It’s bright and sunny when Molly gets out of the car. She has no clue where the idea of weather-matching mood comes from. As far as she can tell, it’s a hoax. From a cursory, sweeping glance, Oak Park looks pretty much the same as when she left it behind. A few of the shops have shut down and been replaced, some walls have been repainted and Sammy’s Café has been remodeled and renamed “Beans” but other than that, it looks the same. Nothing is the same as before. But that’s the whole reason she’s come back, isn’t it?

She spots Courtney quickly - she’s waiting in a pair of jeans that look completely alien on her, and she pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head when she sees Molly. Molly raises her hand in acknowledgment, and Courtney waves, crossing the road to get to her.

“Hi honey,” she says, her arms fluttering vaguely around in the air as if she can’t decide whether to move in for a hug or not.

“Hey,” Molly turns away, stooping into her car to retrieve her bags from the backseat.

“How are you doing?” Courtney asks, and Molly must swallow an irritated sigh because Courtney uses the voice. It’s that voice that says, “you know you’re doing terrible, and I know you’re doing terrible, everyone knows you’re doing terrible because that is why you’re here after all, but I want to condescend to you so that I can feel like I’m being somehow nurturing.”

Molly just shrugs. “Can we take these in?” she asks, hefting one of her duffel bags up a little. Courtney looks relieved at the distraction and starts ushering her towards the house, offering to take one of the bags, rambling about having a room cleaned out and how the en suite was redone last year.

The inside of Courtney’s house is modern, by Oak Parkian standards, with big airy windows and an open-plan floor. It makes Molly feel exposed and antsy. Part of the appeal of Oak Park had been the vague memories of nooks and crannies, dark corners to fold yourself away into. Still, Molly’s room is far enough from Courtney’s that it maintains some semblance of privacy, and it faces the garden rather than the street.

“I just put some little stuff in there,” Courtney says, gesturing broadly at the cream carpet, the powder blue curtains, and the bedspread, “I figured you could pick out your decorations and things now you’re here.”

“Sure.”

“Well…” Courtney looks like she wants to say more but decides not to. “I’ll leave you to get unpacked, settle in. I’ll call your mom to let her know you’ve arrived safely.”

Molly slumps on the bed after the door swings shut, the familiar wave of weary, soul-deep tiredness washing slowly over her. She shouldn’t sleep right now - there was unpacking to do, she needs to find a garage to check out the strange flashing light on her dashboard, and she hasn’t eaten since the half-full packet of Skittles she scarfed down as she passed through the Bay Gas Station a couple of hours back - but she’s awake, she’s thinking, and thinking hasn’t led to anything good lately, so she closes her eyes and lets the exhaustion envelope her.

When Molly wakes up, she stares at the ceiling for a moment, trying to remember what day it is. A glance at her phone tells her she’s only been out for thirty minutes, and she heaves herself upright with a groan.

Courtney’s laying dinner out by the time Molly makes her way downstairs, and she braces herself for the inevitable conversation she knows is ahead. She twirls spaghetti around her fork without moving to eat it until Courtney clears her throat.

“I know how difficult this all is for you,” she says, “and that you’ve been…you’ve taken it hard.”

She drops her knife and fork with such force they clatter. “Sorry, should I not have?” Molly snaps, cocking an eyebrow.

“Of course, you - that’s not what I-” Courtney coughs and readjusts her seat. “I just want you to know that we all want you to feel better. To take all the time you need.”

There’s no point in explaining how futile that’s going to be, so Molly just takes a long sip of water. “Is it okay if I finish this later?” she asks, pointing at her plate with the fork. “I’m not feeling very hungry.” She gets up without waiting for an answer.

Two months ago, Molly would still have been in the phase where she would have just given in to the constant urge to scream at someone and ended up saying something undeserved to Courtney. Now though, she just disappears with a mumbled “goodnight” called over her shoulder and starts changing for bed. She rubs her hips where her jeans have dug in, leaving red marks pressed into the soft flesh, crisscrossed like scars. But the imprints start to fade slowly, and she pulls her sleep shorts over them. There’s stuff she has to do tomorrow, and she’ll have to psych herself up to wander openly around Oak Park after this long. But right now, she just wants to sleep.

Molly would, in all honesty, have probably been okay procrastinating on her car problems for a few more weeks, but Courtney starts fretting when she finds out, offering to give Molly rides wherever she needs to go.

“It’s fine,” Molly says, “I was going to get it looked at today anyway.”

It isn’t hard to find a mechanic - there’s only one in Oak Park, and it hasn’t changed locations - or had a paint job - since the last time she saw it.

The guy behind the desk, whose name tag identifies him as Danny, smiles when she walks in, nodding as she explains that there was a light on her dashboard that wouldn’t stop flashing her whole ride over.

“How long was the drive?” he asks.

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “I came over from Boston.”

Danny lets out a whistle. “I’m not surprised a cross-country drive took its toll on your ride. What brought you so far?”

“I’m visiting a family friend.”

He eyes her a moment longer but doesn’t ask any more questions. “I’ll get my apprentice to have a look at it just now, bring it over to the garage.”

Molly nods, then immediately stiffens when she opens the door to what looks like a break room and says, “Hey Ray, get out here!”

For one wild moment, Molly wonders if she can slip out of the door and hurry away before she’s spotted, but before she even has time to dismiss the idea, the door swings open and Stacey appears.

“Stacey, I was just telling…”

“Molly,” she supplies when Danny looks at her, trying not to let her voice squeak.

“I was just telling Molly that you could take a look at her car.”

Stacey’s gaze is hard and unmoving but doesn’t betray any recognition. “Sure.”

“Okay,” Danny moves for the break room, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Molly lets herself look at Stacey properly. There’s nothing dramatically different about her appearance that Molly can put a finger on, but her face is older, all angles and edges, and she wears a tight high ponytail instead of a braid now. Her leather jacket is beaten and covered in grease stains.

