And he's pressing into her and she into him, bodies shivering, like they are two scared, lost children, starving, starving to be touched, to be held, by someone, anyone, the first one they can find who seems familiar enough, safe enough, strong enough to rescue them. They breathe, heavy. Hard. Their fingers strain at cotton. And then they slow down. Stop. Hold. Rest. Before one of them, or both, begins to sob. Before they break another piece that needs to be fixed.

Time to stop crying, time to get her act together and do something. Time to move beyond the pity party.

Because there's no way on earth she's going to make it through college unless she grows some serious ovaries and turns this train wreck around

I highly regret this day in advance.

They linger near the back door, forehead to forehead and curved like statues as their lips whisper and brush together.

Oh baby," he whispers. Steps back. Out of the doorway. His face ashen. He walks slowly back to the kitchen. Leans over the counter. Puts his head in his hands. His hair falls over his fingers. The bathroom door clicks shut. She stays there for a long time. He's pulling his hair out.

Once you read something, you can't erase it from your brain.