Chapter 11

Sutton's mom was posed over the island counter, her hands kneading cookie dough, when Sutton trudged into the house on Friday evening. Her mom looked up from the counter with a firm jaw and guarded eyes.

"You couldn't answer your phone?"

"I didn't want to," Sutton said, hanging up her workbag.

"You could have let me know you were okay."

"You knew I was fine."

"Where did you go last night?"

"Disney World. They let me sleep in the castle."

Her mom's chest rose and fell beneath her Lilly Pulitzer apron. "I was trying to approach the news like you were an adult."

Sutton snorted. "Are you implying I'm not an adult?"

"You're acting like a child. You have the same chip on your shoulder you had when you were in high school."

"I'm processing. Have you ever been told, at age 25, that your parents are divorcing?"

"Oh, and that's surprised you, hm?"

Sutton glared, her heart rearing.

"You know your dad and I have hardly been in a marriage at all for most of your life," her mom went on, her voice uneven. "This is the best thing for us. It's like Mrs. Tursip always said: We had a great 10-year marriage, but unfortunately it lasted 28 years."

"What finally cracked, then?"

"Sutton," her mom sighed, "sometimes this happens with a relationship. You grow so far apart, there's no way to come back together."

Sutton's heart pounded in recognition. "I refuse to believe that."

"I don't need you to believe it. These are my feelings, not yours. You don't know how it feels to look at a person, a person you've known for years, and realize that you don't know them anymore."

"How do you know what I feel?"

"Sutton," her mother said, exasperated. "You're not losing your father. You're not losing me. We are just doing the physical and financial equivalent of what we've been doing for all these years, which is separating. This hasn't been your home in seven years, Sutton, but it's been mine, and it's been unhappy."

"Maybe I want it to be my home again," Sutton said, her voice watering. She looked away, embarrassed. "Where's Dad," she asked the floor.

"At the Radisson."

"You kicked him out?"

"Of course not. He wanted his own space while he looks at condos. Sutton, what's going on with you lately?"

"Nothing."

"You know--when I lived with Granny and Granddaddy for a few months after college, I was out of sorts, too. I felt like I'd just gone out and conquered the world only to come home and find that I was less sure of myself than ever."

"I'm fine."

"It's normal to feel unsettled. You come home and realize that you're different but many of your problems are still the same, and you're looking around and realizing that you don't even know the people you grew up with anymore--Oh, honey, is that it? Are you having to interact with Ada a lot at work?"

For the one shining microsecond that time allowed, Sutton wanted desperately to tell her mother everything--her joy and her nostalgia, her confusion and her conviction, the hope she felt for the future, the grief she felt for the past.

"No," she said.

Her mom stood in silence.

"I'm just tired," she added.

"Here," her mom soothed, "come have a taste of this batter. I'm making your favorite cookies. Oatmeal chocolate chip."

"They were only my favorite when Mrs. Cosgrove made them," Sutton said.

Her mom looked stung. Sutton pushed her way out of the kitchen, refusing to look back.

Upstairs, in the bedroom where she had grown up, she fed Wilson Phillips, gathered fresh clothes and toiletries into a duffle bag, and stared for too long at a birthday card her parents had written her when she had turned 17. Then she skipped out the front door and drove back to the city--to Ada.

Between work and after-hours, Sutton spent nearly every minute of the next seven days with Ada. They drove all over Atlanta, Ada showing Sutton the different parts of the city they'd never explored as kids. They went to kickboxing class and Sutton did her best to keep up, but mostly she became distracted by how Ada's shoulders and biceps looked beneath her tank top. They lay on Ada's couch together, talking in low voices while they watched Netflix and held each other, Ada shifting awkwardly anytime her roommate, Linda, popped into the family room. The only thing Sutton would not let herself do was spend the night with Ada--not after that first Thursday and Friday--out of fear that she would go too over the edge and become entirely dependent on her, and also because she didn't want her mom asking any more questions than she already was.

They kept up their secret smiles at work. On lunch break they walked through Buckhead together, sometimes stopping to eat at Chipotle or Atlanta Bread Company. They drank coffee in the break room, Sutton teasing Ada about how serious her "work face" looked that day. Debbie watched them like a gossip journalist, her mouth slightly open like she was constantly on the verge of asking a question.

