I glance over at August bobbing her head to the music playing in my car. She's silently mouthing the lyrics of an indie song I would've never listened to hadn't she put it on but came to appreciate over the past week I've been driving her home from work. Its soft melancholic tones add to the emotion written all over the crease between her eyebrows.

Something's bothering her. I noticed the second I walked into the restaurant. The bell connected to the door had rung and she had spun around to face whoever was walking in. When she saw it was me she smiled. What normally would be a heartwarming energizing smile was now one that never reached her eyes.

My instincts had tugged me forward, ready to bulldoze her with questions, pressuring her to confide in me. However, the lessons I learned from the past erased those questions because the more I ask, the more I push her into silence. The more I ask, the more I let myself care, the more I let her in, and the harder it hurts when she rips away the place in my heart she made her own.

The more I push, the farther she runs.

I kept my questions for me throughout the whole evening shift at the restaurant. I ignored her heightened clumsiness and forgetfulness originating from the fact her mind was somewhere other than the customers she was serving. Each time I noticed her mind had wandered off, I teasingly pulled her back to the present, keeping the conversation light.

The longer I'm sitting in my car with her next to me, the harder it gets to tone down the instincts screaming at me to comfort her. But once I do, I'll cross another line. Another border trying to keep me from falling back into the past.

The abrupt change of August's music to my ringtone tears me away from my thoughts and from August's reaction, it had the same effect on her. I briefly look at the name on the screen. 

MOM

I switch between the road in front of me and August, debating whether to leave my mom hanging or answer the call. "Don't look at me, pick up." She nods towards my phone. I press the answer button on the steering wheel.

"Hi, mom."

"Hi, Honey!" Her voice cheers through the speakers of my car. "I hope I didn't wake you up." My eyes automatically snap towards my watch.

00:47 a.m.

"You didn't. I'm driving home from work."

"How was it? How's August doing? Brooklyn told me she started working at Sorrisetto with you."

"She's awful, mom." The sarcasm floats out of my mouth before I can stop it and the only one I can blame is the part of me dying to conjure a smile on August's face. "I think she's broken more glasses than Marcia over the years." The words aren't even fully out of my mouth yet or the back of her hands slams against my chest. I laugh as I rub the sore spot and glance sideways to briefly lock eyes with her challenging gaze. 

"Don't believe your son, Anna. There's only been a couple of casualties." Her use of my mom's first name startles me at first but I quickly shake the feeling away.

Of course, she isn't a stranger to my mom. I know that because I've heard plenty of stories from my parents about how August stayed over for dinner or how she sometimes would join them on their cycling or hiking trips. The fact her name would come up at least once during my weekly calls with my parents laughed at my attempt to banish her existence from my thoughts.

It was as if life was deliberately tormenting me by reminding me of what had happened and how I'd felt.

Only one time did it come in handy and that was a little over a year ago when my parents declared Brooklyn was moving in with August and Lucie into an apartment off campus. I'd considered their announcement as a warning, one that resulted in my visiting their apartment only once when I helped move her furniture into her room. And even then I only agreed when Brooklyn mentioned something about August being on a vacation with her dad that week.

It's pathetic but avoiding a confrontation seemed easier than trying to work through a conversation without bringing up the past. I can almost hear her presence in my car mocking me for that thought. 

"August! How are you doing?" The pure happiness in my mom's voice spreads a smile across my face.

"I'm good, thank you. How are you?"

"I'm enjoying Paris very much. If you ever have the opportunity, you should visit it. And for the record, I was not going to believe a word he said." I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, thanks, mom. Thanks for the support."

"Always, Honey. Now, why I called. I'm standing in a shop and I found a beautiful sweater I think you'd like but I'm not sure which color you'd like. Dark green, faded green, burgundy, peach, or white?"

"I don't know," I frown, dividing my attention between traffic and picking one of the colors she summed up. Honestly, either one sounds fine. Perhaps dark green? Maybe I should ask her to send pictures or -

Before I can contemplate all the colors a whisper stops me. "You look good in white." When my eyes snap to August, the smallest smile is warming her lips.

