He replies instantly, I did, but not anymore! Can I come get you tonight? Like right now?
Yes, please, I say.
Heading out. See you soon.
I hug my phone to my chest for a moment, wishing it didn’t take so long for him to get here. Then I head up to my room. My plan is to hurry through a shower, pack my things, and make my bed before meeting Quan outside, but when I get into the shower, I lose track of time.
This has been my only sanctuary since I’ve been here. When I’m in the shower, no one can yell “Anna, come help me pull Dad up” or “Anna, go get me the bag of diapers from the garage” or “Anna, take the trash out for me” or “Anna, watch Dad while I go to the store” and expect me to drop what I’m doing, stop my thoughts mid-thought, and jump to their bidding with a happy smile. I’m showering. I can’t hear them. They have to wait until I get out.
Even after my hair is washed and all of me is soaped and clean, I linger, resting my forehead against the tile on the wall. I might be crying. It’s difficult to tell if it’s water or tears running down my face, but I feel it in my chest and my throat. I feel it in my heart.
I shouldn’t be so glad to go. But I am. Even worse, I never want to come back. I want to run and keep running.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Anna
I wake up feeling achy and disoriented, much like I’ve been sick and my fever just broke. My mind is slow to catch up, but I recognize my surroundings. I’m safe, in my bed, in my apartment, and that’s such a luxury.
My head throbs dully when I sit up, and looking down, I see I’m wearing street clothes—a sweater dress and leggings. I get my phone from the nightstand to check the time and am confused to see it’s past five p.m. Didn’t I leave my parents’ house later than this? How did time go backward? I have a zillion unread messages on my phone, but when I scroll through them I start to feel nauseated so I quit.
I fumble my way out of bed, and because I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, I change out of my street clothes and into my pajamas. I pull on my ugly fuzzy bathrobe, too, glorying in the softness, and plod out of my bedroom. The light is on in my living room, so I head there to investigate, instead of going to the bathroom like I planned.
And Quan is sitting on my couch, frowning over his laptop screen as his fingers fly over the keypad, efficiently typing away. The sight is unexpected but entirely welcome. I love how comfortable he seems in my space, barefoot and wearing a faded T-shirt and loose sweatpants.
He glances my way, and a wide smile brightens his face and makes him beautiful. “You’re up.”
“Hey.” I scratch behind my ear and ask, “What day is it?”
Laughter spills from him. “It’s Saturday. You slept for”—he checks the time on his phone—“seventeen hours straight.”
“That explains why I feel like roadkill,” I say, trying to keep my tone light even though I feel a sense of loss. This is my vacation. And I just slept half of it away.
Quan sets his computer aside and comes to my side, running his hands up and down my arms. “Want anything? Hungry?”
“I might be hungry. I really need to brush my teeth, though. Be right back.” I cover my mouth self-consciously and hurry to the bathroom, where I go through the long process of brushing, seven seconds for each tooth, seven seconds for each corresponding part of my gumline to stimulate blood flow so I don’t lose all my teeth before I’m fifty, meticulous flossing, mouthwash with fluoride. It takes forever, but this is how I live with the periodontal disease brought on by all my tooth tapping.
When I’m done, I return to the living room. Quan isn’t there, but I hear him puttering around in the kitchen. Peeking around the corner, I find him poaching eggs at the stove. On the counter next to him, there are two packages of ramen noodles and two empty soup bowls.
“You’re making me ramen?” I ask.
He looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s the only thing you have. I thought about ordering delivery, but I figured you’d be starving and this is fast. Want something else?”
I swallow past the ache in my throat. “No, this is perfect.”
He smiles and turns back to his work, scooping the eggs into the bowls, emptying the packets of soup powder into the pot of boiling water, and then putting the noodles in to cook.
Not long after, we’re sitting across from each other at my tiny table, our knees pressed together, my feet on top of his because I’m cold and he’s warm. Steam curls up from the noodles, and the poached egg looks yummy. The white part is firm, but I can tell the yolk will be runny. I lower my chopsticks to the bowl but hesitate before touching anything. I don’t want to ruin it just yet.
“Something wrong?” Quan asks, a spoonful of ramen halfway to his mouth.
I shake my head. “No, I’m just . . . happy.”
He tilts his head, aiming a confused smile at me.
I try to smile in return, but my lips don’t want to comply. I don’t know how to explain how wonderful it feels to be cared for, even in this small way, after all this time tending my dad, how dark it’s been, how lonely I’ve felt, even though I’ve been surrounded by family, the people who love me most.
Even as I think that, I find myself wondering, Do they really love me, though? Can they, when they don’t know who I truly am?