Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

chapter 1

i am sick

i am horrified at everything i hear

the youngest daughter lost her way again

every day repeats itself again

the cycle of our misery, it drives us all insane

please come home

Emily Prentiss took one last drag of her cigarette before flicking it into the parking lot, watching the ember arc through the September air like a tiny comet. The first bell wouldn’t ring for another ten minutes, but she could already feel eyes on her – new girl syndrome, amplified by the fact that she looked like she’d crawled out of a Hot Topic catalogue and didn’t give a single fuck about it.

She adjusted the straps of her messenger bag, heavy with dog-eared paperbacks and her battered composition notebook, and took in Rosewood Highschool. It looked exactly like every other suburban highschool her ambassador mother had dragged her to: brick facade trying too hard to look prestigious, a quad with picnic tables that probably had their own hierarchy, and that particular scent of teenage desperation mixed with cafeteria pizza that seemed universal.

This was her third school in four years. Rome, London, and now bumfuck Virginia. At least her Italian had gotten pretty good.

Emily pulled out another cigarette, cupping her hand against the morning breeze to light it. Her black nail polish was chipped – she liked it that way. Her smoky eye makeup was deliberate, practiced, perfect. The fishnets under her ripped jeans were an aesthetic choice and a middle finger to the preppy blonde clones already giving her looks from across the parking lot. Her Bauhaus t-shirt was vintage, actually vintage, picked up from a thrift store in Camden Town.

“You know those things will kill you, right?”

Emily turned to find a girl with blonde hair in multiple pigtails, cat-eye glasses perched on her nose, and a smile that could power a small city. She wore a cardigan covered in what appeared to be hand-sewn patches of various computer icons and a skirt that defied at least three laws of physics with its volume of tulle.

“So will high school,” Emily replied, exhaling smoke away from the girl’s direction out of courtesy. “At least cigarettes are honest about it.”

The girl laughed, loud and genuine. “Oh my God, I’m going to like you. I’m Penelope Garcia, but everyone calls me Garcia. Well, everyone who matters. The administration calls me, ‘Ms. Garcia, please report to the principal’s office for unauthorized network access.’” She said this last part in a nasally impression of what Emily assumed to be the principal.

“Emily Prentiss.” She offered her hand, and Garcia shook it enthusiastically. “Let me guess – you’re the quirky tech genius who’s going to show me around and warn me about the social landmines?”

“See? You’re smart. I like smart.” Garcia bounced on her heels. “And yes, absolutely. First landmine: see that table?” She pointed to a cluster of picnic tables near the front entrance where a group of girls in designer jeans and carefully coordinated outfits held court. “That’s the soccer table. Secifically, the girls’ varsity soccer table. They run this school like it’s their personal fiefdom.”

Emily studied the group with the detached interest of an anthropologist observing a new species. There were maybe six or seven of them, all with that particular brand of athletic grace and casual confidence that came from being good at something people actually cared about. They were pretty in that catalogue-model way – interchangeable except for hair color and varying degrees of fake tan.

Except for one.

The girl sat at the center of the group like a sun with planets orbiting around her. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that probably took three minutes but looked effortless, blue eyes visible even from this distance, and a smile that she wielded like a weapon. She wore her varsity jacket with the same confidence some girls wore couture. When she laughed at something one of her friends said, the whole table seemed to lean in, desperate for proximity to that brightness.

Emily felt something twist in her chest. Annoyance, probably. Rich girls who’d never had to question their place in the world always annoyed her.

“That’s Jennifer Jareau,” Garcia continued, following Emily’s gaze. “But everyone calls her JJ. Captain of the soccer team, straight-A student when she bothers to try, and basically untouchable. Her family has lived here since like the Revolutionary War or whatever. Old money, big house, country club memberships – the whole deal.”

“Let me guess,” Emily said, taking another drag. “She’s dating the quarterback, volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends, and has never had an original thought in her life?”

Garcia snorted. “Close. She’s dating Will LaMontagne – captain of the Lacrosse team, future finance bro, daddy’s money. The rest is probably accurate though I’m sure the volunteering thing is just for college applications.” She paused. “JJ’s not… I mean, she’s not the worst of them. That would be Sarah Morrison.” Garcia pointed to a brunette girl whose smile looked like it could cut glass. “But JJ’s the one with real power. She doesn’t have to be mean – everyone just does what she wants because they want her to like them.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Emily murmured.

“For us or for her?”

Emily looked back at JJ, who was now standing, slinging her designer bag over one shoulder with practiced ease. For just a second, Emily could have sworn she saw something flicker across that perfect face – something tired, something caged – but then JJ was laughing again, and the moment passed.

“Both,” Emily finally answered.

The warning bell rang, a shrill electronic sound that made Emily’s teeth hurt. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her combat boot. 

“Come on,” Garcia said, already bouncing toward the entrance. “I’ll show you where the freaks and geeks congregate. That’s us, by the way. I’m President of the unofficial club.”

Emily shouldered her bag and followed, very deliberately not looking back at the soccer table.

-

The morning passed in the usual blur of administrative paperwork, guidance counselor platitudes, and getting lost trying to find her locker. Emily’s schedule was blessedly heavy on AP classes – AP Literature, AP History, AP French – which meant she’d at least be intellectually stimulated while socially isolated. She’d perfected the art of being alone in a crowd.

By third period, she’d already pegged the major players: the burnouts who hotboxed in the bathroom between classes, the theatre kids who spoke exclusively in musical references, the actual nerds who’d rather solve differential equations than deal with social interaction, and the vast middle ground of students who were just trying to survive til graduation.

And then there were the soccer girls, who seemed to materialize in every hallway like beautiful, athletic ghosts.

Emily was digging through her locker, looking for her copy of The Scarlet Letter for AP Lit, when she heard it.

“Oh my God, what is that?”

The voice was female, young, and dripping with performative shock. Emily didn’t turn around. She’d heard variations of this comment in three different countries. The script never changed.

“I think it’s supposed to be fashion?” Another voice, also female, trying to sound sympathetic and failing. “Like, goth or whatever? Very 1999.”

“It’s giving ‘I shop exclusively at Halloween stores.’” 

Laughter. Multiple girls. Emily finally found her book and straightened slowly, dliberately, before turning to face them.

There were three of them: two brunettes Emily didn’t recognize and, because the universe had a sense of irony, Jennifer Jareau herself. They stood in a loose triangle, backpacks slung over one shoulder in that careless way that suggested they’d never had to worry about pickpockets or long walks home. They were all looking at Emily like she was an exotic animal in a zoo - slightly facinating and slightly distasteful. 

Emily met JJ’s eyes directly. Up close, they were even bluer than she’d thought, the kind of blue that belonged in pretentious poetry. There was something sharp behind them, something calculating.

“Can I help you?” Emily asked, her voice flat.

One of the brunettes – Sarah Morrison, Emily finally remembered – smirked. “Oh, it talks. We were just wondering if you knew Hot Topic had a return policy.”

“And I was wondering if you knew that personality was sold separately from your designer jeans,” Emily replied without missing a beat. “Guess we’re both disappointed.”

Sarah’s face flushed red. The other brunette - her lackey, clearly - looked between them nervously.

But Emily kept her eyes on JJ, who was watching the exchange with an expression that Emily couldn’t quite read. Not quite amusement, not quite discomfort. Something perfectly inbetween. 

“That’s cute,” Sarah recovered, her voice icy. “New girl’s got jokes. Let me give you some advice, sweetie–”

“I didn’t ask for advice,” Emily interrupted, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. “But since we’re offering unsolicited opinions, here’s mine: the mean girl routine is tired. You’re not in a teen movie, and nobody is impressed.”

She stepped forward, and the three girls moved instinctively back. Emily walked past them without another glance, feeling their stares burn into her back.

“What a freak,” she heard Sarah mutter.

And then, quieter, another voice. JJ’s.

A laugh. Light, careless, cruel.

Emily’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t turn around. She’d learned a long time ago that caring what people like that thought was a waste of emotional energy. Jennifer Jareau could laugh all she wanted. Emily had survived boarding schools full of entitled rich kids. She’d survived her mother’s political circles and embassy parties where every smile hid a knife. She’d survive Rosewood High School and its petty hierarchy.

Still, something about the laughter stuck with her as she walked into AP Literature.

-

The classroom smelled like old paper and dry erase markers. Emily chose a seat in the back corner – best vantage point, easiest exit, a habit learned from too many international schools where being the new kid made you a target. She pulled out her copy of The Scarlet Letter, already annotated from a previous read, and waited for class to start.

Students filtered in slowly. Emily recognized a few faces from her earlier classes. Garcia bounced in with a wave before taking a seat in the middle. A lanky kid with hair that defied gravity and an expression of permanent confusion sat near the front, already reading what looked like a quantum physics textbook.

And then JJ walked in.

Of course. Because Emily’s life was apparently a cosmic joke.

JJ swept the room with her eyes, that same calculated assessment Emily had seen in the hallway. When her gaze landed on Emily, something flickered across her face – recognition, maybe annoyance – before she deliberately chose a seat on the opposite side of the room.

Fine by Emily.

The teacher, Ms. Shepherd, was a woman in her forties with greying hair pulled into a messy bun and the kind of face that suggested she’d seen everything and was no longer impressed. She wore a cardigan despite the September warmth and had the ink-stained fingers of someone who actually read for pleasure.

Emily liked her immediately.

“Alright, settle down,” Ms. Shepherd said, her voice carrying easily over the chatter. “We have a new student today. Emily Prentiss, welcome to AP Literature. We’re currently suffering through Hawthorne, as I’m sure you’ve gathered from the syllabus.”

A few sympathetic chuckles from the class.

“Thank you,” Emily said simply.