“So,” Stacey asks, “what are you doing here?”

“There was this flashing light on my dashboard. I think it’s an alert or something, I wanted to get it checked out.”

“Okay,” Stacey says, pressing a button that opens the garage door, “I’ll take a look. But McKenzie, I think you and I both know I meant what are you doing back?” She walks over to where Molly’s car is standing, retrieves the keys, and opens the door.

“You know Courtney Baker? My mom’s friend? I’m staying with her for a while.”

Stacey turns on the ignition, barely giving the dash a cursory glance before announcing “You need an oil change,” and sliding out to get a canister. “You staying until college starts?”

Molly feels her fingernails digging crescents into the heel of her palm. “Oh. I’m taking a gap year.”

She snorts. “I always figured pre-med couldn’t come to you fast enough. You always seemed one of those I’ll rest when I’m dead types.”

The edges of her vision blur and she feels bile surge up her throat. Molly tries to breathe in and out through her nose quietly. Not here, she tells herself, not in front of Stacey. “Yeah, well. My priorities have changed.”

“They’re not the only thing.”

There’s a tense silence as Stacey changes the oil, and Molly can only bring herself to speak by the time Stacey’s wiping her hands down on her jeans.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and her voice comes out rasping.

Stacey turns to look at her. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she swallows, “yes. I am.”

“It wasn’t hard, you get that right? We weren’t expecting you to visit or anything, but it wouldn’t have been hard to pretend you cared and answer our messages.”

“I did care!” she protests “I just…”

Stacey sighs. “You can stop squirming, Molly, I’m not trying to fight you.”

“That seems out of character.” Molly feels the tightness in her chest unclenches slightly when Stacey cracks a grin at that.

“For the record,” she says, “I still think you’re an asshole. But it’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah,” Molly nods, “you too.”

Stacey watches her for another long moment as if she’s waiting for something. She catches Molly’s eye and then shakes her head. “Whatever. Come on, I’ll ring you up at the front desk.”

She pays up and takes her keys from Stacey. Neither one of them moves in for a hug, but Molly raises her hand in an awkward half-wave. “So. I’ll see you round?”

Stacey arches an eyebrow. “That’s kind of up to you, isn’t it?” But she shakes her head again and waves off the jibe. “I’ll catch you later, McKenzie. And welcome home.”

“Thanks.”

Molly doesn’t let herself heave a sigh of relief until she’s back in the car. She’d felt somewhat ambushed seeing Stacey unexpectedly, but it hadn’t been too bad. It wasn’t exactly easy, and not comfortable. But it was fine. It had gone about as well as she’d have hoped for. But then again, Stacey isn’t the one she’s most worried about running into.

Tyler is having a stressful enough day before Stacey walks in. It’s not that he considers Stacey a harbinger of bad news or anything, it’s just they don’t have a close enough friendship that she wanders in to just hang out or have a chat. She always has a good reason for dropping by, and Tyler has had enough of those for today. Mrs. Sanders had a good reason for suspending Bridgette immediately and making him pick her up from school, and Bridgette meanwhile claims that she had a good reason for getting into the fistfight, to begin with, and all of this means he hasn’t had time to process his breakup, which Amy had a good reason for initiating. So yeah, he’s not exactly jumping for joy to see Stacey marching into the bookshop with such purpose. Although to be fair, she hardly looks thrilled either.

“Today’s not been a great day,” he says before she can speak, taking a new stack of books out of the donations box and starting to move through the shelves with them, “so before you say anything can you think about whether you’re going to actively make my life worse or not?”

She throws him a withering stare, and he sighs, because let’s face it, a solid ninety percent of his and Stacey’s interactions are forced by crises of varying degrees of seriousness. “Do you need to sit down?” she asks. “Should I have some smelling salts on standby?”

He scowls at her. “Shut up.”

She rolls her eyes. “Have it your way. Anyway, I’m not saying I have great news or anything, but I do think you’d rather hear it from me than be taken off-guard.”

That gets his attention because if there’s one thing Tyler doesn’t like (although who’s he kidding? There’s more than one, huh) those unexpected curveballs. “What’s up?”

“Remember Molly?”

His hand falters on one of the shelves. Molly McKenzie? His best friend for the first fifteen years on Earth? His favorite person in the world who he trusted more than anyone? Who up and left town one day without bothering to say goodbye and who ignored him like he was nothing until it was clear she’d forgotten him?

Of course, Tyler remembers her.

“What about her?”

Stacey shoves her hands into her pockets. “She’s back.”

He frowns. “You saw her?”

“She came to the garage. Clearly had no idea, I’d be there.”

Tyler picks up another stack of books. “Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”

He can feel Stacey watching him when she asks, “You’re not going to freak out?”

Is he? He lets himself think about it for a moment. A few years back and yeah, this would probably have torn open some raw wounds and set him on edge.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “It’s not like - nothing happened, you know? We haven’t been sitting on years of unresolved drama or anything, the friendship just…phased out.”

Stacey nods but still looks unconvinced.

“Seriously,” he stresses, “it sucked. And it hurts. But that was a while ago. I’m not about to have a meltdown.” And honestly, he isn’t. It’s not like Molly’s really back back, or not back in his life anyway. He has more important things to focus on.

“Thanks again,” Tyler says, and Stacey rolls her eyes.

“That was really selfish. I just didn’t want to have to walk you through the stages of grief or whatever later.”

“I’m touched,” he snipes, “but we all know Kenneth would be the one doing the hand-holding.”

