"But this attic makes you sad," she whispered, moving to my side. Everly rested her head in my lap, allowing me to strum my fingers through her long blonde hair. "I don't want to be sad, tonight, Callum Andrew."

"I'm not sad, Topolina," I said. "You know why?"

"Don't say because you know you'll see me again. Don't even tease me with those words."

My fingers massaged her head. "I was going to say I'm not sad in Julep's attic because you offer me comfort."

"Comfort,"' she sighed.

"This is where I have always been the most clueless, Everly Anne. I never talked to anyone about my mom before you came along. My family fell apart so quickly, and I had no place that offered me comfort. After my father married Marta, she tried to soothe me with religion, but I was too bruised to believe. She convinced my dad I needed to talk to someone, so I was forced to go talk to a therapist. But I couldn't talk about how I felt because I had a father with a reputation that needed protecting. I didn't want to hurt him by talking about how much he drank, or how angry he was. So I only made jokes and allowed Tatum and Nick to play along and act as if everything was fine, but in reality I had faded away. I focused so hard on school, believing that would spark some bit of happiness back into my father, or even in myself, but all I was doing was keeping myself busy, so I didn't have time to think about how hurt I felt. But then you came along, and you sat quietly and listened, and I had no idea how much I needed that-how much I needed your comfort-until that day."

She smiled up at me, still lying in my lap. "I haven't always been quiet about your feelings."

I brushed her cheek with my fingers. "When I needed you, you listened, Everly Anne. Why is that so hard for people to do? Why can't we be quiet for thirty seconds and try to hear the hurt in another person without trying to figure out a way to heal them?" I stared into her eyes. "Have I comforted you, Everly Anne? Or have I tried to fix too much without listening?"

She sat up and slid into my lap, crisscrossing her legs behind my back. "I am comforted by you, Callum Andrew." She kissed me tenderly. "I am loved and comforted by you."

I smoothed my hands across her hair and held her forehead to mine. "I don't want to leave."

"Do you really have to go?"

"You know I do, Topolina." I kissed her. "You know I do."

So low, she asked, "What if I die before I see you again? What then?"

"I don't know."

She shook her head. "No. You have to know. You have to have a plan."

"What do you want me to do, Everly? Tell me what you'd like and I'll do it, Topolina."

She gripped my shirt, pressing her face into my neck as she desperately whispered, "Do you remember the swing in Montauk? I want you to come back to the beach and put me on that boat and send me out into the ocean that allowed us one free day to live as butterflies. I want you to send a hundred red balloons up into the sky every Fourth of July and make everyone who sees them wonder what the story behind them is all about. Let me live on inside of a made up story, Callum Andrew. Whatever way I die, it won't ever be as good as what someone will make up about the balloons." She clung to me. "Would you do that for me?"

I hugged her back just as tightly. "For you, Topolina, I would sink just to swim."

"Don't leave," she returned. "I will die if you leave."

"No you won't. I will see you on your 21st birthday, and you will meet me wearing a pretty, short dress, and you'll be smiling, and your eyes will be bright."

Before she left my house that night, she wrote inside of my notebook, one last time.

I've never feared death before. I've always been willing to die. Sometimes I even welcomed it, wishing for this all to be over and finally find peace in an endless sleep. But when I look at you, I see possibility, and I start to do what I know better than to do-I wonder. And worst . . . I hope. Because I know all too well we are just a sky full of stars destined to burn out. I know better than to hope for time that won't be granted. I should know better than to believe I could carry you into my dreams. I'm promised an ending without colors or sun rays. It has always been dark, and even though you carry light within your giving heart, I will always be the girl trapped in this body, who cannot follow where your light shines.

I know I shouldn't ever think of you. You know you shouldn't have ever thought of me.

Heart in a Headlock Is it possible to take all of the words someone once told you, and still find them living where that person no longer exists? Barefoot in Red Pine Georgia I searched for a girl with long blonde hair. I walked along the train tracks she swore she rode as a child. My palms ghosted over wildflowers that grew around my new, too-quiet, too-loud, house. I listened for her in the night. I searched the stars. After a while I thought goodbye had finally made a home inside my chest, the pain had replaced my longing, and this was what happened when you lost someone you loved, but the truth was agony and love are companions. It's what lets you know that love was real. It's what lets you know love still exists-no matter the cost, no matter the divide. There are some connections that can't be severed by time.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Those were the words that greeted me on the other end of the line. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. No one can help. Sorry. No one can transfer you to her room. Sorry. No one has seen her. Sorry. Dr. Brighton won't allow anyone to . . . yeah. Sorry.

I really didn't give a damn what color the couch was. I followed Marta around a furniture store for nearly two hours bouncing on this couch, that couch, suede or leather, Dear? I didn't give a wild fuck. Let it be made out of lead and upholstered in Poison Oak. I was trapped by the motto, "Give me liberty or give me death!" That's how I felt trying to do something as mundane as picking out a couch amidst heartache.

"I think this nice suede couch with a few throw pillows would be perfect." She smiled, so I smiled. "What about dishes? Do you have plates? If you entertain you will need at least eight settings, as a start."

"Marta," I tried not to groan. "I am pulling seventy-sometimes eighty-hour work weeks. Do you think I have time for tea parties?"

"Not tea parties, Heavens no, Darling." Her eyes mocked me. "But perhaps when the sweet girl you love comes to live with you she'd like to have a place to sit, and dishes to cook you some food, and serve that food to you with? Yes? Maybe?"

It only made the pain worse. I wanted it to be unbearable, to make it more real. The pain was all I had left. Liberty or death. No one was freeing me of my agony is this furniture store. Not even myself. I said her name. "Everly Anne won't be cooking for me. I sincerely doubt she has ever even been near a stove in her life. She couldn't even play grill assistant in Montauk."

Marta bit her lip and turned on her heel.

"What?" I demanded.

She shrugged and tried to go back to picking out a couch. I stepped in front of her. "What?"

"I happen to know," she said nonchalantly, "that Everly is a very good cook. Matter of fact, she is an excellent biscuit maker. Super fluffy."

She laughed at my expression, but I was not amused. "What the fuck do you mean she makes good biscuits? How in the ever loving Christ would YOU know that about my girlfriend?"