“You’ve read The Scarlet Letter before?” Ms. Shepherd asked.

“Twice. Once for a class in London, once for fun.”

“For fun?” someone muttered. “Who reads Hawthorne for fun?”

“Someone who appreciates complex moral allegory and the examination of public shame versus private guilt in a Puritan society,” Emily replied without looking to see who’d spoken. “Also, I like depressing books. Sue me.”

Ms. Shepherd’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “Excellent. We’re discussing chapters thirteen through seventeen today. Who wants to start off with the symbolism of the forest scene?”

Silence. The awkward kind where everyone suddenly found their desks fascinating.

Emily waited exactly three seconds before raising her hand. “The Forest represents liberation from societal constraints. It’s where Hester and Dimmesdale can be honest about their relationship without the weight of Puritan judgement. The sunlight that follows Pearl is Hawthorne’s way of showing innocence exists outside of the moral framework the town imposes.”

Ms. Shepherd looked delighted. “Excellent. And what about the contrast between Pearl in the forest versus Pearl in town?”

They fell into discussion, and Emily found herself relax slightly. This, at least, was familiar territory. Books didn’t judge you for wearing too much eyeliner or smoking cigarettes. Literature didn’t care if you fit in.

She was mid-sentence, explaining the significance of Hester refusing to name Pearl’s father, when she caught JJ staring at her.

Not the dismissive look from in the hallway. Something else. Something almost like… interest? Curiosity?

JJ’s eyes were narrowed slightly, her head tilted just a fraction, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. When she realized Emily had noticed, she looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in her own copy of the book.

Weird.

Emily finished her point and let someone else take over the discussion. She spent the rest of the class half-listening to various students stumble through analysis while surreptitiously observing JJ.

The soccer captain wasn’t participating very much. She took notes occasionally, but her pen seemed to hover over the page more than it wrote. Every few minutes, she’d glance at the clock like she was counting down to freedom. Her ponytail was slightly less perfect than this morning, a few blonde strands escaping to frame her face.

She looked tired, Emily realized. Not physically tired – she had the kind of athletic energy that meant she could probably run for miles – but tired in some deeper way. The kind of tired that Emily recognized from her own mirror.

Then JJ looked up and caught Emily staring this time.

For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away. JJ’s expression was unreadable, somewhere between defensive and curious. Emily raised one eyebrow, a silent challenge: What?

JJ’s jaw tightened and she looked back down at her book, a slight flush creeping up her neck.

Interesting.

The bell rang before Emily could analyze that interaction further. Students began packing up immediately, the shuffle of papers and the zip of backpacks filling the room.

“Ms. Jareau, Ms. Prentiss, stay behind for a moment,” Ms. Shepherd called out.

Emily’s stomach sank. She glanced at JJ, who looked equally as confused and significantly more annoyed.

They approached Ms. Shepherd’s desk from opposite sides, maintaining careful distance like opposing magnets.

“Jennifer,” Ms. Shepherd began, and Emily caught that slight wince that crossed JJ’s face at the use of her full name. “Your grade in this class is currently sitting at a C-minus. Your essays show promise, but they’re rushed, and you’re not participating in class discussions.”

JJ’s expression went carefully neutral. “I have soccer practice almost every day, and we have a tournament coming up–”

“I’m aware of your extracirriculars,” Ms. Shepherd interrupted gently but firmly. “However, this is an AP class. The colleges you’re applying to will care about your grades, not just your athletic achievements.”

Emily watched JJ’s hands clench around the straps of her backpack.

“Which is why,” Ms. Shepherd continued, “I’m assigning you a tutor. Emily, you clearly have a strong grasp of the material. Would you be willing to help Jennifer outside of class? Just an hour or two a week.”

Oh hell no.

Emily opened her mouth to politely decline, but Ms. Shepherd was already looking at her with those sharp eyes that suggested this wasn’t really a question.

“I…” Emily glanced at JJ, who looked like she’d rather eat glass. “Sure. I guess.”

“I don’t need a tutor,” JJ said, her voice tight.

“Your grade suggests otherwise,” Ms. Shepherd replied matter-of-factly. “You’re both smart girls. I expect you can figure out a schedule that works. Emily, see me after class tomorrow and we’ll discuss tutoring compensation – the school has a small budget for peer tutoring programs.”

She smiled like this was settled and turned back to organizing the papers on her desk. Dismissed.

Emily and JJ stood there for a moment in awkward silence before both turning toward the door. They ended up walking out together, though neither seemed happy about it.

“Look,” JJ said once they were in the hallway, her voice low. “I know Ms. Shepherd thinks this is a great idea, but you don’t have to actually tutor me. I’ll figure it out on my own.”

“Your C-minus suggests otherwise,” Emily echoed Ms. Shepherd’s words, unable to resist.

JJ’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need help from–” She stopped herself, but Emily could fill in the blank.

From someone like you.

“From someone who actually reads the books?” Emily replied sweetly. “Yeah, I can see how that would be threatening.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” JJ said, her voice sharp.

“No,” Emily agreed. “And I don’t particularly want to. But I also don’t feel like dealing with Ms. Shepherd’s disappointment if I refuse to help. So here’s the deal: we meet once a week, you pretend to pay attention for an hour, I collect my tutoring money, and we both go on pretending the other doesn’t exist. Got it?”

JJ stared at her for a long moment, trying to figure Emily out. Finally, she sighed. “Fine. Library. Tomorrow after school. Four o’clock.”

“Can’t wait,” Emily deadpanned.

Emily headed outside immediately for a quick cigarette before her next class. She found a spot behind the east building where the security cameras didn’t quite reach.

She lit up and leaned against the brick wall, letting the nicotine calm her nerves. Through a window on the second floor, she could see into what looked like a gym. The girls’ soccer team was warming up, running drills with the kind of synchronized precision that spoke to hours of practice.

And there was JJ, right in the center, leading stretches. Even from this distance, Emily could see the transformation. Gone was the tense, defensive girl from the hallway. This JJ moved with confidence and grace, calling out encouragement to her teammates, laughing at something one of them said.

She looked happy. Free.

Emily took a long drag and looked away. It wasn’t her business. Jennifer Jareau’s multitudes weren’t her damn problem.

Tomorrow at four o’clock would be painful and awkward, and then it would be over. One hour a week of forced proximity to a girl who’d literally laughed at her that morning. Easy. Emily had dealt with worse.

She finished her cigarette, ground it out carefully, and headed back inside.

Just another day at a new school. Nothing special. Nothing that would matter.(She was, of course, completely wrong about that).

Chapter Text

chapter 2

we’re too young to fall asleep

too cynical to speak

we’re losing it, can’t you tell? 

we scratch our eternal itch

our twentieth century bitch

we are grateful for our iron lung

Emily showed up at the library at exactly 4:05 PM the next day, because arriving on time felt too eager and she had a reputation to maintain. The library was one of those trying-too-hard spaces that wanted to be modern and inviting but just ended up looking like a furniture storey display. Colorful bean bags clustered in one corner, presumably for “collaborative learning.” Desktop computers lined one wall, probably running software from 1998. The actual books looked almost decorative, like it hadn't been touched in years. 

JJ was already there, seated at a table in the back corner, surrounded by textbooks and what looked like color-coded notes. She’d changed out of her varsity jacket into a simple white t-shirt that probably cost more than Emily’s entire outfit. Her hair was still damp from what Emily assumed was post-practice showering, darker blonde and wavy without product.

She looked up when Emily approached, and something complicated passed across her face before settling into cool politeness.

“You’re late,” JJ said.

“Five minutes isn’t late. It’s fashionable.” Emily dropped her messenger bag onto the table with a thud that made JJ flinch. “Besides, I had to finish a cigarette.”

“Those things will kill you."

“So I’ve been told.” Emily pulled out a chair and sat down, deliberately choosing the one across from JJ rather than beside her. “Shall we get this over with?”

JJ’s jaw tightened, but she pulled out her copy of The Scarlet Letter, already bristling with sticky notes in various colors. “Ms. Shepherd wants me to write a five-page essay on the theme of hidden sin and public punishment. I have three pages of notes but I don’t know how to make into like… an argument.”

Emily leaned forward to look at the notes, genuinely curious despite herself. JJ’s handwriting was neat, almost obsessively so, all perfect loops and consistent spacing. The sticky notes were organized by chapter, color-coded by theme. Blue for sin, pink for punishment, yellow for redemption, green for symbolism.

It was actually impressive. Overly organized, but impressive.

“Your notes are good,” Emily said, and she meant it. “You’re identifying all the right passages. You just need a thesis that ties it together.”

“I know I need a thesis,” JJ said, a sharp edge to her voice. “If I knew what it was, I wouldn’t need a tutor.”

“Right.” Emily pulled out her own battered copy of the book, pages dog-eared and margins filled with scrawled annotations. “So what’s your actual take on the book? Not what you think Ms. Shepherd wants to hear. What do you think?”

JJ stared at her like it was a trap. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you read it, what pissed you off? What made you think? What felt real?” Emily tapped her fingers against the table. “Literary analysis isn’t about regurgitating what’s ‘correct’. It’s about having an opinion and backing it up with evidence.”

“I don’t…” JJ trailed off, looking down at her color-coded notes like they’d provide an answer. “I think it’s unfair that Hester gets punished publicly while Dimmesdale gets to hide his guilt. Like, they both committed the same sin, but she has to wear the scarlet letter and he gets to keep being respected.”

“Good. Keep going.”

“And Pearl suffers for something that wasn’t her fault. She’s treated like she’s cursed or evil just because of how she was born.” JJ’s voice was getting stronger, more certain. “The whole town judges her based on something she had no control over.”