Sutton told her things. She showed her pictures of Amber and her college friends, relayed stories of drunken dorm room parties and midnight trips to the food mart. She told her about Erica, the girl who had broken her heart the summer after college graduation. She described her apartment in Knoxville and detailed the bizarre study regimes she'd kept up in law school. She told her about coming out to her parents and how her dad had later asked her, in private, if he hadn't done enough to show her how a woman could be loved by a man. Ada listened to everything Sutton shared, her dark umber eyes deep with reverence.

"It's like I'm getting to know you all over again," Ada said. "Like I'm re-reading a favorite book, but with new chapters at the end."

"You could still probably tell the story better than anyone," Sutton said.

"I don't know if that's true," Ada said, "but I want it to be."

Sutton parted reluctantly from her after Happy Hour on Friday, knowing she had laundry to do and Wilson Phillips to feed, and also sensing that Ada needed some space.

"You can come over," Ada told her, her voice sincere.

"You're too generous," Sutton said, leading the way to their cars. "Go home and have some 'you' time. I'll be fine."

"Maybe you can talk to your mom tonight."

"I already talked to her."

"Maybe you can talk to her in a way that will make you feel better."

"No," Sutton said, unlocking her car.

Ada looked on the verge of rolling her eyes. "Come here," she said, "give me a hug."

Sutton hugged her tightly, wishing she could kiss her but knowing their coworkers might see them.

"Text me later and let me know how you are," Ada said.

"I'll be fine."

"Then text me that you're fine," Ada said, and she hiked her eyebrows and left.

Her dad's armchair was missing from the family room.

Sutton gawped, standing over the spot with her workbag still slung over her shoulder. There were indents in the carpet from where the base of the chair had used to rest.

"Where'd it go?" she said stupidly, interrupting her mom's news program.

Her mom paused the DVR. "Dad took it to his new condo."

"He got a new condo?"

"Yesterday."

"But how did he get it there?"

Her mom stared at her like she was feverish. "He moved it, Sutton. With a truck. Mr. Ramsey helped him."

Sutton let her workbag slip off her shoulder. There were demon clawing at her stomach and she didn't know how to stop them. "You don't care at all, do you," she said to her mom.

Her mom's eyes burned into her for a long ten seconds. Then she hit Play on the DVR, and the crystal voice of a newswoman took over the room.

Sutton hibernated in her bedroom, deciding her mountain of laundry could wait until her mother was out of the house. She dug her old photo box out of the closet and sat cross-legged on her bed, Wilson Phillips purring at her thigh. She hadn't opened this photo box in years--not since her sophomore year of college, probably--but tonight she opened it with eager hands, begging her throat and stomach and heart to swallow these pictures whole and convert them into something that would help her make emotional sense of her life.

Pictures of her on her first Halloween, just over four months old and wearing a mouse costume, someone's arm wrapped around her. Pictures of her brother on a rollercoaster at seven or eight years old, his mop of hair falling into his eyes. Pictures of her parents dressed up for a cocktail party, her dad's face clean-shaven and serious, her mom's smile not quite reaching her eyes. Pictures of her family on a beach when she and her brother are small, each of them scooped up in one of their parent's arms, the ocean stretching behind them. Pictures of her dressed up as a Munchkin for the sixth-grade play. Pictures of her dad hanging Christmas lights from the roof of this house. Pictures of her and Bailey and Jessie on the first day of eighth grade, her mom hovering in the background with her hand reaching out like she wants to smooth down Sutton's hair. Pictures of her and Ada dressed up for the middle school dance, her mom and dad standing with them in one version, Ada's mom and dad standing with them in another.

"Hey," Ada said, her voice calm and soothing.

"Hey," Sutton breathed into the phone.

"What's wrong?"

In high school, Sutton would have said "Nothing." She would have let Ada ask questions and waited for her to figure it out.

Tonight, Sutton said, "This is hurting me more than I'm letting on."

Ada breathed. "I know. What do you need?"

In high school, Sutton would have given no answer, spinning herself into the melodrama of adolescence, gulping down the infinity of emo music and nighttime hours.

Tonight, Sutton said, "To see you. But here, at my house."

"Okay," Ada said, and they hung up the phone, and Sutton looked at the age-old posters on her bedroom wall, and Time sat with her while she waited.

She straightened up her bedroom, tucking the bed sheets tighter and closing the flaps of boxes she had never unpacked after her move from Knoxville. She took her hamper down to the laundry room, but only so she could make sure her mom had gone to bed. She trailed her fingers over her bedroom windows, remembering how she had longed as a teenager for Ada to climb in through her window like every romantic teenage delirium.

