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“Alannah. Please tell me the Graham-Bishop thing has been an elaborate joke.” Molly’s own voice nearly choked her. She’d been avoiding thinking too hard about it.

Alannah didn’t answer. Instead, she said, “I heard you’ve been asking about Simon.”

Molly’s stomach dropped. When she hadn’t been asking after her dad, or Roy, or Alannah, she’d been asking for Simon. Pointlessly, she assumed, given the context clues.

“We didn’t think it was smart for him to visit. And he agreed. He sends his love though. He’s been as worried as the rest of us.”

“But I’m not his—we’re not . . . together anymore?” It was a stupid, mortifying thing to have to ask.

Alannah’s face fell. “The last thing you remember is when we were all twenty-one, right?”

Molly sighed at that nonanswer but nodded.

Alannah’s head tilted as she pinpointed that place in their shared history. “So, Roy had been playing in the minors for almost two years by then. And I’d just wrapped up my culinary program and had been traveling with him, which meant you basically had our apartment to yourself. You and Simon were still doing long distance. And it was your last year in college with Bishop.”

“I wasn’t in college with Bishop. We happened to end up in the same place. We never even spoke.”

“All I meant was that you weren’t in college with me and Roy and Simon,” Alannah said mildly. “It was a technicality, not an accusation.” She squeezed Molly’s hand. “You and Simon broke up about halfway through senior year. It was the right decision. You both agreed. And still agree.”

“Forgive me for not having the same frame of reference as you do.” Molly hated how snappish she sounded.

“Molly . . . you’re happy now, you know. Bishop is still Bishop, but he’s . . . well, he’s grown on us. And you’re good together. Though I’ll be denying it if you ever tell him I said that.”

The idea of being good with Bishop twisted like a kind of nausea in the pit of her stomach. Being good with him implied far too many things about attraction and affection and intimacy that had Molly’s heart feeling like it might gallop straight out of her chest. “I have no interest in telling Bishop anything whatsoever.”

Alannah frowned, posture straightening. “Right. So, Roy and I already have a bed made up for you if staying with us is what you want. I’m doing some amazing things in my slow cooker these days, so there’s a whole birria experience on the menu for tomorrow that you’ll definitely love. We support you, whatever you want to do.” A pause, then, “But it is supposed to be good for you to be in familiar surroundings. And you do already share a place with Bishop so . . .” Alannah trailed off.

“You aren’t honestly suggesting I go live with him?” Molly’s heart thrashed at the thought of sharing a home with Bishop. Joint routines. Groggy mornings. Late nights. A bed draped in navy sheets.

“You already live with him,” Alannah said gently.

“Not me. Not—we’re talking about Bishop. Aster Bishop. Snotty, self-centered, status-obsessed Bishop. With his wardrobe that could have paid for both our tuitions ten times over, which he never let us forget. And that sneering laugh he always used right before he twisted the English language into a weapon. And his . . . face. He made my life miserable at Laburnum. All our lives, in case you’ve forgotten.” She paused, knuckles pressing into the stiff mattress beneath her as she steeled herself. “They keep asking me if I feel safe at home. I think they’re worried he’s hurting me.”

Alannah’s face hardened. “Molly, he would never. And if he did, Roy and I would know about it.”

“You don’t know that. You hear all the time about how well some women can hide it—”

“I’m telling you. That man worships the ground you walk on.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not capable of—I mean, you knew him at Laburnum.”

“I did. He was a classic teenage asshole. And I remind him of that regularly. But he wasn’t violent. I think he was more likely to run from a fight than start one, even then. And he’s changed. A lot. Which is painful to admit. But if you’re worried, of course you can stay with us.”

“Alannah, I—I can’t. I can’t go live with him.”

Alannah squeezed her hand. “Okay, that’s totally fine.”

It struck Molly then, another wave of grief. This time for her home. Her belongings. The apartment she’d shared with the woman next to her, with its frustrating dead bolt and tropical rainforest levels of humidity. Her bookshelves and books and dehumidifier constantly running in an effort to keep them safe. She wondered about her cat and her bed and her many knitted blankets, all courtesy of Alannah and Simon’s mom.

She felt like an island sinking into the sea. Wave after wave slowly crumbling her shoreline, pulling her sands out to open ocean. There was too much to grieve, big things and tiny things, and too much to keep track of.

But she refused to drown.

Alannah smiled gently at her, perhaps sensing her turmoil. “Roy and I were hoping to take you to dinner, if you’re up to it. Ease you back in to . . . everything, I guess.”

Molly’s posture slumped, ramrod tension collapsing. “Burgers?”

“The greasiest.”