Tyler is relieved when Stacey leaves, if only so he can, for one moment, enjoy the relative silence of the bookshop. The musty air and overstuffed shelves are the closest things Tyler has to peace, and he could use some of that today. Tyler opens the spreadsheet that they use as a catalog and starts entering the title, author, and price of each book. It’s a task he’s carried out a hundred times but never gets sick of - sorting through books is like sifting through little chips of people’s lives. This week’s haul includes a battered box set of The Chronicles of Narnia that looks so well thumbed through they’re almost falling apart, a mass-market paperback edition of I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings whose pages are littered with annotations, and a copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time whose crinkled, oddly waved pages belie the fact that it was likely dropped into a bathtub at some point.

He’s pulling out the stool he uses to reach the highest shelf when he hears someone coming down from upstairs.

“Tyler, that you?” he hears Aaron ask.

“Yeah! I’m just arranging the new stock.”

Aaron appears in the doorway, his tie still not loosened around his neck. “Thanks for going in for Bridgette today. Sorry I couldn’t make it out of work.”

Tyler grunts. As a guardian, Jack is a good one. He’s responsible about bills, conscientious about signing permission slips and getting everyone vaccinated, and competent in all the ways Ernie Jamison never was. But as grateful as Tyler is to Aaron for everything he’s done, he’s never really managed to progress past his underlying edge of mistrust, the wariness that stems from an inherent suspicion as to why Aaron’s taken in his estranged cousin’s kids, from the knowledge that he could leave them out on their asses if he felt like it.

“What was the incident the school was calling about?”

Tyler wipes a hand down his face. “She got into a fight. Punched another kid and started a brawl.”

Aaron frowns, and Tyler can sense his trepidation. Criticizing Bridgette around Tyler is something Jack has always been nervous about, knowing Tyler’s tendency to slightly overreact, but in this case, Tyler can hardly blame Aaron for the wariness.

“I need to talk to her about that,” he mutters, half to himself.

The image of Aaron trying to reason with Bridgette using his politically-honed tools of reasoning and rhetoric makes Tyler cringe.

“Okay—” he says.

Aaron sighs. “I know you’re worried about your sister, Tyler. But I’m her guardian. You’re going to have to believe I can look after her.”

He fights down the urge to bristle, to shout that if Bridgette won’t even let him, her brother, look out for her, why would she let Aaron?

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” he says and pauses. “Actually. I know it’s not. And I know you want to think your let’s all be reasonable spiel is going to work. But at some point, you’re going to have to believe I know my sister.”

He moves to shelve some more books before Aaron has a chance to see his face.

Kenneth’s the one who sees her first. He and Tyler are walking down the High Street, debating which of the X-Men is the best, when Kenneth stops for a second, squinting into the window of the convenience store.

“You’re not going to find your arguments to defend Cyclops in there, Kenneth.”

“Shut up,” Kenneth says before turning back to look at him. “I could have sworn I saw someone who looks kind of that blonde you used to hang with.”

Tyler blinks. “Molly?”

“That’s the one. Didn’t she move away?”

“Yeah, but Stacey mentioned she was back. I don’t know if she’s just visiting or she’s back for good, but. It could have been her.”

Kenneth nods over Tyler’s shoulder. “That her?”

He turns around and for a second he’s confused because honestly, he’s looking for Molly as he last saw her, in an ill-fitting paint-splattered t-shirt with flyaway braids and green plastic glasses. But then he registers that the girl he’s looking at is staring at him, and oh god, it’s her.

It’s Molly McKenzie, in the freakin’ flesh.

She’s cut her hair short and dyed the ends pink, so it looks kind of punk and cool. Her glasses are gone, but her eyes are as sharp and blue as ever, and honestly, she’s stunning.

And now, she’s walking straight toward him.

It sets him on edge though; this doesn’t feel like his Molly, this untouchable Ice Dream Girl who’s fixing him with the cold, calculating stare normally reserved for use by morticians on particularly grim corpses.

“Molly,” he says, and it seems strange to be saying her name to her after all these years, “long time no see.”

She’s barely looking at him, her gaze moving past his shoulders like she has places to be and he’s holding her up. “Yeah.” She sounds bored and flat.

“So. You’re back?”

“Seems like it,” And then she walks off in the other direction.

By the time Molly gets home, Courtney’s smiling. It makes Molly wary because it’s that kind of smile people wear when they’re waiting to impart a “surprise.”

And Molly hates surprises.

“Hey.” Courtney hands her a cup of coffee, which she accepts. “How was your day?”

“It was good. I got my car fixed.”

“Good, good! And you met some of your old friends, right?”

Molly stiffens, racking her brain to remember if Courtney had been outside the convenience store and if she’d seen the interaction.

“That nice girl from the mechanic store came by,” Courtney says, and Molly’s chest loosens, “dropped this off for you.’

Molly takes the flyer that Courtney hands her. It’s a flyer of a party being held in The Droptop on Friday night, something to do with electrofunk music.

“Sounds fun!” Courtney says.

“I’ll see how it goes. I’m going to finish unpacking now.”

Molly’s room is what can best be described as an organized mess right now, with clothes and shoes and books and cushions scattered across the floor in piles, a half-empty suitcase still lying open on the floor. The scarce few decorations she thought to bring are still in there, and she starts pulling them out one-by-one. There are a couple of Boston postcards, a mug from the coffee shop near her house that she uses as a pencil pot, her high school pennant, and an envelope of photographs. There aren’t many, just the old family photo with her on her dad’s lap, a couple of photo booth strips of her and her school friends, and then there it is, the one she’s been too scared to look at.

