I clean up the living room, folding blankets and throwing away pizza crusts. Once I finish, I lend Aunt Clara a hand in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with her catering stuff. With the two of us working, plus Uncle Luke dictating unnecessarily from his perch on the counter and mouth full of pizza, we get it done in fifteen minutes. It's not too late, so I decide to take a hot shower before bed.

The steam from the water rises into the air, coating my en suite bathroom with humidity. I let the boiling hot water trickle down my hair and onto my back, soothing my muscles from the insanely weird night I just had. I'm still pondering over why Tristan accepted my invitation to stay for pizza. Sure, we've had our friendly moments, but that doesn't make us friends. Despite having talked to me, I still have absolutely no knowledge of who he is as a person. Other than he keeps to himself, brooding in corners, has divorced parents, took AP Calc last year, looks amazing in a button down, and likes mushroom tacos.

The water starts losing some of its warmth, so I shut it off and wrap myself in a large fluffy towel. I wipe away the steam that has stuck to the mirror, apply some moisturizer, and brush my teeth. I use my body towel to bundle up my hair and slip into flannel pajama bottoms and a big t-shirt.

I exit my bathroom and open my laptop. I sit on my bed, scrolling through social media and checking my emails. I see that some of my friends from California have written to me, asking how I am. I write back to them, giving them vague descriptions of my new life. I tell them about Nicole and Nate, Aunt Clara and Uncle Luke, my classes, and my new favorite coffee shop. There's no need to make any mention of Tristan. Why should they get to know about him when I barely know him myself?

Just as I hit send on the last reply, movement from outside my window catches my eye. Tristan is pacing again. This time, his curtains are drawn open so I can see clearly into his lit up bedroom. From the angle on my bed, I can just see his light gray walls, the corner of a charcoal colored desk, and a black lounge chair with a red pillow on it. I'm not sure how I come to this conclusion considering I don't know much about my neighbor, but his room suits him well. Just like his spicy cinnamon scent which, despite the rain drenching him earlier tonight, was the strongest smell in my living room during the movie.

I see Tristan pass his window talking on the phone. He seems stressed, running his free hand through his hair repeatedly and tugging on the longer strands. I can tell he is speaking loudly to whoever is on the other end. He doesn't look happy.

I'm distracted from, admittedly creepily, watching Tristan when my laptop screen brightens in my lap alerting me to a new email. From my inbox I read the subject line: Hey Bestie. I assume that this email is from Nicole, clicking on it without thinking as to why she didn't just text me.

When the window opens up to the email, I glance at the sender. Then I do it again. And then a third time to make sure I was reading it correctly. There is no way. There is absolutely no way he was able to get a message through to me. I had blocked him on everything, even changing my own email and only giving it out to a few people, yet here he is, sitting on my screen.

Long time no talk, huh? I guess my apology wasn't enough for you. Anyway, I miss you and hope you haven't replaced me yet. If you did, do your new friends know the real you? Because I do:)

xxx C

There is an attachment to the email and my heart starts pounding as I hover the mouse over it. Should I open it? What if it's a phishing link and he can find my location? Carter Hayes is smart, but not that smart. I take a deep breath and open the attached file.

A picture appears on my screen. It's me and Carter from just this past May, about a month before I moved in with my aunt and uncle. He has his arm slung over my shoulder and a goofy smile spread across his face. I have a similar smile, but my eyes are hazy with smeared eyeliner underneath them. Carter's are bloodshot. The picture is blurry, but anyone could make out the red solo cups and open pill bottles in the background. I almost forget which party this was taken at. Almost...

It's not the picture that has me flying into a panic attack. It's the handwritten scribble above our heads that was done before he scanned it into his computer. "Future Mr. and Mrs. Junkie".

I delete the email, clear my trash, and slam my laptop closed. My room plunges into near darkness, only a slight glow coming in from Tristan's window from across the yard.