possibly scream when you walk into the bathroom—forgetting you, in fact, do not live alone anymore—and they are only in a towel.

Oh, the things I’ve had to quickly learn to accommodate Natalia.

But I love her. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.

And we’re trying to figure it out—even though we’re both grieving.

My heart aches at the memory of getting the call six months ago. My mother was so hysterical that I could barely understand anything she was saying. Once they translated into actual words, the walls began to close in on me. I was in shock. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

Six months later, and I still feel that way, except now I’ve learned to ignore it. The pain stings to the point of bitterness. Bitter that it happened. Bitter that I had to come back. Bitter that I have no idea how to raise a child.

Painting is my solace or was at least. I haven’t been able to paint a damn thing since then, which is really fucking ironic since I’m an art professor. But what choice do I have? I need a job and it’s the only thing I know. But if there’s one thing I know about the power of painting is when you need it most, it’ll eventually pull you out of whatever shit you’re dealing with—or so that’s what I’m hoping for anyway.

“Knock, knock,” I hear from my doorway. I quickly look up and notice it’s Claire—again. She’s been coming to my office every day for two weeks as I’ve been rapidly trying to prepare for my classes that are resuming soon. Since I’m coming in halfway through the year at spring semester, I’ve been looking over students’ art portfolio’s to get ideas of their strong suits so I can coordinate my syllabus to their needs.

“Hi, Claire,” I draw out slowly, the annoyance in my tone going right over her head as she invites herself in. “What’s up?”

She settles in on the chair across from my desk. Her skin-tight pencil skirt nearly rips in two as she crosses her legs and arches her back, pushing her breasts firm against her thin blouse. She flips her blonde hair, exposing the flesh of her neck. I shudder, wondering what’s made this woman so insecure that she feels the need to throw herself at me.

“Well, I thought since you’ve been working nonstop and have hardly taken a break to even eat lunch most days, we could go out for drinks tonight.” Her tongue runs along her lower lip just before pulling it in between her teeth and biting it. “Celebrate your new job and the start of a fresh semester,” she continues with an encouraging smile.

“As much as I’d love that…” She doesn’t hear the condescending tone in my voice by the wide, girly smile that spreads across her face. “I’ll have to take a raincheck. I’m taking Natalia to a movie tonight before I get busy with work again.” It’s a lie, but she doesn’t even as much as flinch on another rejection. She’s only asked me out a dozen times, and I’ve found a way to get out of each of them.

How her brain isn’t connecting the dots to, I’m not interested is beyond me. If she were any other woman at a bar or we shared the same mutual friends, I’d have no issues letting her know it was never going to happen. However, to avoid pissing my colleagues off before class even begins, I have to play nice for now.

Truthfully, if it weren’t for a certain portfolio that’s captivated my attention, I’d be doing all this prep work from home. But there’s one specific student—Aspen Evans—that’s grabbed my attention more than the rest. She has high honorable mentions, has excelled in all of her classes, and already has some letters of recommendations for graduate school. She passed into the accelerated art program with flying colors.