Page 28 of We Are Okay

There is still time left.

When I get back to my room twenty minutes later, I’m carrying two plates of quesadillas, perfectly browned on both sides, topped with sour cream and salsa. I have two grapefruit sparkling waters nestled between my elbow and my ribs. I push open my door, grateful to see Mabel awake. She’s sitting on Hannah’s bed, staring out the window. Pure white. The whole world must be freezing.

As soon as she sees me, she jumps up to help with the plates and bottles.

“I woke up starving,” she says.

“The stores here don’t havecrema,” I say. “Hope sour cream is okay.”

She takes a bite and nods her approval. We open our cans: a pop, a hiss. I try to determine what the feeling is between us at the moment, and hope that something haschanged, that we could be, for a little while, at ease with each other. We eat in hungry silence, punctuated by a couple comments about the snow.

I wonder if we will become okay again. I hope for it.

Mabel crosses to the darkening window to look at my peperomia.

“There’s pink on the edges of these leaves,” she says. “I didn’t notice before. Let’s see how it looks in your new pot.”

She reaches toward the bag from the pottery studio.

“Don’t look!” I say. “There’s something for you in there.”

“What do you mean? I saw everything you bought!”

“Noteverything,” I say, grinning.

She’s happy, impressed with me. She’s looking at me the way she used to.

“I have something for you, too,” she says. “But it’s at home, so you’ll have to come back with me to get it.”

Without meaning to, I break our gaze.

“Marin,” she says. “Is there something I don’t know about? Some recently discovered family members? Some secret society or cult or something? Because as far as I know, you have no one. And I’m offering you something really huge and reallygood.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I thought that you liked my parents.”

“Of course I like them.”

“Look at this,” she says, picking up her phone. “My mom texted it to me. It was going to be a surprise.”

She turns the screen toward me.

My name, painted in Ana’s whimsical lettering on a door.

“My own room?”

“They redid the whole thing for you.”

I know why she’s angry. It should be so simple to say yes.

And I want to.

The walls of their guest room are vibrant blue, not a paint color but the pigment of the plaster itself. The wood floors are perfectly worn. You never have to worry about scratching them. I can imagine myself there, a permanent guest in my guest room, walking barefoot into the kitchen to pour myself mugs of coffee or glasses of water. I would help them make their delicious feasts, gather handfuls of sage and thyme from their front-porch herb garden.

I can imagine how it would look to live there, and I know the things I would do, but I can’t feel it.

I can’t say yes.