When Ada texted that she was here, Sutton sneaked down to the garage and opened the outer door, the one all the way on the side of her house. She and Ada had always had to wind their lithe teenage bodies around her mom and dad's cars, taking care not to bang a knee on Sutton's brother's bike when they emerged near the door into the house.

Tonight, when she opened the outer garage door to find Ada standing there calmly, she leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and exhaled.

"This feels like a role play, huh?" Ada whispered.

"Feels like déjàvu."

"It felt wilder back then. More daring."

Sutton stood aside to let her in, guiding Ada with a hand on her back. She budged the door shut and turned the deadbolt lock, and when she turned back around, Ada had already started to slink around the cars, the whites of her eyes shining. Sutton followed her with her heart jump-roping in her chest.

Ada waited for her by the inner door. Sutton pinched her side just because, and Ada emitted a breathy squeak that made Sutton feel suddenly giddy and no longer sad.

They stood in silence when they were inside the house. Sutton waited for Ada to take everything in, watching her eyes rove over the shapes and knickknacks, the new dining table and re-done cabinets, the age-old family picture frames and timeless grandfather clock.

Ada looked at Sutton, her eyes communicating everything.

"I know," Sutton whispered.

Ada blinked fast and shook her head, a strange look coming over her face. She stepped into Sutton and dropped her head on her shoulder, and Sutton's stomach pulsed with sweet sadness.

"I know," she said again, looping her arms around Ada's back. "It's weird. I felt it when I saw your apartment for the first time."

Ada sighed; her chest moved against Sutton's. "But this is where you grew up. And I kind of did, too. Feels like I'm coming home but everything is different."

"Everything is different. But it's the same, too. I mean, here you are, sneaking into my house late at night, trying to comfort me because my parents suck."

Ada laughed against her. She pressed a kiss to Sutton's neck, and Sutton's whole body throbbed.

"Okay," Sutton breathed, pushing back from Ada.

"Sorry. I felt that, too."

"I feel like I'm 17 again. Jesus."

Ada's grin lit up her eyes. She looked pleased with herself.

Sutton rolled her eyes. "Shut up. Let's go upstairs."

"So forward," Ada said, and she took Sutton's hand and followed her up the steps.

Ada's attention went to Wilson Phillips first. She strode straight toward the cat's spot on the bed, her eyes focused on nothing else. "So you're the beast," she said, rubbing a hand over the cat's head.

"Careful, she takes a while to warm up."

"I know I've said this before, but I still can't believe you actually have a cat. A real, actual feline."

"Now you have proof."

Ada petted Wilson Phillips for a minute longer, her hand gentle but intent. Then she looked up as if coming out of a daydream and stepped back from the bed until she was planted in the middle of Sutton's room. “Everything looks the same," she said. Her whisper was reverent, awed—like she had set foot in some holy temple from a previous life.

“I haven’t done anything to it since high school,” Sutton said, suddenly nervous.

Ada stepped around the room in a daze, her eyes sweeping over every poster, every scuff on the wallpaper, every faded piece of construction paper Sutton had written song lyrics on during junior year. She hovered in front of Sutton’s desk and trailed her fingers across the spines of their required reading books.

“You used to have a picture of us here."

Sutton came to stand next to her. “I took it down,” she muttered, “when I came back for Thanksgiving, freshman year of college. It was too painful to look at.”

Ada turned to search her. “I don’t have pictures of you in my bedroom, either.”

“I know.”

Ada’s eyes were darker than normal, contrasting the lone two lamps Sutton had turned on in her bedroom. Her jaw was set in a stubborn way, the way she had used to look when she argued with a teacher in high school. She took a half step toward Sutton and looped her arms around her back, and Sutton looked openly at her, drinking in every detail of her expression.

“I drove over here that Thanksgiving,” Ada said.

“What?”

“Freshman year of college. It was my first time home and I’d thought I had made all this progress in getting over you, but as soon as I walked into my house, you were everywhere. I couldn’t be in the kitchen without picturing you talking to my mom. I couldn’t be in the family room without remembering all our movie marathons. And I couldn’t be in my bedroom at all, because there were picture collages of you everywhere, and random notes from you in my desk and my nightstand and even in the drawers of my bathroom sink, and the first night I slept in my old bed I swear the sheets smelled like your perfume.”

Sutton watched her eyes—the way they burned and charged, but also how pained they looked. She looped her own arms around Ada’s back and pulled her closer, until they were securely holding each other with the bones of their hips touching.