Emily felt something shift in her chest, some unwanted recognition. “So your thesis could be about how Puritan society punishes women and children for the sins of men, or how public punishment is gendered and unfair.”

JJ looked up, and for the first time since Emily had met her, there was something genuine in her expression. “That actually makes sense.”

“You already knew it made sense.” Emily pulled out her notebook. “Here’s what you do. Start with that idea – gendered punishment. Use Hester’s public shaming versus Dimmesdale’s private guilt. Then bring in Pearl as evidence of how the next generation inherits the consequences. Tie to the scarlet letter as a symbol of how women are marked and men are protected.”

JJ was writing now, her pen moving quickly across a fresh page. “And I could use the scaffold scene as evidence because Dimmesdale only confesses when he’s dying, so he never atually faces any real consequences.”

“Exactly. He gets redemption through death. Hester has to live with the consequences.” Emily paused. “It’s kind of fucked up when you think about it.”

“Yeah.” JJ looked up, and this time she almost smiled. “It really is.”

They worked in silence for a few minutes, JJ outlining her essay while Emily annotated a few more passages that might be helpful. The library was quiet except for the hum of the old computers and the occasional sound of pages turning. Through the window, Emily could see the parking lot emptying as students left for the day.

It was amost peaceful.

“Can I ask you something?” JJ’s voice broke the silence, careful and uncertain.

Emily looked up. “Sure.”

“Why do you dress like that?”

Emily’s expression went flat. “Wow. Subtle.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” JJ said quickly, though her cheeks flushed. “I just… you clearly don’t care what anyone thinks, and I guess I’m wondering why. Like, doesn’t it make things harder?”

“Harder than what? Pretending to be someone I’m not?” Emily leaned back in her chair. “I’ve been to five different schools in four years. I’ve lived in eight different countries. I learned pretty early that trying to fit in is exhausting and pointless because I’m just going to move again anyway. So I decided to just be myself and let everyone else deal with it.”

JJ absorbed this, her blue eyes thoughtful. “That sounds lonely.”

“It is.” Emily admitted. “But at least it’s honest lonely. Not fake-friends lonely.”

“Is that a dig at me?”

“If the designed shoe fits.”

JJ’s expression hardened again, walls slamming back up. “You don’t know anything about my life.” 

“And you don’t know anything about mine, but that didn’t stop you from laughing when your friends made fun of my clothes yesterday.” Emily kept her voice level, but she felt the anger simmering underneath. “So maybe we’re even.”

“I didn’t–” JJ started, then stopped. She looked away, jaw working like she was trying to find the right words. “Sarah’s not really my friend. She’s just… around.”

“Right. And you just laugh at her jokes to be polite.”

“You don’t understand how it works here,” JJ said, her voice tight with frustration. “I can’t just be whoever I want. People expect things from me. My parents, my teammates, the whole school. If I don’t live up to that, if I’m not perfect all the time…”

She trailed off, but Emily filled in the silence with understanding she didn’t want to have. Because she did understand, actually. She understood the weight of expectations, the suffocation of other people’s plans for your life. She’d just chosen to respond differently.

“So you laugh at people to maintain your status,” Emily said quietly. “Cool. Good to know where we stand.”

“That’s not–” JJ’s hands clenched into fists on the top of her notes. “God, you’re so fucking judgmental. You show up here with your combat boots and your cigarettes and your ‘i’m so deep because I read depressing books’ act, and you think you’re better than everyone else.”

“I don’t think I’m better than everyone,” Emily shot back. “Just the people who are mean for no reason.”

“I’m not mean.”

“You laughed at me.”

“So what?” JJ’s voice went sharp, defensive. “You want me to apologize for laughing? Fine. I’m sorry your feelings got hurt. Is what you want to hear?”

Emily felt something cold settle in her stomach. “Wow. That’s not even close to an actual apology.”

“What do you want from me?” JJ stood up abruptly, her chair scraping across the floor. “You waltz in here acting like you’re so much better than everyone, judging us for all caring about normal things like friends and fitting in. Not everyone can just decide to be a loner and call it authenticity.”

“I didn’t decide to be alone,” Emily said, her voice dangerously quiet. “I just stopped pretending that surface-level bullshit mattered. There’s a difference.”

“Right, because everything I care about is surface-level bullshit.” JJ’s laugh was bitter. “You’ve known me for two days and you’ve already got me all figured out. I’m just some shallow popular girl who cares about clothes and status and nothing else.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face every time you look at me.” JJ started shoving her notes into her bag, movements sharp and angry. “You know what? This was a mistake. I’ll tell Ms. Shepherd I'll figure it out on my own.”

“Good luck with that C-Minus,” Emily shot back. 

JJ’s hands stilled. When she looked up, her eyes were blazing. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? So deep and intellectual. But you’re just as judgemental as everyone else. Maybe more, because at least Sarah’s honest about being a bitch.”

The words hit harder than Emily expected. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you,” JJ said, and there was something raw in her voice now, something beyond just anger. “You don’t get to come into my life and act superior because you decided caring about things makes you weak. Some of us don’t have the luxury of not giving a shit about what people think.”

“That’s not a luxury, that’s a choice,” Emily said. “And you choose to be fake every single day.”

“And you choose to be alone.” JJ slung her bag over her shoulder. “Must be so easy, pushing everyone away and then acting like it’s some kind of moral superiority. At least I’m trying.”

“Trying to what? Maintain your perfect image? Congratulations, it’s working great. Everyone thinks you’re amazing.” Emily’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Too bad there’s nothing real underneath.”

JJ flinched like she’d been slapped. For a second, Emily saw something crack in her expression – something hurt and vulnerable – but then JJ’s face went blank, that perfect mask sliding back into place.

“This tutoring thing isn’t going to work,” JJ said, her voice carefully controlled now. “I’ll find someone else.”

“Good. I’d rather spend my time with people who actually want to learn instead of just protecting their precious GPA.”

“Better than spending time with someone who thinks being miserable makes them interesting.”

They stared at each other from across the table, the air between them crackling with hostility. Emily’s hands were shaking slightly, adrenaline and anger mixing in her veins. JJ’s jaw was clenched so tightly it had to hurt.

“We’re done here,’ JJ said finally.

“Yeah. We are.”

JJ turned and walked away without another word, her ponytail swinging with each sharp step. Emily watched her go, that familiar cold feeling settling over her. The one that said she’d burned another bridge, pushed another person away, proven once again that getting close to people was pointless.

She told herself she didn’t care.

She told herself that JJ was exactly like what she’d appeared to be from the beginning – a shallow, insecure girl playing a role.

She told herself the tightness in her chest was anger, nothing else.

The librarian was giving her looks now, probably having heard the raised voices. Emily grabbed her bag and headed for the exit, pulling out her cigarettes before she was even fully outside.

The October air had turned sharp, carrying the metallic smell of approaching rain. Emily lit up and took a long drag, letting the nicotine settle her nerves. Her hands were still shaking.

The parking lot was nearly empty now, just a few cars belonging to teachers who were working late and students with after-school activities. Emily spotted a BMW parked in the front row. As she looked at it, JJ emerged from the building’s side entrance, walking quickly with her head down, phone pressed to her ear.

Emily couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she could see the tension in JJ’s shoulders, the way her free hand kept clenching and unclenching. When JJ reached her car - the BMW, no surprise - she ended the call abruptly and just stood there for a moment, staring at nothing.

Then she pressed her forehead against the driver’s side window.

It was such a small gesture, but something about it made Emily’s stomach twist. Because she recognized that posture. That particular brand of exhaustion that came from holding yourself together too tightly for too long.

JJ straightened up after a moment, got in her car, and drove away. Emily watched the taillights disappear aorund the corner, that cold feeling still lodged in her chest.

She took another drag of her cigarette and started walking towards the bus stop.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her Mom: Working late again. Money on counter for dinner. Get something healthy.

Emily typed back a thumbs up emoji and shoved the phone back in her pocket.

The bus shelter was covered in graffiti – mostly tags and declarations of love that wouldn’t make it past graduation. Someone had written “we are all just waiting” in careful block letters against the back wall. Emily wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be profound or just depressing. Maybe both.

She thought about JJ’s color-coded notes. About the moment when JJ had actually engaged with the text, when she’d stopped trying to find the “right” answer and just said what she thought. About how quickly it had all fallen apart.

At least Sarah’s honest about being a bitch.

Emily flicked her cigarette butt into the gutter and immediately lit another one.

The thing was, JJ wasn’t completely wrong. Emily did judge people. She judged them constantly, sorted them into boxes labeled “fake” and “real,” “shallow” and “deep.” It was easier that way. Safer. If you decided everyone was full of shit from the beginning, you couldn’t be disappointed when they proved you right. 

But there had been something in JJ’s face when she talked about Hester and Pearl, something genuine that had slipped through the cracks in her perfect facade. And Emily had seen it immediately and gone for the throat because that’s what she did. She found the soft spots and pressed until people proved they were just as bad as she assumed.

The bus pulled up, breaks hissing. Emily climbed on, dropping her fare in the slot and headed to the seat she’d designated her own in the back.

Through the grimy window, she watched the town slip past. Strip malls and chain resturants, the movie theatre that still had a a marquee from the 1950s, the coffee shop where kids from school hung out on weekends. It all looked exactly like every other small town she’d lived in. Interchangeable. Temporary. 

She pulled out her own copy of The Scarlet Letter and opened to a random page. Her own annotations stared back at her, angry scrawls in the margins. Next to a passage about Hester’s isolation, she’d written: at least she knew who she was.

Emily closed the book.

When she got home, the house was dark and quiet. Money on the counter, like promised. Twenty dollars and a sticky note that said “No pizza” with a frown.