It’s the only picture of her and Davis that she could bring herself to pack, and it’s ancient, a shot of the two of them as toddlers on the beach, Molly standing proudly over a sandcastle and Davis distracted by a nearby seagull just at the moment the shutter snapped. Her grin shows that two front teeth are missing, and Davis wears a bucket as a hat. She likes the photo because she has no real memories of the day, no acute recollections of what Davis’ laugh had sounded like or what he’d said when she’d whispered one secret or another to him. She likes it because it’s demure and distant enough that emotionally, it draws a blank in her. Or it should - it did. But now she stares at it in its unassuming plain gilt frame, the only photo of them, of him, that she let herself bring, and feels a familiar tightening in her chest, a pain so sharp her vision goes white, and her throat closes. It seems paradoxical that an absence, a state of not being there, weighs so heavily, but she feels herself crumple under it, wrapping her arms around her knees as though holding herself together. She squeezes harder, until it hurts how much her fingers are digging into her flesh, and then stands up with a shuddering breath. She doesn’t put the picture up.

In all honesty, Molly has no intention of going to the party. It’s not like Stacey’s going to notice whether she’s there or not, and the idea of milling around making small talk with people who will vaguely recognize her and ask questions about what she’s been up to makes her nauseous.

But then again, after the incident with the photo, she thinks what she needs to do is get well and truly drunk. She hasn’t been doing so up until now, contrary to what her teachers believed; at least, not since the night before the funeral. But now she wants to. By the time Friday rolls around, she’s honestly looking forward to it in as much as she can honestly be said to be looking forward to anything these days.

“Is that what you’re going in?” Courtney wonders in a falsely bright voice that suggests she’s strongly hoping the answer is a resounding no.

“Yeah—” It’s her corset jacket, faux-leather leggings, and combat boots, a little too cliché “teenage burnout” to seem rebellious but Molly doesn’t give a shit. “Everyone’s going to be too smashed to care about what I’m wearing, anyways.” She sighs when she sees Courtney’s expression. “What, did you think it would be the ice cream and jello kind of party?”

“I just want you to be safe,” Courtney says, frowning.

Molly just nods. “You don’t have to wait up or anything. I’ll text you when I start heading back.”

The walk isn’t that long, but it’s still far enough away that by the time Molly arrives at The Droptop, the party’s already in full swing. There’s electro-pop music pumping loudly, and a cacophonous thrum of singing and yelling. She weaves her way through the crowd to the bar, fake ID in hand, and doesn’t turn back until she has her drink half-downed.

“Long day at the office?” someone - a stranger, mercifully - next to her asks.

In response, Molly chugs the rest and puts the cup down. She wonders if she should look for Stacey - probably, right? After all, she might as well turn her “drinking to forget” excursion into an excuse to make amends and kill two birds with one stone. Still, the crowd is roiling and unwieldy; it could take forever to find someone specific, especially considering she doesn’t even have Stacey’s number. Instead, she turns back to the girl next to her, who introduces herself to Molly as Nina, and smiles.

“Can’t a girl get wasted without all the drama?”

Nina grins back and turns to face her in a way that lets Molly know that this girl is interested.

“Maybe I just needed a reason to make conversation.”

Molly smirks but finds herself hitting a mental roadblock. A while ago, this would have come to her more easily. Right now, though, she’s not sure what to say. Or why she wants to say anything. Come on, she tells herself, you should have some fun. Have fun. But there’s a funny taste in her mouth now, a sudden desire to end this conversation quickly.

“I’ve just remembered,” Molly says, waving down the bartender, “my friend said she’d be here. I should probably go find her.”

“Oh,” Nina says, and yes, Molly is aware she’s an asshole in this situation, “I’ll catch you later?”

“Sure,” Molly says, taking her drink and slipping off the barstool.

Molly’s just tipsy enough now that she doesn’t really care that she’s alone, but not tipsy enough that she’s approaching other people, which is honestly about the right place to be, as far as states of inebriation go. She sees a couple of people she recognizes - no one catastrophically familiar, just some girls in the grade below her, a tattooed guy she used to take the bus with - and several more she doesn’t. Molly lets herself start to relax slightly, not quite dancing to the music but moving in time to it, swaying slightly, and that’s how Stacey finds her.

“You showed up!” Stacey says, sounding pleased, and pulling her in for a quick hug.

“I came for the booze,” Molly says, waving her cup.

Stacey grins. “Cool. Oh, this is Lily, by the way. She just moved in next door.” Stacey gestures at the person next to her, a willowy girl with a mane of curls wearing a flowing tie-dyed skirt and looking a little uncomfortable in her surroundings.

“Hey,” Molly says, “I’m Molly. I just moved back.”

“From where?” Lily asks.

“Boston.”

“Oh, nice, I have family there. What brings you back to Oak Park?”

Molly’s grip on her cup tightens. “Nostalgia?” she offers.

“Funny,” someone drawls behind her, and she feels her shoulders stiffen as she recognizes him, “that’s not what I’d have guessed.”

There was a time when his voice would have sent a comforting warmth blooming through her chest, an effervescent giddiness to her head. Maybe after that, the memory of it would have turned the warmth into an angry flash of heat, the giddiness to a wave of humiliation-borne nausea, a metallic tang of betrayal. Now, though, there’s nothing, nothing beyond a twang of recognition.

Molly braces herself to look at him, and then she turns around and he’s there. He’s gotten taller filled out since she saw him last, and she’s not used to the lazy, drunken smirk he’s fixing her with, but - 

It’s him.

“Jesus, Jamison,” Stacey says, appearing beside Molly, “you’ve been here ten minutes. What did you do, inject something through an IV?”

“Unfortunately,” Tyler slurs, “no. Though that sounds fun. I like that. Maybe we can try it sometime?”

Stacey frowns. “What the fuck is wrong with you this evening?”

He glares at her. “Why would you assume anything was wrong?”

She sighs, then glances around. “Oh, shit, where’d Lily go?” She throws her hands in the air. “Of fucking course, I get assigned as minder of the town’s new airy-fairy. I better go find her. You,” she snaps her fingers at Molly, “watch him.”

Tyler is staring at her, and it makes Molly bristle.

“Well,” Molly says, “you’ve let yourself go.”

“Aw, don’t be jealous just because you never learned how to.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Wow. You’ve somehow become more of an asshole since I left.”