“And you came over here?”

“Thanksgiving night. My parents went to bed late because we’d had some of my dad’s students over—like, the ones who couldn’t go home—and I was hiding in my room not wanting to talk to anyone, and I ended up going through that scrapbook you made me for graduation. It was all those amazing pictures of us, with your handwriting all around them, and there was that picture from our first day of high school, when you came over afterwards and we watched the Lizzie McGuire movie and ate popsicles, and my mom sneaked that picture of us on the couch?”

“I remember that. We were so overwhelmed that day.”

“I know. And I got really overwhelmed looking through that scrapbook. I remember having this terrible ache in my stomach, like this absolute god-awful pain that I couldn’t shake. So I left my house at like, probably one in the morning, and I drove over to your neighborhood and the whole time I was thinking how crazy I was, and then as soon as I saw your house I started crying.”

Sutton’s throat swelled. “Why didn’t you come in?”

Ada shrugged one shoulder and rolled her eyes up in frustration. “Why didn’t we do any of the things we could have done? I chickened out. I questioned everything. And your bedroom light was out so I figured you were sleeping and I was just this crazy creep sitting outside your house.”

Sutton touched her forehead to Ada’s. “I don’t remember what I was doing that night, but I guarantee you I was thinking of you.”

“We’re so dumb,” Ada whispered.

“I don’t want to be dumb anymore.”

“Okay. Let’s not be.”

They stood there breathing, their foreheads still touching, the scent of Ada’s skin and her perfume gathering around Sutton like a blanket. Then Ada’s hands moved from Sutton’s waist up to her neck, and Sutton held absolutely still while Ada looked into her eyes, searching and finding.

She knew Ada was going to kiss her—she had a calm instinct about it—but it didn’t stop her heart and stomach from swelling. Ada must have known, because she smiled in a way she rarely did—all sweetness and tenderness and disbelief. Sutton melted into a matching smile, and just when her stomach and heart had expanded enough that they might have touched inside her, Ada inched forward and kissed her.

It was different from the kisses they had been sharing all week. Those kisses were tentative, like each of them was tapping a stove to see if it was still hot, and Sutton had felt those kisses were the marker of something new. But this kiss—this kiss was deep and poignant, like they both knew what had been lost and what could be found, and it wasn’t new: it was the continuation of something timeless, something that had never ended but had simply fallen away in an aching, bittersweet teenage love story.

They kissed more deeply, Sutton tightening her arms around Ada’s back, Ada tangling a hand into Sutton’s hair. Their hips bumped into the desk and Ada hummed into Sutton’s mouth, then walked her backwards until her legs brushed up against her bed frame.

Ada lowered her onto her back, still kissing her. Sutton raised her hands to Ada’s face and touched the curve of her jaw, the soft skin of her ears, the tiny frizzy wisps on her hairline, feeling everything with her eyes closed. Ada urged her upwards until she was lying more fully on the bed, and then Ada climbed over her, never breaking their kiss, until she was straddling Sutton on her childhood bed.

“This seems familiar,” Sutton whispered.

“Shhh.”

Every touch of Ada's lips was an echo of adolescence, beckoning every salient memory from their youth:  the distinct pulse of a Friday night, the bass of a Top 40 song, the rush of the wind when they would drive home from school, the feeling of fragility and raw power Sutton had experienced the very first time they'd made out.

Sutton flipped Ada onto her back and straddled her now, running her hands up Ada’s bare arms while she stared into her eyes, daring her and promising her at the same time. She kissed at Ada’s neck and down her shoulder while Ada took shallow breaths, her eyes closed and her face turned away to expose her neck.

Sutton kept kissing. She kissed Ada’s collarbone and inched her shirt down to kiss across the top of her chest. She moved her fingers to the bottom of Ada’s shirt and began to tug it up and off her body, but Ada stopped her when it was halfway up her stomach.

Sutton released the fabric and pulled back, breathing hard. She hooked Ada’s eyes and waited for her to sit up.

Ada looked steadfastly at her, also breathing hard. Her eyes were dark and burning, but there was hesitation in them.

“Sutton,” she exhaled.

“You okay?”

Ada’s chest rose and fell with her breaths. “I haven’t done this since the last time we were together. Not with a girl.”

Sutton nodded, still hooked into her eyes. “Okay. Do you need more time?”