She ordered pizza and ate it standing over the sink, watching headlights pass on the streets below. Her phone sat on the counter, silent. No messages. No one checking in. Just the way she liked it.

Except.

Except she kept thinking about JJ’s face when she’d said you choose to be alone. The way it had sounded less like an accusation and more like an observation. Like she’d seen something Emily spent a lot of energy pretending didn’t exist.

Emily threw the pizza box into the trash and went to her room. Her walls were still mostly bare – she never really bothered to decorate anymore – but she’d pinned up a few things. Concert posters for bands that had broken up. A post card from Prague. A torn page from a book with a quote she’d liked once but couldn’t remember why anymore.

She sat on her bed and pulled out her notebook, the one she used for actual writing, not school assignments. Pages filled with half-filled poems and song lyrics and observations about people she’d never talk to again.

She wrote: the problem with burning bridges is eventually you run out of places to go. 

Then she crossed it out because it was too obvious.

She tried again: we’re all wearing scarlet letters but some of us just hide them better.

Better, but still not quite right.

Her phone buzzed. For a second – just a fraction of a second – she thought it might be JJ. But it was just a notification that her bus pass needed to be refilled.

Emily turned off her phone and and stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, Ms. Shepherd would ask how the tutoring session went. Emily would have to decide whether to tell the truth – that she’d lasted all of thirty minutes before systematically destroying any possibility of it working – or lie and say JJ had decided to find someone else.

The second option was easier. Cleaner. It required less explanation.

Emily was very good at choosing the easier option. 

She thought about JJ standing in the parking lot, forehead pressed against her car window. About the way her voice had cracked when she’d said some of us don’t have the luxury. About those color-coded notes that had probably taken hours.

You choose to be alone.

“Fuck,” Emily said to her empty room.

She got up and dug through her bag until she found the piece of paper Ms. Shepherd had given her with JJ’s contact information. She’d crumpled it but hadn’t thrown it away.

She didn’t call. Didn’t text. Just stared at the numbers until they blurred together, until she felt tired enough to sleep, until she could convince herself that tomorrow she’d forget about the whole thing.

But she kept the paper.

Just in case.

Outside, it started to rain. 

Chapter Text

chapter 3

dreaming, i’m sleep

are you the one?

pray my soul to keep 

comfort seems unreal

the opposite of how i feel

before i come undone

are you the one?

Emily didn't tell Ms. Shepherd the truth.

"Jennifer found another tutor," she said the next day, meeting the teacher's eyes with practiced ease. "Someone from her soccer team. She thought it would be better to work with a friend."

Ms. Shepherd looked skeptical but didn't push. "That's unfortunate. You two seemed like a good match academically."

Academically. Sure. If you ignored the part where they'd torn strips off each other within thirty minutes.

Emily nodded and escaped before more questions could follow. She had bigger problems anyway. Her phone had been buzzing all morning with increasingly terse messages from her mother.

We need to talk about your grades from London.

The headmistress called me yesterday.

Don't ignore me, Emily Elizabeth Prentiss.

The full name. Never a good sign.

Emily silenced her phone and tried to focus on Pre-Calculus, but the numbers swam on the page. She kept seeing JJ's face in the library, that moment when her mask had cracked. Kept hearing you choose to be alone like an accusation she couldn't shake.

By lunch, she'd decided the best strategy was complete avoidance. She grabbed her cigarettes and headed to her spot behind the east building, the one place she could be reasonably sure she wouldn't run into—

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me."

JJ stood exactly where Emily usually smoked, arms crossed, glaring at nothing in particular. She looked different than yesterday – her ponytail was slightly messy, there were dark circles under her eyes that even concealer couldn't quite hide, and her varsity jacket was zipped up despite the mild October weather.

She looked, Emily thought with unwanted sympathy, like she hadn't slept.

JJ's head snapped up at Emily's voice. For a second, something vulnerable flashed across her face before being replaced by cold hostility.

"This spot was here first," JJ said.

"Really? We're going to have a territorial dispute over a smoking spot?" Emily pulled out her cigarettes anyway, determined not to be intimidated. "That's very mature."

"Says the girl who called me fake to my face."

"I stand by that assessment."

JJ's jaw clenched. "Of course you do."

They stood in tense silence for a moment. Emily lit her cigarette, very deliberately not offering one to JJ even though she caught the other girl's eyes following the movement with something that looked almost like longing.

"I didn't know you smoked," Emily said finally, because apparently she was committed to making this as awkward as possible.

"I don't." JJ's voice was sharp. "I'm just hiding from my friends because Sarah won't shut up about her birthday party and I can't deal with her right now."

"Trouble in popular girl paradise?"

"Fuck off, Emily."

The use of her first name felt oddly intimate, which was stupid. But it made something twist in Emily's chest anyway.

"You fuck off," Emily shot back, childish but satisfying. "I was here first."

"No, I was—" JJ stopped, seeming to realize how ridiculous they both sounded. She laughed, but it was harsh and bitter. "This is so stupid. We're fighting over a spot to hide from people. Very normal. Very well-adjusted."

"I never claimed to be well-adjusted," Emily took another drag. "That's more your brand."

"Right. Because you're so damaged and interesting." JJ's voice dripped with sarcasm. "God forbid anyone think you're just a normal teenager with normal problems."

"And God forbid anyone see that you're not actually perfect."

JJ flinched. "You don't know anything about my problems."

"And you don't know anything about mine, but that doesn't stop you from making assumptions."

"I'm not—" JJ's phone buzzed loudly. She glanced at the screen and her expression darkened. "Shit."

"Boyfriend calling?" Emily couldn't keep the edge out of her voice.

"My mother, actually. Not that it's any of your business." JJ stared at her phone like it was a live snake. It kept buzzing, insistent. "She wants to know why I got a B on my History quiz. Apparently, the mother of some girl on my team saw the grade posted and mentioned it to her at the country club."

There was something in JJ's voice that made Emily pause. Something tight and controlled that she recognized from her own conversations with her mother.

"That's fucked up," Emily said before she could stop herself.

JJ looked up, surprised. "What?"

"Having someone else's mother tell your mother your grades. That's a privacy violation and also just... fucked up."

"Welcome to Rosewood." JJ's laugh was hollow. "Everyone knows everyone's business. It's great." She declined the call and shoved her phone in her pocket. "I'll call her back later. When I have time to deal with the lecture about maintaining our family's reputation."

Emily knew she should just leave it alone. They weren't friends. They'd made that abundantly clear yesterday. But something about the exhaustion in JJ's voice made her stay.

"My mom's calling me too," Emily heard herself say. "She found out I got kicked out of my last school. Well, 'asked to leave' is the official term. More polite that way."

JJ's eyes sharpened with interest despite herself. "What did you do?"

Emily took a long drag, considering. She'd never told anyone here the real story. Had planned to keep it buried along with everything else from London. But something about the shared misery of mothers who called during school hours made her reckless.

"I kissed a girl," Emily said flatly. "At a school dance. Someone took a picture, it got around, and suddenly I was a 'disruption to the learning environment.'" She air-quoted with one hand, cigarette dangling from her fingers. "My mom had me on a plane within forty-eight hours. Reputation management."

The silence that followed felt heavy. Emily immediately regretted saying anything. She waited for the disgust, the discomfort, the careful step backward that she'd learned to expect.

But JJ just asked, "Did you like her? The girl?"

Emily blinked. "What?"

"The girl you kissed. Did you actually like her, or was it just... I don't know, rebellion or whatever?"

"I—" Emily hadn't expected that question. "Yeah. I liked her. She was smart and funny and she actually gave a shit about things beyond her social status." Unlike some people, she didn't say, but it hung in the air anyway.

JJ absorbed this, her expression unreadable. "And they kicked you out of school for it."

"Yep. Because Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss can't have a daughter who's a—" Emily stopped, the word sticking in her throat. Her mother's voice echoed in her head: deviant, embarrassment, phase. "She can't have a daughter who doesn't fit the image."

"That's really fucked up," JJ said quietly.

"Yeah, well. I'm sure your perfect suburban family would react the same way."

Emily regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. She watched JJ's face shutter, walls slamming back up.

"Right," JJ said coldly. "Because you know everything about me and my perfect family."

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did. You always mean it." JJ pushed off the wall. "You know what? I'm sorry your mom sucks. I'm sorry you got kicked out of school for kissing a girl. That's genuinely shitty, and you didn't deserve it. But that doesn't give you the right to act like everyone else's problems are invalid just because yours seem worse."

"I never said—"

"You don't have to say it. It's in every look, every comment. You've decided I'm this shallow, privileged bitch, and nothing I do or say will change your mind because you've already written the story." JJ's voice was shaking now, though whether from anger or something else, Emily couldn't tell. "Must be nice, having everything figured out. Must be so much easier than actually getting to know people."

"That's not fair."

"No, what's not fair is you treating me like I'm the enemy when I've done nothing to you except laugh at a joke I didn't even make." JJ's eyes were blazing now. "You want to know why I laughed? Because if I didn't, Sarah would have spent the next week making my life hell for 'defending the weird new girl.' Because sometimes you have to pick your battles, and I didn't know you, so you weren't worth the fight."

The honesty of it hit Emily like cold water. "So I was acceptable collateral damage."

"We all are, to someone." JJ slung her bag over her shoulder. "At least I'm honest about it now. You want to keep pretending you're better than everyone? Fine. Enjoy being alone on your moral high ground. I've got practice."

She started to walk away, but Emily's mouth was moving before her brain could catch up.

"I'm sorry."

JJ stopped but didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," Emily said again, and the words felt foreign in her mouth. "You're right. I am judgmental. I do write people off before I know them. It's easier than..." She trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Easier than what? Easier than trying? Easier than getting hurt?

