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One whirlwind year.
    “Verla May’s son runs the funeral parlor.” Maxine patted my hand. “He could use an assistant.”
    “In the office?” I asked.
    “Nope.” She smiled. “The makeup department.”
    “Katie, we hate to leave you like this,” Millie said. “I could stay here while you—”
    “I’ll be fine.” Though the thought of staying in this home all alone for the rest of the month my parents would be gone did not sound the least bit enticing. “I’ll keep an eye on the house. Hold down the fort.”
    Millie enfolded me in a warm hug. “We just want you happy, sweetie.”
    “Being here makes me happy.” I put on my best smile and felt the sting behind my eyes. “I’ve missed you guys so much.”
    “When you’re ready to talk, we’re here,” James said. “But know one thing.”
    I dashed a tear and sniffed. “Yes?”
    “You can run from your troubles.” He watched me over the rim of his glasses. “But those troubles will find you no matter where you live.”

Chapter Five

    M y head was as muddled as it was achy. Despite the protests of my family, I got in my car and drove across town to Frances Vega’s parents’ house. My best friend and I had gone different directions after high school. Frances had chosen a fancy Ivy League college where she could attempt to improve upon her science genius, and I had attended a plain Jane smaller school a few hours away. Even though Frances and I had taken radically different paths, we had remained close, visiting one another at least twice a year.
    “Katie!” Frances opened the door, and I was immediately swallowed into a mighty hug. “Thank God you’re alive! I’ve missed you!” She pulled me inside to the kitchen, our old hangout. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was a home decorator’s nightmare of two cultures that were supposed to be blended, but looked to be more at war. Frances’s father was a first generation Mexican-American, and her mother’s family was Chinese. They were each very proud of their cultures and believed their home should show it, from the food they ate to the art on the wall. Frances still hated every bit of it and resented the years of cultural tug-of-war.
    “So,” I said, taking a glass of tea from Frances. “What’s new?”
    “I’m getting married! I’m getting married! I’m marrying Joey Benson!”
    I smiled at my friend’s crazy enthusiasm and bragged appropriately when she shoved her engagement ring in my face. “Frances . . . ” I sat down on a stool at the bar. “You’ve barely dated this guy. What’s the rush?”
    “We’ve been together three glorious months. And when it’s right, it’s right. Besides, I’ve known Joey all my life.”
    “Yeah, knew him, but not as in friends with him.” Joey was four years older than us and had rarely been around when we’d hung out with Charlie. The couple had connected through Facebook, both of them being “friends” of Charlie. “You probably hadn’t ever spoken to him before he asked you out.”
    “I know!” She sipped her own tea. “Isn’t it the coolest story?”
    Apparently it was a rhetorical question, as Frances didn’t give me a second to respond.
    “We have so much to do. I still have to find a dress, find you a dress, order the flowers, write my vows, get some shoes that look pretty but don’t make me hate the world, and finish finding us an apartment in Massachusetts. It’s so much fun!”
    Frances seemed to speak in never-ending exclamation points and sentences whose theme were all “yay!” How could either one of us be old enough to be college graduates, let alone old enough to get married?
    Some days I just wanted to be sixteen again—going to high school, no rent payments, no major boy wounds, when every dream was still shiny, polished, and possible. Sure, we had worries, but nothing like the ones in adulthood. Nothing like the ones lodged in my brain like a splinter I couldn’t extract.
    “You know I’m