It doesn't matter that it's three in the afternoon: I crave my tea, my comfy PJs, and my snuggly bed. Being alone is safe. At home I lie staring at the ceiling, with angry music blasting from my phone. The pain pills will hopefully my headache. I need the inside of my skull to hurt a little less when my thoughts jump between the rage at Xavier cheating and at Ben for convincing me to let down my guard. I trusted him, and he was lying to me from the beginning. No, before the beginning. My eyes remain dry—I'm out of tears for boys and their dumb actions.

How is it four already? When I try to meditate, the five minutes drag and I'm sure it must've been at least twenty. It's been an hour, and I remember nothing of it. The bed offers some comfort, but my tea is cold on the bedside table, and my chest is still full of sorrow trying to scratch its way out, unable to sneak past my clenched teeth. Damn it. I plant my feet on the floor and leave the bed. I need to do something. What though? Something. Something to make it stop.

"Ahhh!" I cry into the doorway. The loud music covers up my voice, and the neighbors aren't likely to call the police. Why do I keep letting people in? All they do is leave me or lie to me. I hit the pillows and the bed with my powerless fists. They hurt me time and time again, and I should've learned by now. I throw everything off my bed. It's my damn fault for trusting someone again. Nothing helps. I circle every piece of furniture until I get dizzy. At least there's a legitimate reason for the spinning in my head.

Before, when they were alive, Nonna and Dad were my rocks. My support system dwindled to Angie, which is downright pitiful. And I might be overestimating my confidence in Angie because her leaving me is inevitable. Soon, she'd fly the coop and move on with her plan of worldwide music domination.

Since Dad's death, I've relied on Angie more than I care to admit, and it might be too much neediness even for the best of best friends. No matter how much she says she's here to talk, she's rarely in Chicago for longer than a couple of days at a time. She and I are close, but the whole feelings side of life used to be Dad's domain. Dad is who I need today. A parent who listens, gives out sage advice, says he loves me, and reminds me that everything will be alright. 'I miss you, Dad.' Saying it outloud does not shrink the ragged wound of his absence. The loud music can't cover up the emptiness. For a mad minute I consider calling Mom. Calling Mom? I definitely lost my marbles. I can't be that lonely.

I go to my closet and reach out into the very back until my hand closes around something soft.

When I cleared out his apartment, I had to sell or donate most of the things both for the money and because I had no space to put them, but I couldn't part with some of it. I rented the cheapest storage space I could afford and locked away Nonna's heirloom items, boxes of some of her restaurant's menus and recipes, stacks of family photo albums, and Dad's stuff I didn't make up my mind about. I couldn't bear the reminders of what it was like to be surrounded by his love.

One thing was the exception. It was too precious for me to stuff into the impersonal cavity of the storage unit, so I brought it to my place and hid it away. I pull out a well-worn kitschy red plaid robe Dad donned every Christmas morning and on many cold Chicago evenings.

It had been a joke present from me for his birthday a good ten years ago. I made so much fun of him, but he insisted it was the most comfortable clothing item he owned. It's as worn and as ridiculous as I remember, and the closest thing to having him with me I can get. Maybe I'm kidding myself, but it smells like Dad's cologne. I bury my face in the collar and inhale, again, and again. It's the best smell, that of comfort, support, love, and understanding.

I put it on—sleeves too long, the bottom of the robe almost dragging on the ground—and instantly feel calmer. The pulsing in my temples subsides.

When I close my eyes, I see Dad in his recliner wearing the robe with a cup of steaming tea in his hands, listening to me tell him about my day. I make another mug of tea, fold my legs under me on the sofa and push the button on the phone under Angie's name to connect the video. Maybe this will work. Something's gotta work and to take away the pain and confusion.

"Heeeey." Angie appears on the screen, a signature messy bun on her head. "You look horrible. What are you wearing?" I clutch the lapels of Dad's robe. She's the one person who can realize its significance. "What's going on, Am? You're not looking too good." Her tone is somber.

"I need advice." I hear announcements on a loudspeaker on her end. "Where are you?"

"Airport. Hold on." Angie fishes out her earbuds and sticks them in. "I'm coming back today. Will have a long layover in Phoenix but didn't need to stay after the wedding performance was canceled, cause the bride got 'cold feet'."

I nod.