"Than what?" JJ asked, finally turning to face her.

"Than caring," Emily admitted. "Caring about what people think. Caring about making friends who I'll just have to leave anyway. Caring about..." She gestured vaguely at JJ. "People who are never going to actually like me once they know what I am."

"What you are," JJ repeated slowly. "You mean gay?"

Emily's jaw tightened. "Among other things."

"That's not—" JJ stopped, reconsidering. "Okay, yeah, some people are going to be assholes about it. But not everyone. And deciding everyone will hate you before they get the chance is just... it's just another way of hiding."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"Yeah, well." JJ's smile was bitter. "Maybe we're both hiding. Just in different ways."

Emily didn't know what to say to that. They stood in the October afternoon, the sound of soccer practice drifting from the field – shouts and whistles and the thud of cleats on grass.

"You're going to be late," Emily said finally.

"I know." But JJ didn't move. "For what it's worth... I'm sorry too. For laughing. For letting Sarah be a bitch. For—" She stopped, something complicated crossing her face. "For making assumptions about you based on how you look."

"Apology accepted," Emily said, and was surprised to find she meant it.

JJ nodded. An awkward silence stretched between them, different from the hostile silence of before. This one felt almost... promising? Like maybe they were standing at a crossroads instead of in a battlefield.

"I should go," JJ said. "Coach will kill me if I'm late again."

"Yeah."

JJ started to leave, then paused. "Hey, Emily?"

"Yeah?"

"That girl in London. Did you ever tell her how you felt? Before the photo thing?"

Emily's throat tightened. "No. I was going to, but then everything went to shit, and I never got the chance."

JJ nodded slowly, like Emily had confirmed something she'd suspected. "That sucks."

"Yeah. It really does."

JJ left for real this time, jogging toward the athletic complex. Emily watched her go, that familiar ache in her chest that she'd learned to associate with wanting things she couldn't have.

She finished her cigarette and pulled out her phone. Three more messages from her mother.

Answer your phone.

I'm not playing games, Emily.

If you don't call me by 5pm, I'm calling the school counselor.

Emily sighed and dialed. Her mother answered on the first ring.

"Finally. I've been trying to reach you all day."

"I was in class, Mom. You know, that thing you sent me to do?"

"Don't be smart with me." Ambassador Prentiss's voice was ice. "I got a very interesting call from Headmistress Strauss yesterday. Apparently, you were asked to leave St. Catherine's not because of academic issues, as you told me, but because of inappropriate behavior."

Emily's stomach dropped. "She had no right to—"

"She had every right. I'm your mother. And now I find out you've been lying to me for months." A pause, heavy with disappointment. "Is it true? Did you kiss another girl?"

"Yes." Emily's voice came out steadier than she felt.

Another pause. Longer this time. Emily could picture her mother in her office at the embassy, perfectly composed even while discussing her daughter's "inappropriate behavior."

"We'll discuss this when I get home," her mother said finally. "And Emily? If I hear even a whisper of this kind of behavior at your new school, you'll be in a boarding school in Switzerland before you can blink. Are we clear?"

"Crystal."

"Good. Go to class. Try to be normal for once."

The line went dead.

Emily stood there for a long moment, phone clutched in her hand, trying to remember how to breathe normally. Try to be normal for once. As if being herself was a character flaw she could correct with enough effort.

She lit another cigarette with shaking hands.

From the field, she could hear the coach's whistle and the team running drills. She caught a glimpse of blonde hair, a flash of the number 7 jersey. JJ was in her element out there, calling plays and encouraging teammates. Completely different from the tired, defensive girl who'd shared this spot five minutes ago.

Maybe we're both hiding. Just in different ways.

Emily exhaled smoke into the October air and pulled out her notebook. She wrote:

the closet has many rooms
some we build from combat boots and cigarettes
some from varsity jackets and perfect smiles
but we're all just hiding
waiting for permission to be real

She crossed it out immediately. Too obvious. Too raw. Too close to the truth.

But she didn't rip out the page.

Inside, the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Emily ground out her cigarette and headed back into the building. The halls were flooding with students, all noise and movement and teenage chaos.

She caught sight of Garcia bouncing toward her, cat-eye glasses slightly askew.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere. Want to come to my place after school? I'm modding my computer and could use someone to hand me tools and tell me I'm a genius."

Emily almost said no. Almost gave her usual excuse about homework or errands or just wanting to be alone.

But she thought about her empty house and her mother's voice saying try to be normal and JJ's observation that you choose to be alone.

"Sure," Emily heard herself say. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Garcia's face lit up. "Excellent! Fair warning: my mom will absolutely try to feed you. She's convinced all teenagers are starving."

"I could eat," Emily said, and Garcia beamed.

As they walked to their next class together, Emily's phone buzzed with one more message from her mother:

We'll discuss your weight when I get home too. You've let yourself go since London.

Emily deleted it without responding and turned her phone off entirely.

Garcia was chattering about processors and graphics cards and something about overclocking that Emily didn't entirely understand but found oddly comforting. Background noise that wasn't hostile or judgmental, just enthusiastic and genuine.

"Hey Garcia?" Emily interrupted.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For, you know. Being nice to me."

Garcia looked at her with something soft in her expression. "Of course. That's what friends do."

Friends. The word felt strange. Emily had stopped letting herself have those.

But maybe—just maybe—she could try.

They turned the corner and nearly collided with JJ and her soccer friends coming from the opposite direction. There was a moment of awkward eye contact, JJ's expression unreadable, before they passed each other without a word.

But Emily could have sworn she saw JJ almost smile.

It was probably nothing.

It was probably everything.

Emily didn't know which possibility scared her more.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

I hate everything about you
Why do I love you?
I hate everything about you
Why do I love you?

Emily wasn't used to following someone home.

She was used to buses with torn seats and the smell of diesel. Used to empty kitchens with granite countertops that had never seen a real meal prepared on them. Used to microwaved leftovers eaten standing over the sink while watching headlights pass on the street below. Used to voicemails from her mother in different time zones, always starting with "Emily, I need you to..." and ending with silence where affection should have been.

But when Penelope Garcia practically skipped beside her after the final bell—talking rapidly about graphics cards she wanted to upgrade, the merits of different soda flavors, her mother’s enchiladas that were apparently legendary—something in Emily didn't automatically say no.

Maybe it was the genuine enthusiasm in Garcia's voice. Maybe it was the way she talked about home like it was a place worth returning to instead of a gilded cage. Maybe it was because Emily's own house would be empty until at least nine, when her mother would return smelling like expensive wine and diplomatic disappointment.

Or maybe it was just that Emily was so tired of being alone that even the prospect of awkward small talk with a stranger's family seemed better than another night of silence.

"You're overthinking it," Garcia said, apparently reading Emily's hesitation. "My family's cool. Well, chaotic. But cool-chaotic, not scary-chaotic. And Emilio – that’s my step-father —se's been asking me when I was going to bring friends over. He gets worried that I spend too much time with my computers and not enough time with humans."

"Do you?" Emily asked. "Spend too much time with computers?"

"Probably. But computers don't judge you, don't spread rumors, and they do exactly what you tell them to if you speak their language. Humans are way more complicated." Garcia adjusted her backpack, covered in pins and patches. "But you seem like good people. And I'm an excellent judge of character. Comes from reading too much sci-fi."

Emily found herself almost smiling. "What does sci-fi have to do with judging character?"

"Everything! You learn to spot the androids pretending to be human, the aliens hiding among us, the people who are secretly evil overlords." Garcia's eyes sparkled behind her cat-eye glasses. "You're not any of those things. You're just... sad. And trying really hard not to be."

The observation was so accurate and so unexpected that Emily actually stopped walking for a second.

"Sorry," Garcia said quickly. "That was too much. I do that—say what I'm thinking without a filter. My therapist says I should work on it, but honestly, I think people appreciate honesty more than they admit."

"No, it's..." Emily started walking again. "It's fine. You're right. I am sad. And I am trying not to be."

"Well," Garcia said brightly, "My mom's enchiladas help with that. They're scientifically proven to improve mood. I did a study. Sample size of one, but still statistically significant in my opinion."

This time Emily did smile.

Garcia's house was nothing like Emily's.

Emily's house—she couldn't even call it home, not really—was all clean lines and neutral colors. Professionally decorated in shades of beige and cream that her mother called "elegant" and "timeless." Everything had its place. Nothing was ever out of order. It looked like a page from an interior design magazine, beautiful and cold and utterly devoid of personality.

Garcia's house was the opposite of that in every conceivable way.

It was a two-story colonial painted a cheerful yellow, with a front porch that sagged slightly on one side and flower boxes that had seen better days. The lawn needed mowing. There was a basketball hoop in the driveway with a net that had more holes than string. A dog's squeaky toy lay abandoned on the front steps.

And before they even opened the front door, Emily could hear it: Life.

Music coming from somewhere upstairs—something with a heavy bass line that made the windows rattle slightly. Laughter drifted from what sounded like the kitchen. The unmistakable sounds of boys arguing about something trivial. And underneath it all, the smell of food cooking. Real food. Garlic and tomatoes and something else Emily couldn't quite identify but made her stomach growl despite the cafeteria lunch she'd had a few hours ago.

"Brace yourself," Garcia said cheerfully as she pushed open the door. "It's dinner prep time, which means everyone's home and the chaos is at maximum levels."

Emily stepped inside and was immediately confronted by the reality of a house that people actually lived in.

There were shoes by the front door. Not a neat pair of shoes, but piles of them—sneakers and cleats and sandals and boots, all kicked off haphazardly. Jackets hung on hooks, some of them actually on the hooks, others sliding off or pooled on the floor beneath them. There was a backpack in the middle of the hallway that someone had clearly just dropped there. The walls were covered in pictures—actual framed photographs, not the kind of neutral art prints Emily's mother favored.

