Soft, baby blue Blanket wrapped around me, I watch as each of the D'Medicis and Lulu take turns making police statements. Fortunately, I already made mine, and I didn't completely have a breakdown. Most of the questions they asked were pretty standard like:

Where were you when she left?

What time did you guys leave?

Has she been showing any signs of discomfort?

Why did you leave her alone?

Where do you think she is?

Of course, I answered each of them to the best of my ability, but I still had my doubts. Two things were boldly apparent: some sort of foul play was involved, and I am becoming increasingly suspicious of Lulu Jiang. Standing in front of me is her, face twisted in fake concern. In fact, I could smell the awkwardness from her a mile away. From what I've gathered, she only answered the questions thrown at her as vaguely as possible. She knows more than she lets on, that's for sure, so what is she keeping a secret? What did she have to lose? Why isn't she being cooperative? This was the first time I've ever seen Lulu and Hunter's dad in the same room, and there is an unmissable flicker in her eyes every time their gazes connected.

Is that a look of fear? Or worse, guilt?

Red and blue siren lights laser their way through the window's blinds, reflecting off of the glasses set on the table. Nearby, a bowl of still-warm ramen sits in its ceramic bowl, waiting to be eaten. A walkie-talkie's static sounds, and with that, the officers exit the door almost as fast as they came, a grave atmosphere saturating the room. The tension is palpable, almost solid. 

Guess that's it. Halle is gone, without a trace, just like her sister.

From my place on the couch, I watch as Hunter purses his lips, bringing his hands to his head, and exhales loudly. His parents are whispering in hushed voices in the corner of the adjacent room, his dad pulling his phone out of his pocket and making another call. When whoever they're calling answers, they both leave to their bedroom. Don't get me wrong, the whole family seems distraught, but I have a gut feeling their son is taking it the worst. I get it, it's already happened once, and the police weren't competent enough to find Kass, so there's no way in hell they're finding Halle.

More pressure for us to find both of them ourselves now, I suppose. Swallowing the jitters lodged in my throat, I sink further down in the leather cushions.

"Are you gonna leave me next?" I ask him, trying to lighten the mood.

"Hilarious," he mutters, moving a pillow so he can take the seat next to me, "now's not exactly the time for jokes, though."

"Everything's so...similar. Down to the dresses, except Halle didn't leave her phone..." I rush out, at a loss for words to finish the sentence.

"God, Leighanna, stop talking please," he groans, burying his face into his hands, sandy hair falling in front of his face.

"Sorry," I mutter, rubbing his back, the flexed muscles firm against my palm. "I was trying to help."

"I said shut up."

"Okay, okay."

"You never listen."

"I said I was sorry."

Drawing his hands away, he takes a moment to consider me, inching forward so the tips of our noses are brushing together. Heart rapidly beating in my chest, I take a moment to savor the feeling of his cool, minty breath against my skin and the view of his pupils dilating. Reaching to smooth a thumb over my brow, he puts his other hand around the base of my neck.

Is he gonna...?

Then, he backs me into the arm of the couch and kisses me, hard. So hard, it's bruising.

It takes me a moment to register what's happening, but in that fraction of a second, a thousand things flood my mind at once, namely the fact that whatever "this" is, it's never, ever going to work out, and I have a plethora of reasons why.

One: it's a conflict between business and self-interest. We're never going to find his sisters at this rate.

Two: we're way too different. Regardless of how hard I tried, I could never fully fit into his life, and I knew that. I simply am not American enough.

Three: my mom would obliterate him before he ever had the chance.

Four: most of his immediate family hated me.

And most importantly, five: I can't tell if he is actually into me or not.

Still, there is a voice at the back of my mind that I know is right.

You will never do better than him.

So I close my eyes, pushing away those thoughts, and kiss him back.

His lips taste faintly like diet Cola.

Roaming my hands around his hair, I pull him closer, feeling around his jawline. Chiseled, as if it belonged on Mount Rushmore.

Canines sink into my lower lip. Teeth as sharp as the Statue of Liberty's crown.

Passion that burned brighter than the American flag.

His tongue slides against mine. A tongue that spoke such perfect English.

Such perfect English.

***

Kissing Hunter D'Medici was supposed to be a one-time occurrence—a last-ditch effort to prove to myself that I am not into him. At all.

Hell no.