Tyler laughs, and it’s jarring because it’s his laugh, his actual laugh, not the drunken chuckle he let out a moment earlier. “That’s rich coming from you, Dream Girl.”

She shoves her hands in her jacket pockets.

“I’m the same kind of asshole as I’ve always been and probably always will be,” he says, “now you, that's a different story.” He leans back and checks out Molly like she’s a tough Sudoku puzzle. “You were a bit of a dick back in the day, sure. But I didn’t think you’d be this kind of an asshole.”

She rolls her eyes and turns away. “I’m going to go get another drink,” she says. “Try not to drop dead, I told Stacey I’d keep an eye on you.”

“Sheesh-fine!” Tyler calls after Molly, his voice carrying over the crowd, “No one expects you to keep your word anyway!"

Meanwhile, Tyler hadn’t given much thought to when he was going to encounter Amy for the first time since the breakup - that doesn’t seem like the type of thing you’re supposed to speculate on - but if he had thought about it, these certainly wouldn’t be the circumstances he’d choose. He’d prefer somewhere calm and neutral, the coffeehouse maybe, or the grocery store. He’d be pleasant and dignified and sober. Especially sober.

He is unfortunately in neither the coffee shop nor the grocery store right now. And he’s certainly not sober. Amy must see him before he sees her because by the time he’s looked her way she’s already saying something to her friends and starting to make her way toward him.

“Tyler,” she says, “hey.”

“Hey.”

“How are you holding up?”

He knows she means it kindly - Amy only ever means things kindly - but it irks him, nonetheless.

“Good,” he says, “I’m good.”

She nods. “I’m glad. I just wanted to check on you, make sure there are no hard feelings.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “None at all. All feelings are soft.” He winces. He can hear how drunk he sounds.

Amy can too because she sighs. It’s that same patient, understanding sigh of hers he’s heard a hundred times, except tonight, it grates on him.

“Have you been drinking?” she asks.

“Haven’t you?” he snaps.

It’s sharp, but Tyler can’t help it. It’s not the fact that Amy’s seeing him wasted that bothers him, it’s the fact that she’s going to think he’s wasted because of her. And sure, it’s not as though he’s not upset over the breakup, the realization that someone else has decided they don’t want him anymore, but he can deal with it. I wish I was this drunk over you, he thinks, I wish you were my biggest problem right now. After all, breakups, and exes? Those are the kinds of things you’re supposed to get smashed over. That’s normal. He wishes he could afford to have that be the most disruptive event in his life.

“Well,” Amy pats his shoulder in what she probably assumes is a comforting gesture, “take care of yourself.”

And when exactly do I have the time to do that? some twisted, dark part of him wonders and he takes another gulp of his drink. It’s been a while since Tyler got this wasted, but Aaron’s insisted on taking Bridgette out to dinner somewhere they can have “an adult conversation” and he’s honestly just exhausted. Liv managed to get into another fight this same week, and Mrs. Kelly from down the street had swung by the house yesterday to inform him, in a concerned voice, that she’d seen his sister hanging out with “those trouble-making kids.” Tyler knows the kids she was talking about, a bunch of burnouts from the next town over who he was pretty sure was mixed up in gang shit. He’d confronted Bridgette about it after Mrs. Kelly left, and she’d been pissed, telling him she didn’t want him interfering.

“Why do you want to ruin my fucking life so bad, huh?” she’d yelled at him when he’d told her she was grounded. “Who decided you get to control what I do and who my friends are?”

“I’m doing this for your good, Liv,” he’d said, half-stern and half-pleading, “I’d rather you hate me for a little while now than end up hurt later.”

“Well good,” she’d spat, “because I do hate you.”

And now, Tyler’s here. Nothing’s been resolved, but hey, at least he’s drunk. Oh, and speaking of people who hate him, he becomes aware that Molly’s casting him a disparaging glance from the bar. He can’t help but smirk at the image of this new, jaded Ice Dream Girl who seems to exist on a plane of existence a few shades better than the rest of the world if her attitude is anything to go by. There was a time when Molly wouldn’t even have walked into a house party unless he’d begged and pleaded with and borderline extorted her, and she would have probably spent the evening clutching an unopened can of Diet Coke and lurking in the dullest corner of the room.

His smirk deepens when he catches her eye, and he can’t help raising his cup in a mock salute, mouthing the words party hard, Dream Girl at her.

Molly rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her drink, leaning against the counter and surveying the scene before her coolly.

“She seems friendly.” Kenneth materializes by his shoulder, following his gaze.

Tyler snorts. “If by she seems friendly, you mean she seems like a judgmental bitch who probably thinks her current surroundings rank below the dogshit on the soles of her designer combat boots in terms of social pecking order then yup, she sure does.”

Kenneth raises an eyebrow. “If this is how you are with old friends, I can’t wait to see how you and Murphy end up in a few years.”

“One of us will end up being dead,” Tyler grants.

His friend frowns, noticing the slurring of his speech for the first time. “Jesus, you’ve been busy,” he nods towards Tyler’s drink.

“Yeah well, it’s been a week,” he grumbles.  

Kenneth looks doubtful. “You sure you’re good?”

Tyler snorts. “I’m fine.” He pats Kenneth on the shoulder. “Also, do you see a trashcan anywhere nearby?”

“Oh… yeah, right there. Why?”

“Cool,” Tyler says, making his way over to it. And then he pukes right into it.

Molly isn’t surprised that she still knows the way to the bookstore, it would be harder to forget. It takes her longer to get there than it would have done once, but that’s less to do with not knowing where to go and more to do with the fact that she has Tyler - so inebriated he can barely stand - leaning on her the whole way.

“I’m fine,” he says, “didn’t ask for help.”

“And I didn’t volunteer,” she snipes, so “we’re even.”

