"When are you just going to get over it?" Midge demands over a steaming mug of tea—she brewed herself a Korean ginseng mix, while she made me the traditional matcha I usually drink—one hand holding the mug by its handle, the other placing her hair behind her ear. "Honestly. How many times are you going to tell me no?"

"As many times as it takes," I mutter, taking another long sip from my mug. It's of white porcelain, painted with five burgundy flowers all branching from one stem. I trace the details with my fingernail, deliberately not looking at Midge. "I brought you there once, and I'm not bringing you again. Trust me, Midge—the only person who needs to deal with my birth mom is me. If you're there, it'll just make things worse."

She pauses long enough to concern me, and when I look up, there's a frown on her face that looks awfully offended.

The mug clinks down against Midge's circular dining table, a tiny wooden island in a sea of growing, twining botanicals. I let out a sigh of frustration, directed more at myself and my general predicament than at Midge. "Jesus," I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

Midge stirs her tea listlessly, her eyelashes casting mini shadows on the tops of her cheekbones. A sunlit window makes her into an artful silhouette, and maybe if I weren't beyond stressed out, I'd take a second to admire just how flawless everything about this moment is. The tea. The plants. Midge and the sun. Mostly the tea.

"How else could you have meant it?" replies Midge, sitting back with her arms folded across her chest. "I'm embarrassing to you. That's why you don't want me back there."

Well, crap. This is bad. It's bad because that's not what I mean at all, and it's worse because the real reason is even more embarrassing. Bringing Midge back is basically sealing it with wax or setting it in stone or whatever that yes, I like her, we see each other a lot, she is probably my girlfriend. And, with my folks, that's basically suicide.

Besides, Midge and I...we're not there yet. Sure, I've kissed her a couple times. But no one's going that far.

I sit there for a hot minute, trying to decide the best way to clear this up, until I realize Midge's spoon has stopped clinking and now she's just kinda staring at me.

I clear my throat, then nudge my tea aside, meeting Midge's eyes. "There's nothing embarrassing about you, Midge," I tell her, "it's just—"

"Just what, Grey?"

I gnaw at my lip. "It's my family that's embarrassing, not you."

I know it's stupid the moment it comes out of my mouth, and I realize it's even stupider than I thought when Midge lets out a somewhat flippant chuckle. "Are you kidding? I've been in your secret house, or whatever, and met both your dad and stepmom. Sure, your dad's terrifying, but what's the big idea? I don't get it."

I duck my head again, hiding behind my mug. "It's different now," I say. "Between us. Last time you were there, we were just friends, and now...I'm not sure."

Midge trails off into silence, and I risk a glimpse up at her. She's got this subconscious pout at her lips, her chin leaned into her palm. And for a second, she stays like that, and I stay like this, and it's pretty quiet except for the drone of the television that Jamie's been absorbed by ever since we got back. He's easy to keep busy. Too easy.

Then she lets out the smallest sigh in the history of sighs and gets up, her chair groaning across the linoleum as she brings it nearer to me. My eyebrows furrow, and I watch her as she sits down again, her expression deadly serious.

"Well, Grey," she says. "What do you want to be?"

I move an astray strand of hair behind her ear with the rest of its friends, feeling Midge tense underneath my touch as I do. "Don't ask me questions like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have an answer," I say, tilting my head a bit. Closer up, the sun's upon her skin, tinting the warm brown a warmer gold. My nerves are humming. I try to tell them to shut up.

"It'd be enough," Midge replies. "It'd be enough to tell me."

So I take in a breath, and say what must have been fairly obvious already: "I like you, Midge. A lot. For more reasons than one."

Her eyebrows raise in consideration. "Fair."

"Fair?"

"I'm very likable."

I draw my hand from her face, folding my arms instead. "I told you. Now you know if you didn't already. But that—that doesn't mean I'm letting you come with me."

"I like you too, Grey. A lot. For more reasons than one. That's why I can't let you go alone."

"Midge—"

She shushes me, resting a hand on my leg. "I see your face when you talk about your birth mother. You're not hiding it from anyone. So just let me be there for you. Please?"

It would be so easy to say no. It just rolls off the tongue, so much better than yes. But then again, Midge makes it so hard. I can't sit here and look at her and say no. It would kill me, perhaps more than it'd kill her.

So I say, "Fine, you can come with me. But as soon as we get back—we're focusing on Rocco, alright?"

"Already on it," Midge tells me. "I told Safiya and River to be thinking up new plans, and we'll reconvene here tomorrow morning. We're gonna find him, Grey. I promise you that."

And just for a second, I wish I didn't believe her. It would make it easier, I think, for when she breaks that promise and I have to deal with the fact I lost my best friend.

I shouldn't be thinking this way, but it's unrealistic not to.

I swallow, leaning forward so that my forehead rests against hers. I shut my eyes, breathing in her air, holding her chin in my hands. "I hope you're right, Midge," I say. "I just—I really hope you're right."