Emily found herself staring at them as Garcia kicked off her own shoes and added them to the pile.

There was a photo of a much younger Garcia, maybe seven or eight, missing her two front teeth and grinning at the camera with absolutely no self-consciousness. Another of Garcia at what looked like a quinceañera, in a pink dress that would have made Emily cringe but somehow looked perfect on her. A family portrait that was slightly off-center, everyone smiling but not in that stiff, forced way of professional photos. One of Garcia's step-brothers—Emily assumed—holding up a fish he'd caught, looking absurdly proud.

Everything felt lived in. Loved. Real.

"Mom! I'm home!" Garcia called into the house. "And I brought Emily!"

She said it so casually, like bringing people home was something she did all the time. Like it was normal to just invite someone into your life like this.

Emily stood frozen in the doorway, suddenly very aware that she didn't know how to do this. Didn't know the protocol for entering someone's actual home, their real space. She'd been to parties at embassy residences and diplomatic functions where everything was carefully choreographed. But this? This was something else entirely.

From the kitchen, a woman appeared, and Emily's first thought was that she looked exactly like someone who should be named Barbara.

She was shorter than Emily expected, probably no more than five-foot-three, with curves that spoke to someone who actually enjoyed food instead of obsessing over it. Her hair was dark, streaked with gray that she made no attempt to hide, pulled back in a messy bun that had pieces escaping everywhere. She wore jeans with actual paint stains on them and an apron that said "I kiss better than I cook" in fading letters. Her face was warm and open, laugh lines around her eyes and mouth that suggested she did both often.

She looked nothing like Emily's mother, who was all sharp angles and carefully maintained elegance.

"Oh!" Barbara said, her whole face lighting up when she saw Emily. "You must be Emily! Penelope told me about you—said you were smart and funny and had excellent taste in music."

Emily blinked. Garcia had talked about her? To her family?

"Hi, Mrs. Garcia.”

“Please, just Barbara. Mrs. Garcia makes me feel ancient." She was already moving forward, and before Emily could process what was happening, she was being hugged.

It was a real hug. Not the air-kiss, barely-touching-shoulders thing Emily was used to at diplomatic functions. Barbara actually wrapped her arms around Emily, pulling her in close enough that Emily could smell vanilla extract and oregano and something warm and yeasty like fresh bread.

Emily stood completely still, arms at her sides, because her own mother only ever touched her to adjust her posture or smooth down a wrinkle in her clothing. Hugs weren't something that happened in the Prentiss household.

Barbara pulled back, either not noticing Emily's stiffness or choosing to ignore it. "It's so nice to meet you! Penelope's been hoping to make more friends at school. She's brilliant, but sometimes the social stuff is hard, you know?"

"Mom," Garcia groaned, but she was smiling.

"What? It's true. You're a genius with computers but making conversation with people your own age has never been your strong suit." Barbara turned back to Emily. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour. I hope you're hungry—I always cook too much when I'm excited about having company."

"I... thank you," Emily managed, still feeling off-balance from the hug.

"Where are the boys?" Garcia asked.

"Miguel and Carlos are upstairs supposedly doing homework but probably playing video games. Diego's at basketball practice—Emilio went to pick him up. They should be back soon." Barbara was already heading back toward the kitchen. "Make yourselves comfortable! And Emily, if you need anything, just yell. We're not formal here."

That much was obvious.

Garcia grabbed Emily's wrist and pulled her toward the stairs. "Come on, I'll show you my room. Fair warning: it's kind of a disaster zone."

They headed upstairs, passing more photos on the walls. Emily caught glimpses of birthdays and holidays and random moments that someone had deemed important enough to capture and display. In Emily's house, the few photos that existed were all professional shots—Emily in her school uniform, her mother at various diplomatic events. Nothing candid. Nothing real.

Garcia's room was at the end of the hall, door covered in stickers and a sign that said "Batcave: Knock or Suffer the Consequences."

"I made that when I was twelve and it's stayed," Garcia said, pushing open the door. "Diego still knocks every time, which is honestly hilarious."

The room was exactly what Emily should have expected and somehow still managed to surprise her.

The walls were painted a deep purple and covered in posters—Star Trek, Doctor Who, various anime shows Emily didn't recognize, a huge periodic table that appeared to be color-coded for some purpose. String lights were draped along the ceiling, currently off but Emily could imagine how they'd make the room glow at night. A desk took up one entire wall, absolutely buried under computer parts and tools and empty Mountain Dew cans. There were three different monitors in various stages of assembly, a keyboard with keys in rainbow colors, and what looked like the internal organs of at least two computers spread across the surface.

But it was the corkboard above the desk that made Emily stop.

It was massive, maybe three feet by four feet, and completely covered in photographs. Not the professional kind—these were Polaroids and printed digital photos, some of them slightly blurry or off-center. Garcia as a kid with missing front teeth and scraped knees. Garcia with an older man who must have been her biological father, both of them laughing at something off-camera. Garcia at a soccer game, covered in mud and grinning. Garcia with her step-brothers, all of them making ridiculous faces. Garcia with Barbara and a man who must be Emilio—her step-father—at what looked like a wedding, everyone dressed up but Garcia's bow tie was already askew.

There were at least fifty photos, maybe more, overlapping each other, some of them pinned on top of older ones. A whole life, captured and displayed.

Emily couldn't stop staring at one in particular: Garcia, maybe twelve or thirteen, at the beach. She had braces and her hair in two braids and sand on her nose. Emilio was lifting her in the air, mid-throw into the ocean, both of them laughing so hard their eyes were squeezed shut.

"You okay?" Garcia asked quietly.

Emily realized she'd been standing frozen in front of the corkboard for too long. "Yeah," she said, but her throat felt tight. "Just... looking."

Garcia flopped onto her bed, which was covered in a comforter that featured the Starship Enterprise. "It's a lot, I know. I'm kind of sentimental. I like having reminders of good moments, you know? Like, when things are hard, I can look up and remember that there have been really good days too."

Emily sat carefully in the desk chair, feeling too big for the room and too small at the same time. Like she was intruding on something intimate, even though Garcia had invited her here.

"You don't have pictures in your room, do you?" Garcia asked, and it wasn't really a question.

"No," Emily admitted. "We move a lot. My mom doesn't like... clutter. She says photos and personal items make it harder to pack up and leave when the next assignment comes."

Garcia didn't say she was sorry. Didn't give Emily that pitying look that people sometimes did when they learned about her nomadic childhood. She just nodded, like she understood something important and unspoken.

From downstairs, someone laughed loudly—a deep, booming sound that seemed to shake the house slightly. Then another voice, younger, protesting about something.

"That's Emilio and Diego," Garcia said. "They're probably back from practice. Diego always complains about how Emilio drives—says he takes turns too fast. But then Diego tries to drive when we're in parking lots and he's way worse."

Emily listened to the sounds of the house around them. Footsteps on the stairs. A door opening and closing. Water running. The low rumble of conversation. The clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. Music still playing somewhere, the bass line a steady pulse.

There was a dull ache in Emily's chest. Not painful, exactly. Just... unfamiliar. A wanting for something she couldn't quite name.

"Do you want to meet everyone before dinner?" Garcia asked. "Or would that be too overwhelming? I know we're a lot."

"I..." Emily wasn't sure what she wanted. Part of her wanted to hide in this room until dinner was ready, avoid the awkwardness of meeting Garcia's family. But another part of her, the part that was tired of always being on the outside looking in, was curious. "Maybe in a minute?"

"Totally fine." Garcia reached over and grabbed a laptop from her nightstand. "Want to see what I'm working on? I'm trying to build a program that can predict optimal strategy for different game scenarios. It's probably super boring if you're not into that kind of thing, but—"

"Show me," Emily said.

So Garcia did. She pulled up screens filled with code that looked like gibberish to Emily, but Garcia explained it patiently, her voice animated and excited. She talked about algorithms and probability matrices and machine learning, and even though Emily only understood about thirty percent of it, she found herself relaxing slightly.

This was safe. This was just two people talking about something one of them was passionate about. No pressure to be anyone other than who she was.

A knock on the door interrupted them.

"Penny? Mom says dinner's in fifteen and you should come introduce your friend to everyone," a voice called through the door.

"That's Miguel," Garcia said. "Come in, you dork."

The door opened and a boy who looked about sixteen stuck his head in. He had Garcia's curly dark hair but cut short, warm brown eyes, and a smattering of acne across his forehead that he hadn't quite outgrown. He wore a hoodie from some band Emily didn't recognize and basketball shorts despite the October chill.

"Oh, hey," he said when he saw Emily. "You're Emily? Penny said you were cool. I'm Miguel." He gave her an awkward wave.

"Hi," Emily said.

"Fair warning: Carlos is going to interrogate you about whether you play video games, and Diego's going to try to impress you with his basketball stats even though nobody asked." Miguel grinned. "Just nod and pretend to be interested. It makes him go away faster."

"I can hear you, asshole!" another voice yelled from somewhere down the hall.

"Good!" Miguel yelled back. He looked at Emily again. "Seriously though, welcome. It's nice to have someone new around. Maybe you can convince Penny to actually hang out with people instead of just computers."

"Get out of my room," Garcia said, but she was smiling.

Miguel left, door still open behind him. Emily could hear more clearly now—the sounds of the house settling into dinner preparation. Footsteps on stairs. Cabinets opening and closing. Someone setting the table. The low murmur of conversation and laughter.

"Ready?" Garcia asked.

Emily took a breath. "Ready."

Downstairs was organized chaos.