Except it accidentally happened another time, underneath the football field's bleachers. And another time, behind the school's main stairwell. And another time in the boy's bathroom. And another time under a desk during an earthquake drill. And another time in the parking lot.

Always in a public place, but not too public where we'd be seen. Because this needs to stay a secret.

Perhaps we both need a distraction—because that's what this was, a distraction. Me, distracted from my dwindling friendships. Him, distracted from the fact that two of his sisters are gone, and there is nothing he can do. This is how we were coping.

There are more pressing issues at hand that we were choosing to ignore. Ever since she went missing, we didn't even bother trying to look for her. Perhaps we have silently given up. Finding either of them seemed more and more like a hopeless task as time ticked on. The world is so vast. They could be anywhere at any given moment, but the chances we'd be there at the same time are slim to none. Besides, all notable paper trails led to dead ends.

When I was younger, my mom used to bring me to a speech therapist once a week, without fail. I remember those times distinctly—the stupid worksheets where I had to trace the alphabet, the ruler that would strike my wrist every time I used the wrong there, their, or they're, and how she made me stick my fingers in my mouth if my tones were off.

"Here," she had told me, guiding my index finger to the tip of my tongue."When you talk, you need to relax your jaw more so your Ls don't sound like Rs. Right now, you're tensing your tongue, so the sound is coming out too round."

With my fingernail still in my mouth, I gagged a little.

I guess the therapy must've worked because I spoke with less of an accent. Except it came at a price: my Chinese was no longer as precise as it used to be.

My parents cared, but not enough. Whenever my mom needed to make a phone call, she would make me do all the talking because no one took her seriously when she spoke English. I've been translating government documents since I learned how to read. In her eyes, speaking English is more of an advantage than speaking Chinese, so if I had to lose one language to embrace another, then this is the only viable option.

Around that time, I developed a habit. When I'm anxious, I start to chew on everything—pencil erasers, my nails, bottle caps—you name it.

And right now, exchanging saliva with Hunter makes me really fucking nervous, so naturally, I bit him.

"Fuck," he exclaims, pulling away and touching the fluid leaking down his lip. The metallic taste of blood coats my tongue, though I'm noticeably less fazed about it than he is. Then again, I've been desensitized from all the biting I do to my own inner cheek. "What the hell was that for?"

"Dunno," I shrug, focusing on the condensation forming on the windows instead. "I wanted to. I was nervous."

He leans his head back on the seat, clearly very annoyed. "Don't do it again."

For some reason, I'm equally as irritated. Nothing wrong with a little bit of blood. He's making a big deal out of nothing.

"What the hell are we doing?" I half ask, half blurt, "we should be looking for you sisters."

He simply shrugs. "We could be, but I don't want to look for people that don't want to be found anymore. It seems like a waste of time."

I frown. That's the only reason I'm here. "But—"

He doesn't let me finish that thought. "If you're worried about your recommendation, don't worry, it's still gonna happen."

"Fine, I don't give a shit anyways," I declare, collecting my things, exiting his car, and making sure to slam the door shut. "I'll see you later?"

Before he can answer, my back is already turned in his direction, a mist of rain dusting my skin. The streets are empty, leaving the neighborhood dog barking in the distance and birds standing on the electrical towers to keep my company. Using the overpass miles away as a guide, I stick my hands into my pockets, heading home.

Luckily, he didn't park very far from my apartment complex, so I only need to walk two or so blocks.

The pavement steps are still damp. Climbing up the stairs, finding enough strength to return a smile to our floormates, who look like they just came back from work, if the oil stains on their bare arms are any indication. I swerve toward our studio, untangling my keys and pushing open the door. To my surprise, my mom is sitting on the kitchen table, sipping a porcelain cup of steaming hot oolong tea.

Shouldn't she be working right now?

She never makes tea for me unless she's pissed off...

"Lee, sit down," she says sternly, jutting her head to the only wooden chair directly in front of her, pouring me a cup of tea. Hesitantly, I listen, claiming the seat across from her, putting my backpack on the chair next to me. Is she mad? What would she be mad for?

"Okay...why am I here?" I manage to croak out, mentally preparing myself for the worst-case scenario.

Gingerly, she plucks her phone from her pocket. A video plays on the cracked screen. Not just any video, a video of Wes D'Medici holding me upright while I stumble to find my balance. To spare me of further humiliation, she's kept the volume off, but that does little to help me. She still knows I lied to her and that I was drinking that day.

