But I'm alone, not just for pronunciation drills. For everything. Every morning when I wake up and learn this anew, a fresh wound will open-until the day Jamie decides to forgive me.

And then we'll be fine again.

Because that's how I remember it.

30.

The house line rings twice before my mom answers it. I can hear her muffled voice from the kitchen below my bedroom. A minute later, there's a quick knock on the door.

"London, are you up?" she whispers through the door.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm awake. Come on in," I say from my seat at the desk. I'm surprised she didn't hear me moving around earlier. I've been up for hours.

"There's a woman on the phone for you," she says.

"Weird," I say before pushing back in my desk chair and walking to the telephone table in the hallway. I pick up the receiver and wait until my mom makes her way down to the kitchen and hangs up the other extension.

"Hello?"

"London?"

"Yes, this is London. Who's this?" I say, twirling the phone cord around my index finger.

"This is Abby Brennan. We met a few months ago?"

My mind is blank. I'm silent.

"You came to my house? You were looking for your grandmother, Jo Lane?"

"Oh, yes," I lie into the phone. I have no clue. This was not in my notes. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you," the woman says kindly. I can hear a child's voice in the background, singing a song about snakes on parade. "Chelsea, Mommy's on the phone, honey. Sorry about that, London."

I can't hear the little girl's response, but I don't hear the snake song anymore, either.

"No problem."

"Anyway, I'm calling because I remembered the name of your grandmother's retirement home in the city. It's been driving me crazy for months, and finally this week it came to me."

My stomach tightens into knots. I've been reading notes all morning; how did I miss this?

"Oh, really?" I say to the woman, hoping to sound casual.

"Yes, it's called Lingering Pines."

"That's great," I say robotically, even as my mind spins out of control.

"Yes, well, I just wanted to let you know. When you speak to her, please tell Jo that the house is being well taken care of. Give her our best."

"I will," I say mindlessly before telling the woman good-bye and hanging up the phone.

In the remaining forty-five minutes before school, I carefully dress, apply makeup, and flat-iron my hair, all the while pondering what just happened.

Somehow, I clearly managed to figure out that my grandmother's name is Jo Lane. Then, apparently I went to Abby Brennan's house looking for said grandmother. And now, I guess that my grandmother, Jo Lane, is in a nursing home.

Called Lingering Pines.

In the city.

What I don't get is, why? Why wouldn't I chronicle all of this for myself?

All I can fathom as I apply a top layer of lip gloss is that when I researched my grandmother, I felt that I'd come up empty. All I can rationalize is that I didn't want to torture myself with knowing that I failed. All I can figure is that I gave up.

But now I have the name of my grandmother's nursing home. I can contact her, if I want to. And she might lead me to my father.

Looking in the mirror, I smile at my reflection. I feel powerful with this new information, with my stick-straight hair; long, dark lashes; and fitted black button-down.

And feeling powerful is a good thing, because apparently there's a boy in my life who needs to be reminded to never, ever wrong me again.

"What are your plans for tonight?" my mom asks hours later at dinner.

"I don't know," I say, avoiding direct eye contact. "Maybe I'll watch a movie."

Really, I can't wait to Google Lingering Pines and call to confirm that my grandmother is a resident. After that, who knows?

"I shouldn't be too late," Mom says. "It's only two houses."

I shrug; she can stay out all night for all I care.

"I bought some popcorn," Mom offers, trying a little too hard.

"Okay, thanks," I say, scooping up the last of my peas and wishing she'd leave already, or at least stop watching me eat. I give her a broad, cheesy (fake) smile that, thankfully, she buys. Mom walks across the room, kisses the top of my head, and grabs her keys.

"I guess I'd better get going, then. Have a good night, sweetie. Let's do something fun tomorrow, just us girls, okay?" She pauses by the door to the garage, waiting.

"Okay, Mom," I say reassuringly so she'll leave. Seconds later, it works.

Hastily, I rinse my plate and put it in the dishwasher before skipping up the stairs and waking up my computer from sleep mode. In less than a minute, not only do I have the number for Lingering Pines, but I'm halfway through the photo gallery of images of its sweeping grounds, happy residents, and well-maintained facilities. Though I assume that the people in the pictures are models, I carefully inspect each photo just in case, then print the main page and some of the photos for reminders.

I have the jitters as I ponder what I'm about to do. Step one: find Grandma. Step two: find Dad.

Before I have the chance to talk myself out of it, I open my cell phone and dial the main number for Lingering Pines. The tone sounds long and lonely. I picture a dated phone waiting unattended, its shrill call going unnoticed over too-loud TVs shouting from the patients' rooms.

I wish for a receptionist to pick up the second before she does. Except that it's a recording telling me that Lingering Pines is closed, and to please call again tomorrow or dial one for the nurse's station.