The kitchen was the heart of the house, Emily realized immediately. It wasn't large—certainly smaller than the designer kitchen in her own house—but it felt full in a way that had nothing to do with physical space. The counters were old but well-maintained, scarred with years of use. The refrigerator was covered in magnets and photos and what looked like a chore chart that no one had updated in weeks. There was a small table in one corner with mismatched chairs, and through an archway, Emily could see the dining room table being set by two boys who looked so similar they had to be brothers.

Barbara was at the stove, stirring something in a large pot while simultaneously checking on something in the oven and chopping vegetables on a cutting board. She moved with the efficiency of someone who'd been cooking for a family for years, comfortable and confident in her space.

At the table, a man sat reading a newspaper—actual paper, not digital. He looked up when Emily and Garcia entered, and his face broke into a warm smile.

"You must be Emily," he said, standing up and offering his hand. "I'm Emilio. It's wonderful to meet you."

He was tall—probably six-foot-two—with a solid build that suggested he'd been athletic in his youth and was still active. His hair was graying at the temples, his face weathered in a way that made him look distinguished rather than old. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt, and when he shook Emily's hand, his grip was firm but not crushing. Genuine.

"Nice to meet you too," Emily managed.

"Penny tells me you're in several of her AP classes. That you're quite the literature scholar." Emilio's eyes crinkled when he smiled. "I teach English at the community college, so I always appreciate meeting young people who actually enjoy reading."

"You teach English?" Emily couldn't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Composition, mostly. Some literature courses when they need me to." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Please, sit. Can I get you something to drink? We have water, juice, soda—probably too much soda, according to Barbara."

"I heard that," Barbara called from the stove.

"You were meant to," Emilio shot back, but his voice was full of affection.

Emily sat, feeling awkward and out of place but also strangely... welcome? It was confusing.

The two boys came in from the dining room. One looked about fourteen, lanky and awkward in that way of boys who'd recently hit a growth spurt, with the same dark curly hair as Miguel and Garcia. The other was maybe twelve, shorter and stockier, with a gap between his front teeth and a basketball tucked under one arm.

"I'm Carlos," the older one said. "Do you play video games?"

"Sometimes," Emily answered carefully.

"What kind? PC? Console? Mobile doesn't count."

"Carlos," Barbara said warningly.

"What? I'm just asking!" Carlos looked genuinely confused about what he'd done wrong.

"I'm Diego," the younger one interrupted. "I play basketball. I'm going to be in the NBA someday. Emilio says I have good fundamentals."

"You have decent fundamentals," Emilio corrected gently. "There's a long way between decent fundamentals and the NBA."

"But I could get there," Diego insisted.

"You could," Emilio agreed. "With a lot of work and dedication and probably some growth. You're a bit short for a shooting guard right now."

"I'm still growing!"

Watching them interact was like observing a foreign species. The easy affection, the gentle teasing, the way Emilio corrected Diego without crushing his dreams or making him feel stupid. Emily's mother would have shut down such fantasies immediately, called them unrealistic and impractical.

"Alright, everyone wash up. Dinner's ready," Barbara announced. "Emilio, can you grab the salad from the fridge? Miguel, fill up the water pitcher. Carlos, get off your phone. Diego, put the ball away."

Everyone moved at once, a choreographed dance they'd clearly performed hundreds of times. Emily stood awkwardly, not sure what to do with herself.

"You can sit anywhere," Garcia said, grabbing Emily's sleeve and pulling her toward the dining room. "Just not Emilio's seat at the head of the table. He's territorial about it."

"I am not territorial," Emilio protested, but he was smiling. "I just prefer consistency."

The dining room table was large enough to seat eight, though tonight there were only seven places set. The chairs were mismatched—some wooden, some with cushions, one that looked like it had come from a completely different set. There were already water glasses at each place, and Emily noticed that two of them had chips on the rim.

Nothing matched. Nothing was perfect. And somehow that made it all feel more real.

Barbara brought out the food—a huge pan of enchiladas, rice, beans, tortillas wrapped in foil, the salad Emilio had retrieved. Everything was served family-style, passed around the table with people reaching over each other and conversations overlapping.

"Emily, what do you like?" Barbara asked. "I made chicken and beef—the chicken's milder if you're not good with spice."

"Um, chicken's fine. Thank you."

Barbara loaded up Emily's plate with more food than she could possibly eat. When Emily opened her mouth to protest, Barbara just smiled and said, "You're too thin. Growing girls need to eat."

Emily's mother said the exact opposite, but when she said it, it sounded like an accusation. When Barbara said it, it sounded like concern. Like care.

"So, Emily," Emilio said once everyone had food and the initial chaos of serving had settled. "Where did you move from most recently?"

"London," Emily said. "Before that, Rome. My mom's in the diplomatic service."

"That must be fascinating," Emilio said, and he sounded like he meant it. "All that travel, different cultures. Do you speak multiple languages?"

"Italian and French fluently. My Spanish is pretty rough, and my German is terrible."

"Three languages at your age is impressive," Emilio said. "I struggled through high school Spanish and remember basically nothing."

"That's because you're old and your brain doesn't work anymore," Miguel said around a mouthful of enchilada.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Barbara said automatically.

"And I'm not old," Emilio added. "I'm mature. There's a difference."

"You're forty-six," Diego said. "That's ancient."

"Thanks, Diego. Really feeling the love here."

Everyone laughed, and Emily found herself almost smiling. The conversation flowed around her—easy and comfortable. They asked her questions but never pried. Wanted to know about her but didn't make her feel interrogated. When she said she liked reading, Emilio wanted to know what books. When she mentioned she'd been to the Louvre, Carlos asked if she'd seen the Mona Lisa. When she admitted she couldn't cook, Barbara offered to teach her.

They didn't ask about why she'd moved so much. Didn't ask about her grades or her future plans or what college she wanted to attend. Didn't ask about her mother's work or whether being a diplomat's daughter was glamorous.

They just asked about her. Like she was interesting for who she was, not what she represented.

It was the strangest feeling Emily had experienced in years.

"So what do you think of Rosewood so far?" Miguel asked. "Pretty boring after London and Rome, huh?"

"It's..." Emily searched for the right word. "Different. Quieter."

"That's a polite way of saying boring," Carlos said.

"Carlos," Emilio said.

"What? It's true! Nothing ever happens here. The most exciting thing that's happened all year was when somebody's goat got loose and ended up in the school parking lot."

"That was pretty funny," Diego admitted.

"Whose goat?" Emily asked before she could stop herself.

"Nobody knows! That's what made it great!" Carlos was animated now. "Like, someone just brought a goat to school and let it loose. Security spent three hours trying to catch it. There are videos on Youtube."

"Show her later," Garcia said. "It's actually hilarious."

The conversation wandered from topic to topic—school, sports, some show everyone was watching except Emily, whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it didn't, according to Miguel, and everyone who thought otherwise was objectively wrong, which sparked a ten-minute debate).

Emily mostly listened, but occasionally someone would pull her in, ask her opinion, make space for her voice. And slowly, gradually, she felt herself relaxing. The tension in her shoulders easing. The knot in her stomach loosening.

She even laughed once, when Diego told a story about Emilio trying to help coach his basketball team and accidentally getting hit in the face with the ball.

"It was one time," Emilio protested.

"It was during a demonstration about defensive stance," Diego said, grinning. "You weren't even playing. You just got nailed."

"The kid had a surprisingly good arm."

"It was a basketball, not a baseball!"

Everyone dissolved into laughter, and Emily found herself joining in, the sound feeling strange and foreign but also... good.

Halfway through dinner, Emily's phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it. It buzzed again a minute later. Then again.

"You can check that if you need to," Barbara said gently.

"It's fine," Emily said. "Just my mom."

Something passed across Barbara's face—some understanding that Emily didn't want to examine too closely. "Well, you let us know if you need to call her back."

Emily nodded but didn't reach for her phone.

After dinner, the boys cleared the table while Emily and Garcia were shooed into the living room.

"House rule," Garcia explained. "Kids rotate on cleanup duty. This week is the boys' turn, which means next week is mine, which sucks. But tonight we get to relax."

The living room was just as lived-in as the rest of the house. A couch that had seen better days, worn soft in the spots where people sat most often. A coffee table with water rings and scratch marks. A TV that was probably a generation behind current technology. Bookshelves crammed full—not organized, just stuffed with whatever fit.

Garcia grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around both of them. "We're watching Buffy," she announced. "Season three. It's the best season, objectively, but I'll accept arguments for season two."

"I've never seen Buffy," Emily admitted.

Garcia's eyes went wide. "Okay, that's a crime. We're fixing that right now."

She pulled up the episode and hit play, and Emily found herself drawn into the campy supernatural drama. It was ridiculous and melodramatic and somehow deeply earnest, and Garcia provided commentary throughout—pointing out the good effects and the terrible ones, explaining character backstories, getting emotional about plot points Emily didn't have context for yet.

At some point, Miguel wandered in and flopped into the armchair. Then Carlos joined, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch. Even Diego came in eventually, complaining that everyone was being too loud but settling in anyway.

They watched two episodes. Then a third. Barbara brought out popcorn and hot chocolate. Emilio joined them for the last episode, sitting next to Barbara on the other end of the couch, their shoulders touching in that casual way of people who'd been together for years.

Emily kept expecting it to feel intrusive—all these people in one space, all this noise and presence. But it didn't. It felt... safe. Like being wrapped in something warm.

Somewhere during the third episode, Garcia fell asleep, her head slipping sideways onto Emily's shoulder. Her glasses sat crooked on her face, and she was snoring slightly.

Emily didn't move.

