My sick days pass quietly, almost uneventfully. Mum doesn’t rant as much as I expected, but she still tosses in a few lectures on the same old topics here and there.

  “You should be more careful with things. Take responsibility, Scarlett. I can’t always keep an eye on you. You need to look after yourself. Are you even eating? Why do I work this hard when you look like a skeleton?”

  I weigh over 100 pounds and look perfectly healthy for my tall frame and my age, yet to her, I’m still too skinny. Sometimes it’s hard to make sense of what she says, and I know it’s better not to argue.

  Fortunately, though, she was hardly ever around. She’s been working long shifts almost every day, which leaves me with plenty of time alone. Still, she cooks my favourite meals before leaving for work. I’ve fallen into a quiet routine of being at home, savouring her food and catching up on Netflix shows I’ve been meaning to watch for months.

  I’m still not ready to face anyone at school, even after four days of rest. I feel much better, though. My hands are nearly back to normal, and that awful itching is gone at last. And now I’m ready to shift from chilling out to hitting my study grind.

  I spend the morning studying and working on my project, so absorbed that I don’t notice the time until Mum tells me to take a break. Even then, I keep going late into the evening.

  At 9.20?pm, Mum comes downstairs in her scrubs, and I’m in the kitchen devouring the lasagna she made earlier. Her lasagna is my ultimate weakness – I’ll happily eat it for every meal until the last bite is gone.

  She sits beside me, sipping her coffee. “Are you feeling better?” she asks, her hands patting my shoulder and smoothing my hair.

  “I’m okay. The blisters are gone, and the swelling’s gone down.”

  She glances at my arms and nods. “You can go to school tomorrow, if you’d like.”

  I shake my head. “I’m in no rush. I want another day or two.”

  She studies me for a moment, then nods. “That’s okay, dear.” She gets up, grabs a croissant, and comes back, sitting across from me. I focus on my food, keeping my head down and avoiding her eyes. After a few moments of silence, she asks, “You don’t have a boyfriend?”

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  I keep my voice light. “Why are you asking this now?”

  “You’ve been home for four days,” she says. Even though I’m not looking at her, I can feel her eyes on me. “I haven’t seen anyone. Not even friends. Do you even have any friends at school?”

  Her words cut deep because they’re true, a truth I’d rather avoid. Selena might be my friend, but only outside of school. I’ve always wished for at least one close friend, yet I haven’t found anyone since we moved here.

  “Selena is my friend,” I say, almost defensively.

  “And she hasn’t come by, even though she lives close,” Mum points out.

  “She must be busy,” I say, though that isn’t exactly true. I texted her yesterday about school, but she barely replied. The only thing she asked was whether I was still talking to Oliver. When I said no, the conversation ended. It seems like she’s still pretty upset with me over whatever happened.

  Mum frowns. “That busy? Too busy to visit her best friend for a few minutes? Why, Scarlett? Why hasn’t even Selena come by?”

  “I told you, she must be busy,” I say, my voice rising with irritation.

  Her frown deepens. She has no intention of leaving me alone. “And no one’s called either?”

  “I don’t have many friends,” I admit, only to shut her down.

  Her face tightens with worry. “What about Ben? Where is he now?” The last time she asked so many questions like these, I lied about a boyfriend who doesn’t exist. Ben is a made-up name, an excuse I now need to bury.

  “He moved to a different school. I don’t see him anymore.”

  “And you didn’t find anyone else?”

  “I don’t want to. I’m focusing on my studies.”

  “That’s good.” Her voice softens, but the worry is still there. A few quiet moments pass, then she adds, “Don’t be as lonely as I am. Make some friends, at least a few, and one day have your own family. It’s not easy having no one.”

  I feel the urge to snap, to blame her for this lonely, boring life and to ask about my dad and sister, but I hold back when I catch the wetness in her eyes. She sets her cup down, grabs and slings her bag over her shoulder, and says, “Time to go.”

  Outside, a storm brews. The sky darkens as rain patters against the windows. She pauses at the door. “Close it,” she instructs.

  “I will,” I reply, not moving.

  “Now,” she insists, waiting until I shut it behind her before stepping out into the dark.

  I finish my dinner and wash the dishes while a song plays on my phone. As I place the last plate in the rack, the doorbell rings. Mum, I think. She must have forgotten something, like she always does. I glance at the clock - 9.40?pm. She’s running late.

  I hurry to the door.

  Outside, the rain lashes down, and a gust of wind splashes drops across my face as the door opens.

  I wipe the drops from my face and stare at the figure in front of me. It’s not Mum. It’s Oliver.

  He stands there, drenched from head to toe. Water drips from his hair and trails down his face. His eyes are intense in the dim porch light. His thin black shirt is plastered to his frame, clinging to every contour.

  Before I can even process what’s happening, he steps forward and pulls me close. His one hand tightens around my back while the other frantically runs through my loose hair. In no time, his lips meet mine, hungry, desperate, and fast.