“What? No. No, I just mean—I know you’ve been with other girls since, and I don’t know if this will be as…”

She trailed off, lowering her eyes, and Sutton understood.

“Hey,” Sutton whispered, brushing a hand across her cheek. “Girl for me, guy for you, it doesn’t matter. Not one of those girls was my best friend and first love, so going to bed with them wasn’t half as special as this is. Okay?”

Ada inhaled, exhaled, and Sutton took her hands and flipped them palms up so she could trace the lifelines in her skin. Then she guided Ada’s hands to the bottom of her t-shirt and left them there, waiting.

Now Ada understood. She looked up to meet Sutton’s eyes, and as they connected, she peeled Sutton’s t-shirt up her torso and over her head, taking care that the fabric did not get tangled up in her hair.

Sutton’s heart sprinted while Ada looked over her naked chest. Ada touched a gentle hand to Sutton's stomach, the heel of her palm resting at Sutton's navel, the tips of her fingers falling just short of Sutton's breasts.

"Your hands are warm," Sutton breathed.

Ada regarded her with dark, serious eyes, then dipped forward to kiss her, her hands roaming all over Sutton's skin.

The very first time they had been together this way, Sutton had not allowed herself to want too much. She had uncovered Ada's skin but denied herself the joy of looking at it for more than two seconds. She had reached inside Ada, her heart buzzing with wonder, but had focused on procedure rather than exploration. And when Ada had reached inside her, sparking a sensation she had never experienced before, she had turned her head into the pillow and refused to look Ada in the eye. She hadn't known what any of it meant--neither to herself nor, even scarier, to Ada.

Now, as they sunk into their second first time, Sutton allowed herself to want everything. She smoothed her hands over every part of Ada's skin, her eyes drinking in every stray freckle and scar, the stretch marks on her hips and stubble on her underarms. "Amazing," she whispered, both to Ada and herself, "your body's the same, but it's older, too."

"I've become a woman," Ada said in a mock-solemn voice, and Sutton giggled and pressed kisses to her mouth.

And then she was inside of Ada again, and she allowed herself to take all the time she wanted, to watch Ada's face and listen to the sounds that escaped her mouth. And when Ada touched her, Sutton looked into her deep, serious eyes and held them steady, nearly weeping with the joy of it, with the peace of her heart and body aligning for the first time in years.

"I need food," Ada sighed afterward, her voice lazy and content.

"I tired you out that much, huh? You need an energy source now?"

"Shush or I'll whack you with a pillow."

"You're too tired to lift a pillow--because I wore you out so bad."

Ada rolled to face her and Sutton expected a retort, but Ada was smiling with no trace of mischief. "Will you make me a grilled cheese? The way you always used to?"

"With tomato slices?" Sutton grinned.

"And a tall glass of milk."

"I'm not sure if my mom even buys milk anymore."

"Don't ruin this fantasy for me."

Sutton traced Ada's mouth with her thumb. "I don't know how I ever thought I'd stopped missing you."

"I don't know how I've gone seven years without your grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Okay, okay, I get it. Get dressed and we'll go make some."

Ada kissed her. "You're the best. You always have been."

They peeled out of bed and began to dress, but when Sutton went to reach for her t-shirt, Ada snatched it and pulled it on first.

"That's mine," Sutton laughed.

Ada hiked her eyebrows. "So? Come on, I'm going to check for milk."

She opened the door and hovered there with a smirk on her face, Sutton's University of Tennessee t-shirt hanging perfectly on her frame.

They lay in bed after they ate, facing each other with their arms draped over each other's ribs, Ada knocking her restless legs against Sutton's.

"We were supposed to talk about your parents," Ada said.

"Don't bring them up, we're in bed."

"We're literally in the bed, but we're not, like, 'in bed.' We're cuddling. We're having pillow talk. This is perfect pillow talk conversation."

"I missed pillow talk."

"You should be all about it," Ada said, stretching one of her calves over Sutton's. "You used to keep me awake for hours, pillow-talking me about the most random shit."

"It was deep shit."

"You remember when you wanted to talk about Guns, Germs, & Steel all night? You were going on and on about Europe and Africa and diseases and triangular trade--"

"I don't remember that," Sutton laughed.

"I kept trying to sleep but you just. kept. going."

"So you should've told me to shut up."

"No," Ada said, her voice turning needy and snuggly, "you're cute when you're nerdy."

"So are you. I'm gonna come to your place tomorrow and watch you read your business leadership book."

Ada smoothed her thumb against Sutton's temple. "Talk to me about your mom."