She sat perfectly still, afraid that any motion would break the spell, would remind everyone that she didn't actually belong here. She watched the TV without really seeing it, hyper-aware of Garcia's warmth against her side, the sound of other people breathing and existing in the same space.

Her phone buzzed again in her pocket. She could feel it vibrating against her leg.

She didn't answer.

She stared at the glow of the TV, listened to the quiet sounds of a house at peace—Diego's occasional laughter, Carlos's running commentary, Barbara's soft voice asking Emilio if he wanted more popcorn—and thought, dangerously:

So this is what it feels like.

To be part of something. To be included not because you were useful or necessary, but just because someone wanted you there.

Emily felt something crack in her chest, some wall she'd spent years building suddenly developing a fault line.

She blinked hard and told herself the burning in her eyes was just from staring at the screen too long.

Later, when the episodes ended and Garcia woke up disoriented and apologetic, Barbara insisted on packing up leftovers for Emily to take home.

"For your mom," Barbara said, tucking enchiladas and rice into Tupperware containers. "Or for you. Whoever needs it more."

She said it casually, but Emily heard the weight beneath the words. The implication that Barbara had noticed something, had seen past Emily's carefully maintained facade.

"Thank you," Emily said, and her voice came out smaller than she intended.

"You're welcome here anytime," Barbara said, and she wasn't just being polite. Emily could see it in her face—she meant it. "Seriously. Even if Penny's not around. You ever need a place to go, you come here."

Emily nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Emilio drove her home even though Emily insisted she could take the bus. "It's dark," he said simply. "And you have food. It's no trouble."

They didn't talk much during the drive. Emilio played NPR quietly, some story about international trade agreements that Emily's mother had probably briefed her on but she'd tuned out. He drove carefully, taking turns at reasonable speeds, occasionally humming along to the radio.

When they pulled up to Emily's house—all dark windows and perfect landscaping—Emilio looked at it for a long moment before turning to Emily.

"Thank you for coming over tonight," he said. "It meant a lot to Penny. She doesn't bring people home very often."

"Thank you for having me," Emily replied, formal despite herself.

"I mean it about coming back," Emilio said. "Our door is always open. And if you ever need anything—anything at all—you can call. Penny will give you our number."

He handed her the container of leftovers, and Emily clutched them like they were something precious.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Emilio's smile was gentle. "Drive safe, Emily. And tell your mom the enchiladas are better reheated in the oven, not the microwave."

Emily nodded and got out of the car. She waited on the porch until Emilio's taillights disappeared around the corner before unlocking the door.

Her house was exactly as she'd left it. Silent. Cold. Sterile. Not a single picture on the walls, just abstract art that her mother's decorator had chosen. The floors were spotless. The kitchen gleamed, unused. Through the window, Emily could see into the living room with its white furniture that no one was allowed to sit on because it might get dirty.

Everything was perfect. Nothing was lived in.

Emily stood in the kitchen, still holding the Tupperware of enchiladas and rice. The containers were warm against her palms, a lingering reminder of heat and life and people who cared.

She thought about Garcia's room full of photos. About the mismatched chairs and chipped glasses. About Barbara hugging her without hesitation and Emilio offering help without conditions. About falling asleep during a TV show with people around her and feeling safe instead of exposed.

She thought about her own house, where her mother would come home late smelling like expensive perfume and disappointment, where they would eat meals in silence when they ate together at all, where the guest room stayed perpetually ready for visitors who never came because her mother didn't have friends, only contacts.

The contrast was so stark it physically hurt.

Emily set the Tupperware carefully on the counter. She pulled out her phone and finally looked at the messages.

Mom: Where are you?

Mom: Answer your phone.

Mom: I'm leaving the dinner early. We need to talk.

Mom: I'm home. Where are you?

Mom: Emily Elizabeth Prentiss, you call me right now.

Mom: Fine. Stay out all night. We'll discuss your behavior tomorrow.

Emily checked the time. It was only 9:47. Hardly "all night."

She thought about calling back, offering explanations, managing her mother's anger. But she was so tired. So tired of performing, of managing, of trying to be the daughter her mother wanted instead of the person she actually was.

She turned off her phone and put it face-down on the counter.

Then she opened the Tupperware and ate leftover enchiladas standing at the sink, exactly like she'd eaten hundreds of other meals in this kitchen. But this time felt different. This time, the food tasted like being welcomed. Like being wanted.

Emily ate slowly, making it last, pretending she was still in Garcia's living room surrounded by warmth and noise and life.

When she finished, she washed the Tupperware carefully, dried it, and set it aside to return. She stood at the sink and stared out the window at the empty street, the identical houses with their perfect lawns and security systems.

She thought about Garcia sleeping with her head on Emily's shoulder. About Barbara saying "whoever needs it more" like she understood exactly what Emily's home life was like. About Emilio offering help without asking what was wrong first.

She wanted to cry. Her throat was tight and her eyes burned and everything in her chest felt too big and too painful.

But she didn't cry. She'd learned a long time ago that crying by yourself just made you feel worse.

Instead, she whispered to the empty kitchen, to no one:

"I don't want to be alone anymore."

The words hung in the air, confession and prayer and desperate wish all at once.

And for the first time in a long time—maybe ever—Emily almost believed she didn't have to be.

That maybe, possibly, she'd found people who might actually stay.

She looked at the Tupperware on the counter. Evidence that someone had thought about her, had wanted to feed her, had sent her home with tangible proof of caring.

It was such a small thing. Such a normal thing. The kind of thing that probably happened in families like Garcia's all the time without anyone thinking twice about it.

But for Emily, who'd spent her entire life in houses that felt like museums and whose mother showed affection through wire transfers and apology gifts after missed events, it felt monumental.

She picked up the Tupperware again, turning it over in her hands. It was plain, slightly stained from years of use, with a crack along one edge that had been carefully glued back together. Not fancy. Not new. Just functional and well-loved.

Like everything in Garcia's house.

Emily set it down carefully and finally went upstairs to her room.

Her bedroom was exactly what someone would expect from a diplomat's daughter who moved constantly: minimal, impersonal, temporary. The furniture was expensive but generic—pieces her mother had selected from catalogs that could work in any space. The walls were a neutral beige that her mother called "sophisticated." There were no posters, no photos, no signs that a real person lived here.

Emily had a few books stacked on her nightstand—worn paperbacks she'd carried from country to country because they felt like the only consistent things in her life. Her laptop sat on her desk, closed. Her school bag slumped against the wall.

That was it. That was the sum total of her personal effects after seventeen years of existence.

She'd told herself it was practical. Why get attached to things when you'd just have to leave them behind? Why decorate when you'd be moving again in six months or a year? Why collect memories when they'd just make the leaving harder?

But standing in her room after spending the evening in Garcia's house, surrounded by all that evidence of a life actually lived, Emily felt the emptiness like a physical weight.

She sat on her bed and pulled out her phone, turning it back on. More messages from her mother, increasingly sharp.

Mom: Your behavior tonight was unacceptable.

Mom: You deliberately ignored me to make a point.

Mom: We will discuss this tomorrow. Be downstairs at 7am sharp.

Mom: I'm disappointed in you, Emily.

That last one hit harder than it should have. Emily had been disappointing her mother her entire life—wrong interests, wrong personality, wrong everything. But it still hurt every single time.

She typed out a response: I was at a friend's house for dinner. I didn't see your messages until now. I'm sorry.

Three lies in three sentences. She'd seen the messages. She'd deliberately not responded. And she wasn't actually sorry, not really.

But apologizing was easier than fighting. And she was too tired to fight.

Her mother's response came immediately: We'll talk in the morning.

Emily turned her phone off again and lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She thought about Garcia's corkboard full of photos, about Barbara's warm hug, about Emilio's gentle smile. About feeling included and wanted and safe.

And then she thought about tomorrow morning's inevitable confrontation with her mother. About maintaining perfect posture and making appropriate eye contact and accepting criticism without defending herself because that's what good daughters did.

About going back to being alone.

The tears came then, finally, silently. Emily lay perfectly still and let them slide down her temples into her hair, soaking into her pillow. She didn't sob or make noise—had learned years ago how to cry without alerting anyone.

She just let herself feel it: the wanting, the loneliness, the desperate ache for something she'd only just discovered existed.

Outside, a car passed. Then another. The house settled around her, all its expensive silence pressing down.

Emily pulled her blanket up to her chin—a plain gray comforter, nothing personal, nothing chosen—and closed her eyes.

She thought about Garcia's room full of light and color and proof of being loved.

She thought about Barbara hugging her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She thought about Emilio saying "our door is always open" and meaning it.

She thought: Maybe this time could be different.

She thought: Maybe I could let someone in.

She thought: Maybe I don't have to do this alone anymore.

And then, because hope was dangerous and wanting things hurt, she thought: But what happens when I have to leave?

Because she always had to leave. That was the pattern of her life. Just when she started to get comfortable, to make friends, to feel like maybe she could belong somewhere, her mother would get reassigned and Emily would be packing again. New city, new country, new school. New strangers who would become temporary acquaintances before fading into the background of her perpetually transient life.

Getting close to Garcia, to her family, would just make the inevitable goodbye hurt worse.

But.

Emily thought about how Garcia had immediately accepted the truth about London, about the girl Emily had kissed. Had asked if Emily liked her, not if Emily was sure about being gay or if it was just a phase or any of the other things people usually said.

She thought about Barbara noticing, somehow, that Emily needed kindness more than questions.

She thought about feeling less alone for four hours than she had in four years.

Maybe it would hurt when she left. It would probably hurt terribly.

But maybe it would be worth it anyway.

Emily fell asleep thinking about mismatched chairs and chipped glasses and a house full of noise and life and people who hugged you without hesitation.

And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she fell asleep almost smiling.