“You know, no one ever believed me. Back in school. I’d be like. Molly can be a complete dick. And they were all what? Molly? No, she’s so polite! Such a well-brought-up girl! But look at you now-” he prods her shoulder.

She doesn’t say anything, just disentangles herself from him as they reach the front of the First Day Bookstore. “You got the keys?” she asks.

Even drunk as he is, Tyler treasures those keys like they’re the whole world, which to him, granted, they probably are. He fishes them out of the inside pocket of his jacket and fumbles with them until he gets the door unlocked with a triumphant huff.

Molly isn’t expecting the sudden pulse of nostalgia, somehow, and it hits her like a brick. It’s the smell, more than anything, the warm musty aroma of old books and coffee grinds that always lingers in here.

Behind her, Tyler collapses on the old window seat that was always his favorite spot.

“Here,” she pulls out the water bottle she’d had the wherewithal to snag from the vending machine when a harried Stacey, still attempting to shepherd Lily around, had grabbed her and demanded she take an, in Stacey’s words, “excessively upchucking” Tyler back home. “Drink this.”

“Thanks, Dream Girl,” he says, a little absently, taking the bottle from her.

Unbidden, another memory rises to the surface of Molly’s recollection - the first time she got drunk, on a half-empty bottle of vodka pilfered from her parent’s liquor cabinet, Tyler had had to all but carry her to the same window seat he was now on, grinning at her even as he brushed the sweaty strands of hair off her forehead.

“I feel so warm,” she’d mumbled, wriggling around as he covered her, “and you. You’re so warm.”

“It’s hot, Dream Girl. The word you’re wanting to say is hot.” He’d given her that idiotic smirk and then spent the evening making sure she stayed hydrated, took aspirin, and eaten something greasy.

“Tell me something,” Tyler says, bringing her back to the present. The bottle is empty now, she moves to go fill it from the tap in the little bathroom.

“Yeah?” she calls back over her shoulder. “And is this going to be a quick something? Because I do have a life to get back to.”

He chuckles, but it sounds like he’s laughing at something else. “Did you miss me?”

She blinks and hands him the bottle again to give herself a minute before answering. He doesn’t take his eyes off her as he drinks.

“Even a little?”

What to say to that? Sure, she could tell him about the early days, just after she left, she could tell him exactly what she’d felt, how she didn’t think she could feel anything worse in the world. But what would be the point? That was then, and she has felt worse things, and he doesn’t get to hear her talk about feelings, not anymore.

“You know what they say,” Molly picks up her bag, “out of sight, out of mind. Enjoy the hangover.”

Miraculously, it’s a full week before anyone asks the question. Okay, maybe it’s not that miraculous given that Molly goes out of her way to avoid interacting with anyone that might remember her - and more to the point, remember Tyler - but it still blindsides her.

She runs into Stacey in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart and takes a steadying breath to remind herself not to hide. She does regret cutting off Stacey the way she did, but it just seemed like the easiest option until it wound up being the only option.

“Hey,” Stacey falls in step next to her, “how’s it going?”

“Good,” she says, trying to sound conversational, “how’ve you been?”

Stacey talks about the garage for a while and complains about some random hippy flea market Lily made her drive her to that weekend.

Molly’s just letting herself relax, assuring herself that things are going well when Stacey asks, “so how’s Davis?”

It takes everything Molly has not to freeze in her steps then and there, not to succumb to the mounting buzz of panic in her head.

“He’s fine,” she says quickly, “he’s doing a foreign exchange program for the summer.”

“Oh, nice!” Stacey pauses. “How’re you doing with that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just, you know, you two were always attached at the hip. I figured you’d do summer together.”

So did I she thinks, and so did my mom and Ellis. So did Davis. “Ah, you know,” Molly gives a one-shouldered shrug as she opens the backdoor of her car and dumps the grocery bags in there, “it was too good an opportunity for him to pass up.”

Stacey nods. “Well, cool. I’ll catch you later.”

Molly waits till Stacey’s out of sight before she lets herself slump down in the driver’s seat, burying her face in her hands. The lie slipped out easily, and Molly can’t bring herself to regret it. The shock of hearing someone else talk about him, ask after him because to them, he was still alive…

She turns the ignition on and exhales. It’s the first time someone’s asked, but it won’t be the last. But at least now she knows she can handle it. She’s doing fine.

Courtney disagrees.

“This has gone on long enough,” she says to Molly at dinner.

“What has?”

“All this…” she gestures at Molly with her fork, “this wasting away to nothing. Honey, you just wander about all day, it’s like—”

She cuts herself off abruptly, but Molly guesses her meaning easily enough. It’s like I’m the one that died. She focuses on cutting up her piece of chicken into the smallest pieces possible.

“I know you need time to feel better, sweetie, I get that, I do,” Courtney frowns, “but a smart girl like you can’t just sit around with nothing to focus that clever mind of yours on.”

Molly wants instinctively to protest but bites her lip, and thinks for a moment. There is a part of her, and not an unsubstantial one, that wants to tell Courtney to get lost and let her wallow in peace. It’s tempting. But there’s another little whisper, that murmur of the reason that sounds a lot like Davis, who points out that keeping busy can’t be a bad thing. Historically, Molly doesn’t do well with sitting idle. It makes her antsy and tense; she’s notoriously bad at relaxing. Having something to do all day besides trying not to remember may not be the worst idea in the world.

“Okay,” she says slowly, “I see what you’re saying.”

Courtney looks startled, but recovers quickly, her face breaking out into a broad smile. “Good. That’s excellent!”

“I’ll start looking for jobs tomorrow, I guess?”

Courtney’s practically clapping with glee now. “Actually,” she says, “you don’t have to. I’ve set one up for you.”

“What?” Molly tenses. “You set me up a job? What job?”

