Even after my hair is washed and all of me is soaped and clean, I linger, resting my forehead against the tile on the wall. I might be crying. It’s difficult to tell if it’s water or tears running down my face, but I feel it in my chest and my throat. I feel it in my heart.

I shouldn’t be so glad to go. But I am. Even worse, I never want to come back. I want to run and keep running.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Anna

I WAKE UP FEELING ACHY AND DISORIENTED, MUCH LIKE I’VE been sick and my fever just broke. My mind is slow to catch up, but I recognize my surroundings. I’m safe, in my bed, in my apartment, and that’s such a luxury.

My head throbs dully when I sit up, and looking down, I see I’m wearing street clothes—a sweater dress and leggings. I get my phone from the nightstand to check the time and am confused to see it’s past five P.M. Didn’t I leave my parents’ house later than this? How did time go backward? I have a zillion unread messages on my phone, but when I scroll through them I start to feel nauseated so I quit.

I fumble my way out of bed, and because I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, I change out of my street clothes and into my pajamas. I pull on my ugly fuzzy bathrobe, too, glorying in the softness, and plod out of my bedroom. The light is on in my living room, so I head there to investigate, instead of going to the bathroom like I planned.

And Quan is sitting on my couch, frowning over his laptop screen as his fingers fly over the keypad, efficiently typing away. The sight is unexpected but entirely welcome. I love how comfortable he seems in my space, barefoot and wearing a faded T-shirt and loose sweatpants.

He glances my way, and a wide smile brightens his face and makes him beautiful. “You’re up.”

“Hey.” I scratch behind my ear and ask, “What day is it?”

Laughter spills from him. “It’s Saturday. You slept for”—he checks the time on his phone—“seventeen hours straight.”

“That explains why I feel like roadkill,” I say, trying to keep my tone light even though I feel a sense of loss. This is my vacation. And I just slept half of it away.

Quan sets his computer aside and comes to my side, running his hands up and down my arms. “Want anything? Hungry?”

“I might be hungry. I really need to brush my teeth, though. Be right back.” I cover my mouth self-consciously and hurry to the bathroom, where I go through the long process of brushing, seven seconds for each tooth, seven seconds for each corresponding part of my gumline to stimulate blood flow so I don’t lose all my teeth before I’m fifty, meticulous flossing, mouthwash with fluoride. It takes forever, but this is how I live with the periodontal disease brought on by all my tooth tapping.

When I’m done, I return to the living room. Quan isn’t there, but I hear him puttering around in the kitchen. Peeking around the corner, I find him poaching eggs at the stove. On the counter next to him, there are two packages of ramen noodles and two empty soup bowls.

“You’re making me ramen?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder. “It’s the only thing you have. I thought about ordering delivery, but I figured you’d be starving and this is fast. Want something else?”

I swallow past the ache in my throat. “No, this is perfect.”

He smiles and turns back to his work, scooping the eggs into the bowls, emptying the packets of soup powder into the pot of boiling water, and then putting the noodles in to cook.

Not long after, we’re sitting across from each other at my tiny table, our knees pressed together, my feet on top of his because I’m cold and he’s warm. Steam curls up from the noodles, and the poached egg looks yummy. The white part is firm, but I can tell the yolk will be runny. I lower my chopsticks to the bowl but hesitate before touching anything. I don’t want to ruin it just yet.

“Something wrong?” Quan asks, a spoonful of ramen halfway to his mouth.

I shake my head. “No, I’m just … happy.”

He tilts his head, aiming a confused smile at me.

I try to smile in return, but my lips don’t want to comply. I don’t know how to explain how wonderful it feels to be cared for, even in this small way, after all this time tending my dad, how dark it’s been, how lonely I’ve felt, even though I’ve been surrounded by family, the people who love me most.

Even as I think that, I find myself wondering, Do they really love me, though? Can they, when they don’t know who I truly am?

That’s part of why I’m so exhausted, I realize. I’ve been masking nonstop for months, for my dad, but also for my mom and Priscilla. I don’t usually notice because I see them for a few hours, a day or two max, and then I get to leave and recover.

It’s like pricking yourself with a needle. Do it once, and you’re okay. You can ignore that it even happened. Prick yourself repeatedly without giving yourself time to heal, and soon you’re injured and bleeding.

That’s me. I’m injured and bleeding. But no one can see. Because it’s inside where I hurt.

Be that as it may, is it fair to recognize my own pain in the face of my dad’s suffering? Self-loathing washes over me, and I ridicule myself, here in the privacy of my mind. It doesn’t make me feel better. It’s not supposed to.

We finish the noodles and clean up, and then I curl up with Quan on the couch. He browses through the documentaries for something I haven’t seen, but it turns out I’ve watched them all. If it’s narrated by David Attenborough, I’ve watched it at least five times. In the end, we find ourselves sifting through B-rated (or below) science fiction films.

As I’m reading the descriptions for Llamageddon and Sand Sharks out loud, and laughing with a mixture of awe and horror, Quan gets his phone out and takes selfies of us.

“I realized I don’t have any pictures of us together,” he says.

“We haven’t taken any before now,” I say, surprised that it took us so long.

He smiles at me, and there’s warmth and understanding there. “We were too busy.” He flips through the pictures until he comes to a horrible one where I look like I’m snorting. “Now, this one has phone wallpaper potential.”

“Absolutely not.” I snatch the phone from him and quickly delete the picture, even going so far as to delete it from his deleted pictures folder so it’s truly gone forever.

“Oh, come on,” he protests even while he laughs.

I snap a picture as I kiss his cheek, and there it is. The best of the bunch. His smile is wide, completely unselfconscious, and contentment radiates from him. As for me, there’s something soft in my eyes as I kiss him, something that I can’t put a name to. It’s something good, though. Best of all, my ugly bathrobe isn’t visible in the photo. I send the picture to myself, and then I nosily thumb through the pictures in his photo library.

“That’s Michael,” he says when I get to a picture of him and another guy. This must have been taken after kendo practice because they’re both in matching sweaty black uniforms and gear. Quan’s got his arm thrown over the other guy’s shoulder, and their heads are wrapped in white bandanas, their helmets tucked under their arms.

“Michael … as in Michael Larsen, the ML of MLA?” I ask.