Apparently the elderly residents of Lingering Pines Retirement Community are only open for business between the hours of 8:00 AM and 5:00 PM daily.

Feeling that this isn't earth-shattering enough to disturb a nurse, I hang up. I store the number in my contacts, allowing myself to imagine for a moment what it would be like to have a grandmother to call and visit sometimes.

Later, long after I've left high school behind, I will envy my friend Margaret's relationship with her grandmother. I will cry when she dies of cancer, not because I'll know her that well but because I'll see Margaret lose a little piece of herself when the sweet old woman goes.

Nothing left to do on my grandmother search this evening, I turn off the computer, wash the day from my face, and head downstairs to make popcorn and watch a movie, just like I told my mom I would.

In the kitchen, I get out the kernels and the mini-kettle. I scan the directions on the popcorn container, then add the oil and kernels to the pan, turn on the stove, and start slowly turning the crank. The first kernel explodes, then the second, then twelve or twenty or fifty more. Concentrating on nothing but the span of time between the tiny explosions so as not to burn my precious popcorn, I barely notice the sound from the front entryway. In fact, by the time I pause to listen, I wonder whether I heard anything at all.

Then it's there again: a timid knock at the front door.

Not the doorbell.

A knock.

Still holding the handle of the popcorn pan, I glance at the clock. It only feels like midnight. Really, it's 6:58, a perfectly appropriate time for accepting visitors on a Friday night. If only I were expecting visitors.

Immediately, I wonder if today's outfit worked; I wonder if it's Luke. I find myself hoping that it is, even though I'm still hurt by his actions.

I set the popcorn aside and hurry from the kitchen. I switch on the porch light and wish our door had a peephole.

"Who is it?" I call.

There is a pause, and I consider backing away from the door and calling my mom to come home. Maybe it's not him. Finally: "It's Luke."

I suck in my breath. Then I wait a beat and open the door.

The waves of Luke's hair are rustling in the winter wind and his cheeks are flushed from the cold. He briefly removes one hand from his jeans pocket to wave hello without speaking the word itself, and then replaces his hand. He looks boyish and a touch embarrassed to be here, shuffling his feet as I open the door wider.

I wrap my arms around my torso to shield myself from the frigid outdoors, but it doesn't really help. I'm freezing, but I don't mind.

Luke is here.

He looks around, and then suddenly his blue eyes are on mine, invading my space and my soul. I feel self-conscious from his piercing stare, but no part of me wants to break free from it, either.

"Is your mom here?" Luke asks, in a tone both soft and strong. Feeling weak, I tighten the grip on my torso for support.

"No, she went..."

Before I can finish my sentence, Luke is up the entryway step, kissing me.

Hard.

His palms are on either side of my face, and the few feet that were between us have shrunk to inches. One inch, maybe.

I drop my arms in surrender, then slowly wind them around this boy before me, tight and then tighter still. Luke kicks shut the front door behind him, lips still locked on mine, and we kiss each other like one of us is dying.

"I can't stay away from you," he whispers when he finally takes a break to breathe. He's staring directly into my eyes with his forehead pressed against mine, and his hands are still holding tight to my face, as if to keep me there and ensure that I look at him right back.

To ensure that I see him. And, boy, do I.

His eyes look pained yet determined. I can see in them that he's not letting go, and I know for sure now that I don't want him to, either.

"Don't stay away from me, then," I whisper back, placing my hands gently over his and lowering them to my neck and then my sides. The movement relaxes him a little, and I can tell that his angst is waning.

"Do you forgive me, London?" Luke asks, his eyes still cutting into me.

"Yes, I do," I say truthfully.

Yes, he lied to me. But he loves me, and I love him, and people make mistakes. I can't see him in my future to know for sure, but I believe he'll learn from this. He seems to be that type of person.

Luke is kissing me again now, softer this time. I try to think of nothing and just enjoy the moment, but I can't help but wonder when my mom will return.

The house shifts, and I jump away from Luke like we've been caught.

"What?" he asks, looking around.

"Nothing," I say, peeking behind me just to make sure. "I just thought my mom was back."

"Maybe I should go?"

"No!" I say, so forcefully that he laughs. "No," I say again softer, this time moving two steps toward him and taking his right hand in mine. "Stay for a little while."

I'm embarrassed and excited at the same time, and there must have been a suggestive edge to my words, because now Luke blushes a little.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" he asks, squeezing my hand tighter.

"Yes, but..."

"But what?" he asks, bending a little to look curiously into my face.

At a loss for a gentler response, I just come out with it.

"But we're not doing..."

"Doing what? You mean that? Sex?"

He's still staring right at me as he says it, and now I'm the one turning red and feeling childish for even mentioning it.

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"I didn't think we were going to," he says, eyes holding steady. How is he so cool right now? Has he had this conversation a million times before? I'm about to respond when he interrupts me by adding, "At least not tonight."

My stomach flutters.