Sutton sighed. "I don't know. I'm mad at her?"

Ada nodded. "Why?"

"Because--who gets divorced after 30 years of marriage? Like why now? Why didn't they do it when I was younger?"

"Would you have wanted them to?"

"Maybe? I mean, at least back then I was ready for it. I braced for them to drop it at any moment, remember? But they just kept trudging, and by the time I graduated college, I figured that was that: my parents would stay together and they would be unhappy, but at least it would be a constant in my life. I stopped bracing for the bad news."

"Now you feel like they've sprung it on you."

"Yeah," Sutton said, her voice clawing at her throat. "And my mom was so--she was so detached when she told me. Like she didn't consider that it would upset me. She told me like I was her colleague, not her kid. It was like Marta telling me."

Ada's expression was hurting for her. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"This is why I think you should talk to them, though--because you need to get your feelings out in the open so you can deal with them."

"Easier said than done."

"I know. But trust me, this is something I've learned the hard way. I used to be so bad about saying how I felt and it fucked up my relationships. Like, what if I had sat down and talked to you after our fight, or what if I had told you how I felt that first Thanksgiving? How would things have been different? I've learned the last few years that you have to just open up and talk about this shit. I've had a couple of really tough conversations with friends when they've said something racist or ignorant without realizing it. And with my dad when he's tried to steer me, for the millionth time, into academia rather than business."

"He's still doing that?"

"Not since we sat down and talked about it."

Sutton looked into her blazing eyes. "What did you tell him?"

"That I knew I had embarrassed him as a kid because I wasn't 'smart,' and how anything relating to school still gives me anxiety, but that business is something I actually like and want to get better at. He wanted to hear about my general life plan and how I'm going to rise above the expectations people will have of me based on my skin tone, gender, all those categories. And then he kept saying 'Cosgroves have no limits'--you know the old mantra."

Sutton smiled. "I do."

"But he was surprisingly receptive. I asked for his blessing and he told me he was proud of me."

"That's great, Ade. That's so good."

"Thanks. But listen--that's why I think you should talk to your mom. Not just about how you feel, but how she feels, too. You're a lot like her."

Sutton made a sour face.

"You are," Ada laughed, kissing her quickly. "You get a lot of your good qualities from her. Remember in eighth grade when she picked us up from that sleepover at Bailey's because Bailey had been a bitch to me and then you'd been a bitch to her? Your mom drove me straight home, like she just knew that's where I needed to be, and she let you stay the night there with me."

"I remember."

Ada smiled. "I never told you this, but--right before your mom left that night, when you were out in the driveway getting our stuff out of her car, she gave me a hug and she said, 'You are beautiful and perfect exactly as you are.' I never forgot that. And I remember looking at her and she looked so serious, so matter-of-fact...and she nodded at me and my mom, and then she left."

Sutton was breathless. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Ada shrugged a shoulder. "It was something I needed for myself, I guess. I'm finally at the point where I believe it, so I don't need it as much anymore."

"Well," Sutton said, drawing closer to her, "does that mean I can't reinforce it?"

"You can totally reinforce it."

"You are beautiful and perfect exactly as you are."

Ada kissed her again--a kiss that meant so many things, Sutton couldn't have named them all. "Thank you," she said, cradling Sutton's face. "So are you."

Ada sneaked out early on Saturday morning, kissing Sutton easily before she slipped out the garage side-door, still wearing the University of Tennessee t-shirt she had nicked the night before. Sutton went back to bed and hugged Ada's pillow to her chest, inviting her scent to seep into her dreams.

It was after ten when she woke again. She shuffled downstairs to find an empty kitchen but a half-full coffee pot, presumably left for her by her mother.

The day passed in a sleepy, lazy haze. Her mom had vacated the house and her dad was presumably at his new condo. Sutton enjoyed the quiet, sprawling out on the family room couch with Wilson Phillips curled up on her legs and a Dance Moms marathon playing on the television.

She went for a run in the late afternoon. She hated running the streets of her subdivision, where everything was too pristine to be natural, so she drove to the local park and looped the jogging trail several times. Her thoughts ran with her, skipping between a project she had to finish at work, the birthday gift she needed to buy for Amber, her parents' impending divorce, and Ada--always Ada.

She finished her run at the same spot she had started, and as she paced there, sweat running down her arms and over her elbows, she wondered if her life had somehow become this looping trail, and whether she had actually changed during the course of it.