“Relax, sweetie,” Courtney says, pulling up the relevant email on her phone, “it’s perfect for you. You’re going to love it!”

Molly takes the phone warily, then glances down at it. The subject line and sender catch her eye immediately, and the logo printed under the signature is all too familiar.

Oh no.

Oh no, this is bad.

This is very, very bad.

Tyler is surprised when Aaron walks into the store, grinning. Aaron is hardly ever effusive enough to be described as grinning.

“Hey,” Tyler says, squinting a little suspiciously. “What’s up?”

“You remember I was telling you I was looking for a temp-hire? Just for the summer?”

Tyler nods. He vaguely recalls Aaron talking about taking on a temp to help out and reshelve over the break. He wouldn’t mind some help around the place personally, but he’s naturally wary of people infringing on what he thinks of as his space. He’s worked here at least part-time for most of his life, this place is his baby. He doesn’t like the idea of some apathetic teenager morons lurking around here with their grimy hands and general poor hygiene.

“You found someone?”

Aaron nods, looking about as close as he ever looks gleefully. Considering the last time, he looked this excited, it was for the Polis Farmer’s Market, which had been its special kind of disaster that culminated in Tyler getting fed some dangerously undercooked kebabs and being sick for a week, Tyler was a little wary.

“I think you’ll like my pick.”

“Oh…okay. Who?”

Aaron smiles. “It’s Molly McKenzie. Did you know she’s back in town for summer?”

He keeps on going, talking about how he ran into Courtney Baker on the street, and they began reminiscing about all the time the kids used to spend together, and how he filled her in on how the bookshop was doing, and he’d mentioned they were hiring, and - 

Tyler swallows. “Okay—” he elongates.

Jack's face looks bright. “You two will enjoy catching up, I’m sure.”

“We’re here to work, Aaron,” he points out mildly, the edge to his voice just audible, “not socialize, not talk about the day or whatever..”

He nods. “Of course, and I know you’ll both take your jobs seriously. You know we need to push a bit harder this summer, especially after the pandemic.”

Tyler doesn’t respond right away. He’s not an idiot. He knows how First Day Bookstore’s doing financially; it doesn’t surprise him. Not everyone lives and breathes books the way he does, as sad and empty as that means their lives must be.

“What’s her position going to be?” he asks.

Jack shrugs. “It’s pretty much up to you, you’re very much a de-facto manager, as you well know.” He laughs, stopping when Tyler doesn’t join in.

“There’s filing to be done, updating the database, clearing out old stuff,” he says eventually, “admin stuff. Molly is probably good at that. We can put her on the till as well.” They’ve needed someone on till ever since Bridgette categorically refused to keep up her afterschool shifts.

Aaron is watching him now, wariness creeping into his expression. “You’re okay with this, aren’t you?”

Doesn’t matter now, does it?

“Yeah.”

The popping of the gum hangs in the air. Aaron nods excuses himself and disappears upstairs to work on spreadsheets, leaving Tyler to brace his arms on the counter. It’s not that he thinks Molly is going to mess up the bookstore or anything. He doesn’t believe she’s magically lost her efficiency and generally responsible demeanor, at least not completely over time, but...

She used to care about this place, maybe even as much as he did. And now she’s back and she’s different. Well—he can deal with it if she’s forgotten him, whatever, it’s nothing he’s not used to. Molly, who is distant and detached at some indeterminate location in Oak Park, doesn’t bother him. But her, here, bored, and disinterested, reminds him that everything he cares about is too little, dull, and insignificant for her world...

“What’s got you so down?” Bridgette trudges down the stairs, eating a bag of Skittles.

“Shop stuff,” Tyler mutters, “nothing you need to worry about.”

“Whatever...”

His stomach squirms when Tyler looks at her. He remembers when she was little, she used to like it in here. She was never very much of a reader per se, but she would love sitting on the desk while he worked, or listening to him read aloud to her, or asking him about Legolas and Gimli, Annabeth Chase, Dustfinger, Cathy Moreland, or whichever other character she heard him mention. She used to beg him to play hide-and-seek amongst the shelves after closing time, to ask him why he always sniffed the books as he stacked them, to make him tell her what it would be like to live in Narnia, Stormhold, or Earthsea.

He shakes himself. She doesn’t want that anymore; it doesn’t matter if he does. In the back of his mind, Tyler always figured that she’d outgrow him someday.

“So, what is it?” she asks her tone still barbed as wire, waiting to trap him. “Writer’s block—huh?” She raises an eyebrow.

Tyler swallows the lump in his throat and pushes past it. “Mock me later, Liv. I know you have homework to do.”

Bridgette scoffs. “What’s the point anyway?”

“Education is important,” he snaps.

“Like you would know!”

And there it is, the killing blow that gets him where it hurts and makes him see red. “Yeah, Liv! Yeah, I do fucking know! I know exactly what education’s worth and I know full damn well that we can’t both go, and I know that it’s my responsibility, just like always, to make sure you get your chance! So, you better get upstairs right now and—”

“Oh, screw you!” she snaps, “if you’re so cranky about doing shit for me, then don’t! I’ve never asked you to! All I want is for you to get the fuck out of my life and leave me alone!”

She storms upstairs and slams the door behind her, a trail of profanities and insults hurled over her shoulder.

Tyler drops his elbows to the table, burying his head in his hands. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but regret doesn’t help him. She’s pulling away faster than he knows how to deal with.

He’s grateful when a couple of customers show up, thankful to have something to do. It’s a hippy-looking kid named Tommy looking for some Beatnik stuff and an out-of-towner passing through on a road trip just stretching her legs and browsing. Sometimes, the shop has slow days like this - though if he’s being honest with himself, the slow days are more common than the regular ones at this point - and sometimes it’s busier. A few tourists will be in-and-out, looking for some cheap paperbacks to take down to the beach; and come Back-to-School time there’s generally a good number of Oak High students looking for their assigned reading books. They have a few regulars, like Chaya, the old lady who runs the photography store, and Ned, the Park Ranger. Their best regular was probably Molly’s stepdad, Ellis Ronan - he’d be in almost every day, capable of staying for hours at a time, always happy to engage Tyler in a conversation over whichever author he was perusing at the time - but he’d moved away a few years ago, and like Molly, doesn’t seem to have looked back towards Oak Park since.

