my problem, the telephone rang.

Jake happily informed me-not to mention everyone else-it was Adam/Buddy on the far end of the line.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Hey, Gorgeous. I miss you.

Melted b.u.t.ter.

"Oh, Adam. Me too."

I can't stay on long. Phone bills, you know.

Hot b.u.t.ter burned.

"Okay."

Just want you to know I love you.

Burned good.

"Me too. Always."

Lince is coming home tomorrow. She'll be okay.

Burned bad.

"I'm glad."

Bree? I've been thinking. We're a long way apart ...

Sizzled.

"I know."

So I think we should give each other permission to see other people.

Spattered.

"You want my permission?"

You have mine. Just think of me from time to time.

Welted.

"I don't need your permission, Buddy. And you obviously don't need mine."

Well, okay then. Better go. Keep in touch. I really do love you.

Scarred.

His Idea of Love

sure didn't mesh with mine.

"I love you, let's see other people."

Interesting sentence structure.

"Lince's coming home.

Let's see other people."

Unusual paragraph construction.

My face flushed tears poked my eyes, scar tissue twisted my heart, wrapped itself around arteries, closed tight around my jugular.

I coughed pain.

I never went to Albuquerque expecting to find love.

I thought it had found me there, followed me home.

I never came home, expecting to lose love in the s.p.a.ce of one brief telephone call.

Is it always so short-lived?

Mom Knocked on My Door

I found that strange.

She never knocked.

May I come in?

Never asked for permission to come in. Permission.

That word again.

We haven't had a chance to talk since you got home.

Then she looked at my face, all puffy and p.i.s.sed, read everything she needed to there.

Looks like we've got a lot to talk about.

But maybe this isn't the best time?

I wanted to talk. Needed to.

But how could I possibly talk to her? She was my mom.

I know I'm your mom and not always easy to talk to. But I'm here for you.

I was ready for a lecture.

Why did she have to choose that moment to try "nice"?

I want to hear all about your trip. Let me know when you're ready.

Big girls don't cry, especially not in front of their mommies.

But a cloudburst threatened.

I hope you're hungry. I'm making your favorite-lasagna and garlic bread.

I was hungry (somehow).

I was tired (still). I was hurting (inside and out).

And more than ever, I wanted to walk with the monster.

Over Lasagna and Garlic Bread

I talked about airplanes.

I talked about lonely seatmates, third-run movies, and pretzels (for this price!) in place of meals.

I talked about Albuquerque, bowling alley etiquette, Los Alamos-grown c.o.c.kroaches, and walk-ups in decidedly bad neighborhoods (omitting the part about my own little nighttime foray).

With some prodding, I talked about Dad, his job, and (lack of) girlfriends; I talked about his philosophy, somehow sadly yet to ripen into something resembling maturity.

With a lot more prodding, I talked about Adam aka Buddy (omitting everything of use to anyone interested in blackmail).

Considering his recent treachery, it was easy enough not to gush about his hot bod, wildcat eyes, incredibly perfect lips, and intuitive hands.

And, mostly because everyone knew it anyway, I talked about how, despite his undying love, he had given us both permission to date other people.

Leigh Knew

there was a whole lot more to the story, of course.

But I'd never told her secrets, and trusted completely she would never betray mine.

Still, just in case, I never dared mention s.e.x, interrupted by periods; Lince; interrupted by drugs; or my own infatuation with the monster's spectacular rock and roll.

No, these secrets belonged strictly in my own private closet.

Later

Leigh climbed into my bed, moved very close to me, her proximity strangely unsettling.

Want to talk? I do.

I miss how we used to talk.

I recalled a time, not so long ago, when snuggling with my big sister was comforting.

Tell me more a bout Adam. Is he really your very first boyfriend?