Though it hadn’t bothered me too much when I used to come over. I was able to overlook his grimy tendencies so easily. That should have been an obvious sign of my feelings for him. Nothing says I love you like not bitching about dirt and clutter.

I went to leave the note on the dresser when something caught my eye.

In the middle of discarded Twizzler wrappers and piles of change was a collection of hair ties. Blue, red, pink, purple. They were twisted into a knot and placed on top of a small wooden box.

Small hair ties. Stretched out hair ties. All mine. Some of them I had left by accident. Others I had purposefully kept in his room so that I had one should I need it.

And they were still there. A year since the last time I had entered his room.

I picked up the bundle of hair ties, gripping them in my hand. I rested my hand on the lid of the box debating whether to open it.

Don’t, Gracie. You’ve already rudely entered his room without being invited, don’t make it worse.

They say curiosity killed the cat. My curiosity almost broke my heart.

I opened the box with shaking hands and reached inside. My fingers closed around a stack of photographs, which I promptly lifted out.

I shouldn’t be looking at these. I need to put them back, leave the note, and get the hell out of his room. It wasn’t right to snoop around like this.

Whatever. Of course I was going to look. Who wouldn’t?

So I started going through them. One at a time.

I didn’t realize that I was crying until tears fell on the glossy prints.

They were photographs of me. Each and every one of them.

Some were of Mitch and me together. Others were of me with our friends. Some, I was by myself. They were candid and honest. They captured a Gracie that was natural and uninhibited. I hadn’t even known I was being photographed.

Some people would have been weirded out by that. I wasn’t. Not at all. These pictures revealed a woman I had almost forgotten about.

A woman that was happy.

Wiping away tears, I started to put them back when something caught my eye. It was a picture towards the back that I had almost overlooked. The longer I stared at it, the harder my tears fell.

In the photo, Mitch and I were standing by a raging bonfire behind Garrett’s house. I didn’t know who had taken it, but whoever it was had captured something honest. Something completely real.

Mitch had his arm slung around my shoulders. I was looking up at him, my eyes intense and hungry. We were both smiling. Only inches apart. Mitch’s hand was frozen just as he was about to touch my face.

It was a beautiful picture. The fire and the smoke created an artistic haze over our figures.

But that wasn’t what left me reeling.

It was the look on our faces.

We looked in love.

No one could see it and think anything else.

I flipped it over and saw a date in Mitch’s chicken scratch handwriting.

July 4th, 2013.

2013.

The photograph was from two years ago.

Two years.

Even then my heart had known that I loved him. My brain may have been in denial, but I knew.

I clutched the photograph to my chest and felt almost sick about all the lost time. The missed chances.

I had been such a fool.

Carefully I put the pictures back, closed the lid, and replaced the hair ties. My hair ties. The ones Mitch kept.

With trembling fingers I left the note for him propped against the box and wiped the lingering tears from my face.

It was time to leave.

I shut the door on our memories, hoping that we weren’t too late to make new ones.

Rows of family photographs lined the walls of my parents’ living room. Mom had turned on the gas fireplace and the house was toasty and warm. It had started to snow late in the day and there was a fine dusting already on the ground. I hoped the roads stayed clear enough for me to get home.

Because hell if I was spending the night.

Anyone looking at the framed pictures would think we had lived a perfect life. Posed photo ops of Christmases and birthdays. First days of school and gymnastics meets.

I was obviously the center of my parents’ world. Oh the fun of being an only child. I was the entire focus of their pride. And more often than not, their disappointment.

My parents were good-looking people. My dad was tall and rugged. Mom was beautiful and refined. And I was the cherry on top of the perfect genetic cake. A lovely combination of my mother’s blonde hair and my dad’s blue eyes.

They loved me. I knew they did. But their love came with a price. Absolute and total obedience. It was expected and required if I wanted to exist in harmony with them.

“There you are! I didn’t even hear you come in,” my mother said¸ breezing in from the kitchen wearing a lacy apron straight out of a Leave it to Beaver episode.

“I just got here,” I replied, air kissing her cheeks so as to not smudge her make-up.

“You father just called and there’s a pile up on 64, so he’ll be another thirty minutes.” She pulled back the curtains and looked outside at the falling snow. “It looks treacherous out there. You should plan to spend the night in your new room.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Because in my mom’s mind there was no room for argument.

“I can’t, Mom. I’m supposed to go to Vivian and Cole’s new apartment after dinner.”

Mom waved away my comment. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then she frowned as she registered what I said. “Vivian has a new apartment? When did this happen?”

Crap. Way to step in it, Gracie! “She’s not moving for a few weeks,” I explained.

Mom smiled triumphantly and I knew what was coming. I braced myself for it.

“Well, that makes your decision to move back home much easier. If Vivian’s moving out, there’s no reason for you to stay in that cramped shoe box you call an apartment.”

“I like my apartment, Mom. And with my new job I can easily afford the rent on my own,” I said tiredly. I was already exhausted and I had just gotten there. It wasn’t a good indication of how the evening was going to pan out.

“Why waste your money on your own place when you have a beautiful room just upstairs. You wouldn’t have to pay for anything,” Mom protested. She took me by the elbow and steered me towards the stairs. “Go up and have a look at what my decorator did with the space. I’ll be up in a minute. I just need to check on the casserole.”

Ugh. Casserole. My mother loved making them and I hated eating them. They tasted like bitterness and resentment.

But I did as she asked.

I climbed the stairs opened the door to the room I had grown up in. As I had suspected, all remnants of my childhood were gone. Gone. Except for the small brown teddy bear I had slept with as an infant. Mr. Itchy—strange name, I know—sat in the middle of my queen sized bed that was no longer covered in pink and black checks, but now sported a very classy green and white stripped duvet.

The walls had been painted cream and the large picture window was dressed in heavy green damask. My mother had even gone so far as to replace my old vanity with an antique table and cushioned bench. A brand new laptop sat on top.

I sighed heavily, walking further into the room. Mom’s decorator had done a great job. If it had been a hotel. Because it felt sterile. Cold.

Sort of like my relationship with my parents.

There was nothing in the space that screamed Gracie Cook. But I knew that my mother would expect me to be pleased with the transformation. She loved it, so of course I should too.

“What do you think?” My mom stood in the doorway and inspected her handy work. She pointed at the window. “The material for the curtains was very expensive. But I think it turned on wonderfully.”