"Mom? How are you feeling?" Violet asked her mother.

It had been several days since the last time she'd been to Sal's house. Her mother was bedridden after coming down with a horrible case of the flu. Dark bags shadowed her normally bright eyes and her nose was pink. She couldn't have looked any worse.

"I'm just waiting for the medicine to work," the woman rasped.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you, sweetie."

Violet sat down beside her mother's legs, offering a sympathetic smile. "You'll get better soon."

A mischievous grin spread across her face, startling the young girl. That face usually meant "I know something you don't" which put Violet on edge. "Who's the boy you've been running around with?" She finally asked.

"What?"

"You know who I'm talking about."

"You mean Sal? Mom, he's not—"

"Honey," her mother said, letting out a wheezy laugh, "girls don't come home smiling if they haven't been with a boy."

"We're just friends," she insisted.

"Tell me about this Sal. When's the wedding date?"

"Mom!" Blood rushed to Violet's cheeks, causing them to turn a deep red. Her mother laughed once again, nudging her with her leg.

"I promise I won't tell him that you have a crush on him."

"I don't!"

"There's nothing wrong with it, sweetheart," she assured the flustered girl. "You should invite him over some time. I'd love to meet the guy who's been making my baby so happy."

Violet hesitated, her eyes focused on a crumpled tissue in the trash can. "I don't know about that."

"Why not?"

"It's just..." her voice trailed off. What she was about to say would hurt her mother's feelings. At the same time, it was the only honest reason she could provide for not inviting Sal over. "The cult stuff might freak him out, you know?"

"Oh," her mother whispered, painfully. "I-I can always put it away when he's here."

"You don't have to do that. I don't mind going to his house."

You could've cut through the tension with a knife. It was clear that neither of them knew what to say. Violet hung her head, racking her brain for the right way to apologize. She always said the wrong thing.

The silence grew more and more uncomfortable. The teen began to fidget as her mother stared blankly into her lap. It felt as though the air was thickening, making it harder to breathe. The anticipation of who was going to talk first was becoming unbearable.

"You're embarrassed of me," Violet's mother finally stated, tearfully looking at her daughter.

"Mom..."

"It's alright, I understand."

"I'm not—"

"I need to get some rest. Go hang out with Sal, honey."

> > >

Sal texted her twice. She ignored him. After what had happened, talking to Sal was the last thing she wanted to do. Violet tried to explain the situation to her dad, which only resulted in him explaining that there was nothing she could do but wait for the right time to apologize. But how long would that be? Days? Weeks?

"Take a walk, kiddo," he said, ruffling her hair. "You need time to think."

Violet obliged, slipping a jacket on and heading outside. The air was bitter today. Winter was certainly getting closer. Dry leaves crunched under her feet as she walked, the sound drowning out her thoughts. Perhaps this was what she needed.

Grey clouds hung in the sky, casting a gloomy shadow over Addison Apartments. The leaves weren't colorful anymore. Instead, they were brown and shriveled up. Violet always found it strange when the weather reflected her mood. It was like Mother Nature was watching her.

As the young girl ventured to the side of the building, she spotted a large structure tucked in a tree among its bare branches.

"A treehouse," she thought to herself. "I wonder if it belongs to someone."

Hopefully, it didn't. She would have loved to fix it up and call it her own. Curiously, she approached it.

The treehouse was quite old. Much of the wood was splintered and the nails holding it together were rusting. Even the makeshift ladder leading to its entrance was barely hanging on to the tree trunk. Peering inside of it, Violet could see a small family photo hanging on the wall.

"Hello?" She called, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

That was when Larry's pale face came into view. "Violet?"

"Hey, Larry."

"I see you've found my treehouse," he observed.

"Can I come up?"

"Uh...yeah, sure."

Larry's treehouse appeared to be more of a storage unit than anything. Every corner was filled with junk and boxes. Some of the leaves from outside had found their way in and laid crumpled on the floor. Nonetheless, Larry seemed to be comfortable there. His eyes tended to linger on the family photo quite often.

"It's nice," Violet complemented. "How long have you had it?"

"My dad built it for me when I was a kid. Now I just use it to hold his stuff," he explained, sitting down on a single stool beneath the window.

"Do you come up here often?"

He sighed. "What is with you, dude?"

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"You never question people. Even Sally Face says it. You don't ask why all my dad's shit is in a treehouse or why Sal wears a prosthetic face. It's like nothing matters to you."

Violet frowned. "It doesn't matter, does it? You're still my friend either way."

"Yeah, but aren't you curious?"

"Larry, do you want me to ask you why you keep your dad's things in your treehouse?"

"No..."

"Okay, then let's stop moping around and be friends."

"Whatever you say, dude."