It's after midnight when I finally try and call Mom again. The dread in my gut is growing to the point of noxious and leaves me short of breath. “Hey, where are you?” I whisper, tucking myself into a corner of the study while Aiden finishes cleaning up. I feel shitty, especially when Aiden tries (so desperately) to lift the conversation back to where it once was, but I'm so nonreciprocal that he eventually puts on his easy smile and stops. “You...said you'd pick me up at ten. Did something happen at work? Call me back, okay?” I hang up.

She won't. I know she won't.

I slip back into the living room through the glass doors to watch Emily Tomlinson rub her face, bleary-eyed and unfocused.

“She lives,” Aiden laughs.

“Shit. Sorry, Aiden,” she says, words stretched as she does. “Am I the last one?”

He leans against the back of the couch. “Nah. Tom's still here, too.”

“Tom?”

“Yeah. He's just trying to figure out a ride for himself.” Aiden lifts off and goes back to doing the finishing touches cleaning.

She turns, glancing around the living room until she sees me. I wave, but she looks like I'm a trench coat-clad drug seller in a cheesy 90's movie. “I thought your name was Tim.”

I sigh and turn away.

“It's always been Tom,” he says from the kitchen. He says my name tensely. Thinly. Nails pressed against the countertop.

“Oh.” Emily Tomlinson swings her feet off the couch and onto the floor. Her back is arched and head hangs low slightly. “...thought it was Tim.”

Aiden's eyes shoot to the back of her head. “It's always been Tom,” he says again, a little more incensed than before. There's an edge in his voice. To my ears, it's sharper than any knife, and it makes me wince. He disappears around some cabinets and into the darkness, going through final tidying up procedures in a house more empty than Emily Tomlinson's sleep-deprived mind.

“Oh,” she says again, the word absentminded and drifting through the air. She looks at me again and stares, as if I'm not really there. As if I'm glass. She stands up, wobbles from exhaustion, and wipes her face again. “I'm...going to go home now.”

I think she lives by a train station. She complains about her apartment being close to the trains passing by. I could ask her to take me there, and I could maybe (maybe) catch the last train of the night heading towards Moorfield.

“Can you let Aiden know I'm heading out?” she mumbles, pulling on her shoes.

I nod, swallowing thickly. Even if I had the words at this point, I don't know if I'd ask her at all to take me. I know what time it is, and no doubt the trains and buses have stopped for the night. If Mom came around to find me not here, either, she'd be so angry. On top of that, I can't ask her to go out of her way for me – basically a stranger – like this, especially for someone who can't remember my name. Three letters. Three letters. How many names that start with a T and are three letters?

I hold that in. I send it back down my throat and into my stomach where it can curdle and dissipate back into my veins. Better it there than anywhere else.

Emily Tomlinson hums in my lack of response, stumbles to the door, and leaves. Her car starts up, and Aiden appears from the shadows.

“Where'd Emily go?” he asks, a white plastic bag in hand. He shifts his weight onto one foot, glancing forward.

“She left,” I whisper, pulling out my phone.

“She...” Aiden's eyes widen slightly, and tosses the trash bag onto the countertop. His easy expression barely falters. “What?”

The house smells of cold, and the harsh white lighting make the living room feel wider, emptier. I message Mom again. “She wanted me to tell you.”

Aiden's footsteps are not light as they head to the front door and glance through the sidelights. He turns back to me. “She lives in Oakwood.” His tone is staggered, broken up by sheer exasperation on my behalf. It's not even subtle.

I raise a brow. With just us left in the house, Aiden Martin is sloppier at hiding himself than I expected.

“Why didn't you ask her to take you?”

I glance down at my feet and shrug.

He sighs, and I can only imagine his shoulders slumping. “Has your mom reached back out to you?”

“No,” I whisper. “I'm going to call her.”

“You can stay the night if you need to,” Aiden calls after me. “It's no problem.”

I ignore him as press CALL, heading deeper into the shadowed portions of Aiden's house, away from him. I couldn't put him out like that, even if it is plainly apparent that the house is completely empty. Even so, being left alone with Aiden, in his house, when he likes me feels dangerous, anyway, for the both of us. Him because it tastes like hope, and for me because it could unintentionally suggest something more.

My foot taps while my phone rings. And rings. And rings. Mom never bothered to set up the automated voice message, so it's cold and robotic, reading out her number like a secret nuclear missile launch code. I hang up and try again, though get the same result. Rage bubbles where that withheld request fell in my stomach, and it starts to burn. I hang up and try again, though get the same result. Rage trades places with fear in my chest, tight and breathless. I hang up and try again, though get the same result, but when the voicemail does finish, and the line beeps, I leave a message. “Hey...where are you?” I feel the need to say more, but I don't know what else could be said. I hang up.

I drift back slowly towards the living room. I slip my phone into my pocket and find Aiden kneeling in front of the couch, brushing the fabric with a rag. “Hey.”

He looks at me, and his easy smile settles something in me. “Any luck?”

“No. What are you doing?”

Aiden glances back at the couch. “Just making sure Emily didn't get any frosting on the couch. My parents would kill me if they found out.”

I hum, nodding as I land back in one of the armchairs. It's hard to believe that, over an hour ago, there were so many people here. It was warm and lightly uncomfortable before; now the silence is cold and grating.

Aiden's shoulders drop as he leans back to look at his cleaning prowess. Whatever stain was there (or wasn't there) is gone, and he hums in approval as he rocks from his knees onto his feet. “If you're having problems getting a hold of her, you can stay the night. It's fine.”

“No, it isn't.”

He cocks his head to the side. “It's no problem. You have, like, two other rooms to pick from, along with the guest room. Perks of having your brother and sister already in college.”

“I don't want to stay.”

Aiden's shoulders become rounded. He crosses his arms over his chest.

I look at him. It's a new, uncertain look that I don't think I've ever seen him wear before.

“Did I do something?” he asks.

“No, no,” I say, standing. “I jus – I cant inconvenience you.”

“I just said you had three spare beds to pick from.”

“I don't want to be taking advantage of you.”

Aiden wrinkles his nose in obvious confusion. “Does it count as 'taking advantage' if I was the one who offered it?”

“To me, it is. Regardless,” I mutter.

“Why?” he asks, and his features soften into something painful to look at. “I'd offer it to any one of my friends. You're in a bind. Why wouldn't you take up my offer?”

“Because you like me,” I almost say. Almost. I'm tempted, but I don't say it. I'm not bothered by it; if anything, my feelings knowing it are...complicated. Does it make me a little happy that he likes me? Sure, but also confused as to why. Does it fill me with the tiniest bit of petty glee when he turns someone down because “I already have someone I like”? Yes, that, too.

But does it make me sad that he likes me? Yes. Unbearably so. He deserves someone with presence. Someone who isn't so downright sad and me.