Molly.

That brings Tyler back to the most pressing concern. He and Aaron had bandied the idea of hiring extra help back and forth for a while: they were dealing with so much stock at this point that Tyler could use an extra pair of hands. But Aaron had always expressed doubt in the value of such a hire, wondering if the shop was bringing in enough revenue to justify doling out another set of wages. This means the fact that Aaron hired Molly is a good sign. Tyler believes that. He must.

Hey Dream Girl,

I’m going to need more info than that! Come on, I’m dying here, give me some details, please. How does your (really extra) canopy bed fit in there? And is the school one of those obnoxiously rich Massachusetts Prep schools you read about? Are you studying in a non-magical Hogwarts? Or is it more like a Hailsham-type set-up, but you’re all being reared as future Presidential nominees instead of clones? Is Davis talking even more like a Junior Senator than he does usually?

Oak Park hasn’t changed too drastically, your conspicuous absence aside. We had a massive back-to-school rush in the shop, which was hectic but cool. Some retired university professor donated a bunch of miscellaneous encyclopedias as well - Bridgette found this one that has all these high-definition cross-sections of cells from microscopes that you’d love; I’ve put it aside for when you come back to visit! Any updates on when that will be?

In other news, I’m going out with Rena Kelly again this Saturday. She’s pretty cool, so fingers crossed it goes well (I promise I won’t wear that old Henley you always look at funny). It does mean Aaron and Bridgette will be having some quality time to bond etc., bet you can imagine how excited they both are for that! Aaron’s threatening to make it a Scrabble night or something, and Bridgette is in turn threatening to live-text me the entire ordeal throughout the whole date, which I guess is fair penance.

Anyway, enough on me, it’s your turn now. Write back soon and send pictures - I have not forgotten your promise to send me a selfie of you pretending to throw tea into Boston Harbor. You should know by now, Dream Girl, that I forget nothing.

I miss you like crazy, and everything is slightly worse without you here,

Hi Tyler,

Sorry, I’m just busy these days, unpacking and settling in and stuff is annoyingly time-consuming.

The school is pretty much as fancy as you’re imagining so at least my mom’s on brand.

I don’t know about visiting yet, everything’s still up in the air, sorry.

Rena sounds nice, go you! I’m glad you update me on all the dates and stuff, it feels like I’m still there.

And I don’t know Tyler, I sometimes think you lean towards selective memory.

Sorry but I have to cut this short again, I’ve got to take the car to get serviced.

What the fuck, Molly? Did I do something wrong? Is there a reason your replies are barely more fleshed out than an answering machine message? Which incidentally is something I’ve heard more of than your actual voice since I’ve been trying to call you. Let me guess, mommy’s found you shiny new prep school friends and you can’t schedule time to give a shit about your commoner buddies between croquet on the lawns and orgies with the cabinet or whatever the fuck it is rich people do? Fuck you!

Stacey tries not to let the irritation show on her face as Lily examines yet another chipped bit of seashell, but it’s not like she’s trying very hard.

“Lily, you sure you don’t want to at least put your feet in?” Lily asks from the rock pool.

She snorts, not looking up from her phone. “Jesus, you’re such a townie.”

“Not really,” Lily contests placidly, “I’ve always loved the sea. Besides, I moved from San Diego, which is just as coastal as Oak Park.”

“True. In which case,” Stacey leans back and squints through the sunlight, “I don’t get why you’re so excited by all this. It’s not going anywhere, plus you’ve had enough ocean to last you a lifetime.”

Lily sighs. “I could spend an eternity lifetime with the ocean.”

Stacey doesn’t even try to stop her eyes from rolling. There’s nothing abhorrently wrong with Lily exactly, but. Well. Stacey had ideas about what she’d spend the summer doing, and none of them included babysitting the town’s newest hippie. Besides, it’s not like Lily seems to particularly need a guide anyway - she seems to have an internal compass that leads her to all the vegan cafés and vintage stores that Stacey has never bothered to notice Oak Park even has.

She opens up Twitter, refreshing her DMs a few times. There are a couple of unread messages from a few of her video game or incoming CalTech freshmen mutuals, but nothing from @TheDay, or just Day as she’s taking to referring to him. He told her it’s not his real name, but it’s easier than thinking about him in terms of a Twitter handle the whole time. She scrolls up and down the conversation in boredom a few times, messages and gifs and screenshots blurring into a colorful stream as she does so, before eventually rereading the last few messages they’d exchanged for the umpteenth time.

And that had been it.

Mr. Day hasn’t been back online in ages. Is she being ghosted? Did the Day Man break his phone, laptop, and all other access points to the internet and fail to fix anything? Stacey shoves the phone away with a huff. She’s far from dumb; she’s always been aware that Day could turn out the be a 65-year-old kinky old geezer or pervert. But she doesn’t believe it. She’s got every antivirus software under the sun rigged up and she can sniff out catfish like a bloodhound. She believes Day is real. And she has no damn clue who he is.

Meanwhile, Molly spends a full two minutes debating whether or not to knock. On the one hand, there’s no need as she knows full well the door is open and nothing is keeping her from walking in. On the other, something about that seems familiar, comfortable in a way she doesn’t think she is. Eventually, she pulls herself together and goes in, the little bell she remembers so well tingling as the door swings open.

Tyler looks up, and she feels tense.

“Well,” she says, speaking before he can, “you’re more vertical than the last time I saw you.”