"What happened?" Angie moves her face closer to the screen. "Why is the robe out of its hidey-hole?"

She's staring through the lens of the phone's camera, and it touches my soul. The magic of Angie's compassionate eyes works even over the internet connection. I catch her up on the whirlwind of the afternoon I had.

"I'm liking this Ben more and more," she says and winks.

"It's not funny." I massage my temples. The pulsing is turning is beating of a hammer on the bones of my skull. "He didn't tell me so many things. He's a liar."

"I disagree with the liar label. I would've done the same thing if I were him."

"Come one, you would've blurted everything you knew the first time you saw me."

"Okay. Bad example. You're right about me but he's right too. You wouldn't have treated him the same if you knew from the get-go. He didn't do anything wrong. He just didn't do it right either."

"Semantics." Angie's not helping. Maybe he didn't lie outright, but he chose to conceal important things from me. Chose to let me believe our relationship was built on trust. Selective truth telling might just be worse than betraying on purpose. At least then everything is out in the open. With Ben I don't know where I stand. What else is he omitting? "How can I trust him?" I pull on a strand of my hair, stretching it away from my temple, trying to draw the insessant drum roll across my brain. My skin hurts but the throbbing pain inside my head is much stronger.

"I'm going to tell you something you're not going to like, but I need you to let me finish." She raises her eyebrows and a line forms between them.

"Just do it."

"You are calling the wrong person," she says.

"You mean Ben?"

"Shh, let me talk." She glances behind her. "My plane will be boarding soon. Let me finish."

"Okay." I roll my lips between my teeth to stymie any outbursts.

"Your trust issues, they're not with Ben. They're with your mom."

"You're changing the subject."

"No. I'm leading you to the actual crux of your problem. You don't trust anyone and the first person in that line is your mom. Start with her. Don't put Ben in the same box as your mom"

"I'm not. Am I?"

"Are you convincing me or you?"

I don't answer.

"Look, you know I'll support you whatever you decide. But you have to make a decision, Am."

Another decision. Great.

"I was not calling you for advice about Mom. What do I do about Ben?"

I can see the frustration on Angie's face, but she moves on. "Have you told him you like him?"

"Not in so many words," I say.

"What are you waiting for? A written invitation? Tell him how you feel. Take a risk. What's the worst that can happen?"

"The worst?" She wants me to come up with examples? I have a bucket load of the worst possible disaster scenarios. "He'll laugh at me. He'll hate me. He'll think I'm strange. He'll not talk to me anymore. I won't see him anymore."

"So, let me get this straight. He practically bears his soul to you, admits he likes you enough to wait for you, tells you he wants to be with you and you... you're scared to say you might like him back?"

"It's not the right time for me to get involved with anyone. I could be leaving for France in two months."

"And you could be having fun with Ben for two months in the meantime."

The what ifs dart into my brain and worsen the pain that's been gathering there. "I'm afraid he's expecting something serious. And he's two years younger than me."

"Roar! You are practically a cougar." Angie claws at the screen with her hand.

"We're so different." She can't push everyone to be irrational and impulsive. "I have to focus on my degree, get into graduate school and move to France, start a new life. I don't need any distractions."

"I hear you, but you're alive, alive, Am! Go live! Love! Stop all the what-ifs." All the passengers around her gate must think I'm suicidal rather than careful. "As your best friend, my wish is for you to trust humans again. Your dad would've hated to see you've become a shut-in. Promise me you'll stop punishing yourself."

Angie hangs up to board, but her words about Dad ring in my ears.

Live.

Love.

Dad made me promise that too. I hug myself and imagine those are Dad's arms inside the sleeves of his robe and not mine, hugging me, reminding me it's okay to live and love, and that when mistakes happen, we need to forgive. Forgive others and ourselves.

The pressure that's been building balloons behind my eyes, squeezes rational and irrational thoughts out, and the only thing that remains in my head is ugly, and scared, and it's not love. Fear shows me another serving of the reasons why I should not trust anyone anymore. Why staying alone is best. Why people left me in the past. I'm the common denominator.

I shut my eyes and squeeze my head in my hands. Hard. Harder. No. That's not me talking. I am not unlovable. I am not going to listen to the part of me that is sure living is dangerous. I push the fear aside and make a decision. I find the number I'm looking for and hit call.