“I get it,” he says, finally accepting my card. “I keep forgetting to take my wallet to school, and I owe two or three people lunch money right now—not a good way to live.”

He doesn’t get it, but it’s considerate of him to downplay my issue by bringing up one of his. I should say something nice about him in return.

“I like your heated seats.”

“Thanks,” he says, smiling.

Abram still hands the cashier his card. I can’t protest because I’m attempting to dry-swallow a pill chunk (I like to break my two-pills-per-day dosage into quarters under the delusion I’m taking more). I manage to cough it down, smiling innocently as he looks over and asks if I’m okay. Thinking the smile is for him, the cashier gives me a perverted look like he knows his way around a taco. Please make it stop. Abram asks for extra packets of mild sauce and drives away.

Look at Abram Morgan behind the wheel, sunroof open, wind in his hair, an overstuffed sack of questionably Mexican food between his legs. Okay, enough. I’m not going to be the girl who pulls him up by the straps of his flip-flops, prunes his scraggly sideburns with a nose-hair trimmer, and transforms him into four-year-college material.

But I’ll admit that there’s a hopelessly endearing quality to him. And coexisting with someone else who’s halfway to orphanhood definitely takes the pressure off. Neither of us feels like we have to give the other a bouquet of daisies just for getting out of bed and taking things one pill at a time.

“Why didn’t you pick up your Paxil at CVS?” Rude of me to ask this right as he’s taking his first bite.

He doesn’t seem fazed, just resumes the bite while making a noise that sounds like a question mark.

“Sorry, I saw a bag of pills next to mine with your name on it.”

“S’okay,” he says, swallowing. “Honestly? I was embarrassed. Thought you’d think I was weird for being on an antidepressant.”

I raise an eyebrow and point to the prescription bag sticking out of my purse.

“Your doctor put you on one, too?” Abram asks.

“I’m sure he would have if I hadn’t faked my ADHD symptoms.”

Abram thinks I’m joking and laughs, saying, “Crazy how quick they are to prescribe meds these days, you know? I’ve never been able to tell if mine are working.”

“So why take them?”

“Hmm,” he says, “habit?”

A few tacos later, Abram is pulling up the driveway of my house before I can tell him to park anywhere else. The blinds covering my dad’s office window remain in place.

“I don’t feel like going in there,” I say, reaching for my purse.

“Then come over to my house,” Abram offers. “My mom is at the casino with my aunt. They’re winning right now, so it could be a while.” He hands me his phone so I can see a picture of his mom—an attractive, harmless-looking blond with buxom to spare—bending down beside a slot machine and smiling. “She’s pretty,” I say, relieved that it’s true. Abram smiles. I can tell he’s proud of her, worries over her, loves her … mostly because I’m reading some of their texts right now. Lots of tech-support questions from her about her iPad and patient responses from him.

“Give me two minutes to lie to my dad,” I say, handing back his phone.

“Take your time.”

*   *   *

I find my father hiding from the world in his cluttered den, sitting at his desk reading several opened books at once. Ben Flynn is a full-time novelist who’s been working on his first book for the last twenty years, thanks to a large trust fund he inherited from his grandfather. Considering I’ve permanently borrowed his credit card, I’m not one to judge. Tonight he’s dressed in his favorite flannel shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking out in Einstein-inspired tufts. A mug of thick, black coffee sits cold in front of him; that’s actually how he likes it. Don’t touch his papers! There are passwords written all over them, and he gets nervous.

I wish he’d let me burn down that old dollhouse perched on the table behind him. It’s his real-life inspiration for how the serial-killer character in his book plotted his murders, right down to the last ketchup-blood stain and overturned piece of mini furniture. If Dad ever finishes The Dollhouse Killer, no one will publish it because it’s basically a rip-off of this one CSI episode that he doesn’t remember watching and I don’t have the heart to remind him he’s seen.

Careful not to disturb his rhythm, I set the box of Hot Tamales next to his coffee. He looks up from his book and does his best to turn up the corners of his lips. I do the same, re-creating his pain; it’s only fair. Hi, Dad.

“Get yourself some new socks?” he asks, popping a Hot Tamale into his mouth and pointing to the pair in my hands.

“They’re for you,” I say, placing them on his desk. He reaches out and runs his fingers along the circulation-improvement material, his sleep-deprived eyes full of gratitude he can’t express without stumbling over his words.

“How’s the writing coming?” I ask.

“Technical difficulties,” he says, pointing to the blue error screen of his 1990s computer. My eyes roll over to the unopened MacBook Pro box leaning against the wall next to his desk. Mom’s gift to him two Christmases ago. Even as she was avoiding him, or screwing him over, which I believe she was at that time, Mom kept trying to help my dad stop being his own worst enemy. He hated the laptop, and she knew he would, but she still took the risk. I always admired her fearlessness. In contrast, what did I get him that year? The safe bet: socks and an ink cartridge for his equally ancient printer. He loved them.

“I’m going back out for a few minutes,” I say. “Heidi’s having lady problems.”

Dad shudders and peeks out the window. “You sure that’s her car?”

“What?”

“Doesn’t Heidi drive a white Volvo with expired license plates?”

“Impounded. That’s her mom’s car.”

He takes off his reading glasses, his gaze steady and full of skepticism. “Or is it the Morgan boy’s?”

I shrug like it could be his car, too, wondering why I didn’t tell Abram I’d meet him at his house.

“What’s the point of this, Juliette?”

“I don’t have an answer to that.”

Dad leans back, runs his fingers through his hair, mulls over this unlikeliest of plot developments. “I’m sure you can understand why I wouldn’t want you riding around in a car with the son of that man.”

“Yes, Dad … but I’d understand more if we weren’t just going right down the road.”

“Most accidents occur five miles from home.” He starts talking about this teenage girl he saw on the news who ran into a mailbox and killed herself. Unless she had a gun in the car, this outcome sounds highly unlikely, but I don’t interrupt; my dad should get the words out of his system after spending all day, alone, in this dank room, trying to force them onto the written page.

When he runs out of cautionary tales, I say I’m going to walk instead, acting like it’s a compromise that benefits him, too.

“Did you get the edits I e-mailed you earlier?”

Dad nods. “Thank you. You’re the real writer in the family, you know.” I walk over and kiss the top of his head, tell him that’s not even close to true.

“This isn’t like a date or anything, is it?” he asks as I’m walking out the door.

“It’s nothing,” I assure him. “Just wondering if he’s someone I should hate.”

I point to the computer like he could maybe use that line in his book, lock the front door behind me, and walk back toward Abram’s car. He’s right where I left him, eating.

He rolls down his driver’s-side window. “Not bailing, are you?” he asks, already disappointed.

“Walking,” I clarify, glancing back toward my house one last time.

Abram doesn’t ask questions, just begins backing out as I walk down toward the street. Instead of driving on ahead, he putters the car alongside me, talking through the window about nothing in particular. I smile. My lips are getting more exercise today than they have all year.