Oh shit. I'm never going to live this one down. My heartbeat is so erratic that it gives me motion sickness.

"There's more, keep scrolling," she tells me bitterly.

Doing what's told, I swipe to the next media attachment in her gallery. It's a picture this time of Hunter and I kissing in a car a block away from campus.

Big yikes. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

"Where did you get these?" I ask, afraid of the shitstorm headed my way.

"Faye sent them to me."

Of course she did. That snitch. I've done nothing but be civil with her, and this is how she repays me for years of friendship? Some friend she is.

"After all I've done for you," she begins slowly, tone a little too even like she's holding in a fit of anger, "everything I've sacrificed, this is how you repay me? By lying to me?"

"Mom, you don't understand—"

Suddenly, the tea goes cold. "Why don't you ever listen to me? I thought you knew better, but you don't. I should've stayed in China, you've become so Americanized."

"That's not true, and you know it!" I retort, digging my nails into my palms, "everything I've ever done, I thought of you first. Everything I do is for you."

It is true.

Piano? I tried it for her.

Speech therapy? I did it for her.

St. Addams? Her idea.

Whatever this agreement with Hunter was? I did it for her.

How could she even suggest otherwise? Our relationship isn't transactional. Every choice I made, I had her in the back of my mind because I fucking love her more than anything else in the world, and her happiness will always take priority.

I know that I owe her so much, because she works herself to the bone for us to get where we are. So guilty, to the point where I felt bad pursuing my own hobbies.

This is one fuck up, and she can't let me off the hook?

A scoff. She shakes her head, not even bothering to make eye contact. "Oh so you were thinking of me when you did this? Really?"

She's got me there. "I—"

"Do you think Faye would ever do something like this? Because she wouldn't."

There it is again. The constant comparison. Even when she is no longer in my life, she still finds a way to fuck it up.

Quick as lightning, a flash of anger overcomes me. "If you fucking love Faye so much, then why don't you be her mom instead?"

A silence ensues. A wave of regret washes over me, my tongue stinging where the bitter words left my mouth. But I can't take back what I said.

Standing up, she slaps me, the force of her hit causing my head to turn to the side. In shock, my hand reaches to cradle my cheek. A dull ache lingers at the point of impact, though it's minimized by the fact that she is so mad she struck me.

"Don't ever talk to me like that ever again! I made you. You would have no direction if it weren't for me."

That isn't true, right? I knew what I wanted since I was 5 years old.

The plan was to go to Harvard, get into medical school, become a doctor, and make a lot of money.

That's what I want, right?

...Right?

Or has it been conditioned into my brain to think that's the only path in life by my parents?

"Do you think your dad would be proud of you right now? The fact that you chose a white man over your own mother?"

Paralyzed, I look at her eyes as wide as saucers. She did not just go there. "You have no right bringing him into this," I snap, seething with anger. I can't take this shit anymore. I have to leave.

Wordlessly, I grab my backpack, stumbling onto my feet. I'm out the door faster than I came in. She doesn't chase after me. She doesn't tell me to wait. She doesn't tell me she's sorry. I'm only met with the loud, lingering echo of the door slamming shut. I don't know why I got my hopes up, only to be disappointed.

The last time I've ever cried was when my dad died. I remember that day like it was yesterday: the smell of freshly cut grass, the truck they used to lower his casket into the 6ft hole, and the crumpled tissue in my hands that I used to blot away tears.

The whole time, my mother stood there like a statue, not a single drop of water coming out of her dry eyes. Meanwhile, dressed in black, I stood there weeping until I had no tears left.

Growing up, my mom used to scold me profusely for crying, especially in public. She never liked making a scene, and she would always say something along the lines of "there are kids younger than you, yet they aren't this troublesome." Even through our toughest times, she refused to let the moment of weakness drive her to show a sliver of emotion.

When I told her I was depressed, she told me there is something wrong with me, perhaps a chemical imbalance or all this American indoctrination about self-care about individuality.

Because having a disorder means one is crazy.

But right now, the years of bottling up these emotions—the pressure of being the perfect daughter, one my mom could brag about to her coworkers—is eating me alive.

Sitting down on a park bench, knees curled to my chest, I start to sob uncontrollably.

Alone with only the trees to provide me any company, I stayed there and cried for hours.