Even though it's only a suggestion, only a friend helping out a friend, an opinion on the matter; another border between us perishes as my rebellious heart reacts to her compliment.

"I must say that I like the dark green," my mom rattles on through the phone, probably because she didn't hear August. "Burgundy is also a pretty color. Maybe I should send you pictures?"

"No, no," I stop her. "White sounds good." As I say it I glance at August and even though she quickly averts her eyes to the world outside, I catch the corner of her mouth quirking up.

"Great, that's that then." A muffled sound roars through the speaker and I can imagine her struggling in the store with 10 items in her hands for Brooklyn, trying to snatch the eleventh from the rack whilst balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear. "Oh, honey, before I forget, can you resend the photo of your game calendar. I lost it again."

I shake my head in humorous disbelief. This must be the third or fourth time she's accidentally deleted the photo I took of the personalized calendar I made for her and my dad. Every soccer season they ask me to write down all my games and highlight the ones I consider important. Even though they can't always make it, they make the effort and it warms my heart to the extent I would draw up a thousand calendars if she'd ask me. Luckily I saved the photo I took because I knew this would happen. Multiple times. "I'll send it when I'm home."

"Great, well, I'm going to hang up because I'm next in line. I'll call you back soon. August, it was nice to hear from you, I can't wait to have you over for dinner again. And also, don't believe a word he says." August's soft chuckle hums through the car in agreement and I shove her shoulder, trying to contain the smile forming on my lips.

"It was great to hear from you too, Anna."

"Bye, mom."

"Bye, Honey. I love you."

"Love you too." The line goes dead and August's indie playlist starts buzzing through the speakers again.

"Your parents are in Paris?"

I shake my head. "No, just my mom. It's her first year trying out long-haul flights."

"Does she like it?"

"Sometimes, sometimes not. She likes traveling and seeing other countries but also being home with my dad. So she's trying to find a balance." The topic of her parents flashes through my head and immediate memories pop up inside my mind. "What happened with your parents?" The question floats out of my mouth before I can stop it. Even though my voice sounds delicately careful, I can't hide my directness behind it.

Her music fills the silence between us until she answers. "They got a divorce. My dad cut his working hours to be home whenever I was," there is a slight hesitance before she continues, "and my mom moved to Boston for a job."

"That's pretty far."

"Yeah." I stop at a red sign and take the opportunity to look at her. She's picking her nails and biting her lip as she stares outside. If she senses my gaze on her she doesn't act on it. Perhaps she's too caught up in her thoughts or perhaps she's trying her best to hide whatever emotion is displayed on her face. Both options are possible, yet something inside me tells me the second one is the reason behind her not glancing my way.

"Do you still see her a lot?"

"We call sometimes." My tongue is burning with the urge to continue asking questions but I decide against it, sensing her uneasiness on the topic. Instead, I slide my hand in between hers as I wash away my previous thoughts.

I can't watch her struggle and do nothing to comfort her.

I intertwine our fingers and she immediately stops fidgeting. Her gaze snaps towards our linked hands. I squeeze twice to signal her I'm here and that I'm listening. Her shoulders relax slightly as she softly squeezes back two times. I rhythmically brush my thumb over hers wishing I could pull her into a hug instead. She lifts her eyes from our hands and it's then that I see the glaze of tears covering her irises.

"August." The second I break the silence between us she looks away.

"It's green." Her weak voice announces. I look up at the green light and scold it in my mind for its horrible timing. Against every instinct I feel, I disconnect our hands to take hold of the gear stick and tell myself to embrace the coldness caused by the loss of contact. That it is good because it strengthens the borders I'm trying to protect. I drive away from the intersection.

The seconds that tick by feel like hours. In the corner of my eye, I can see her hands fidgeting again. She picks the skin around her nails so hard I'm certain that if she doesn't stop she'll create little wounds all around her nails. With every little motion of her nail dragging over the skin of another finger, the image of her teary eyes pops up.

My chest contracts and my heart aches from the knowledge of her tears. I wish not caring was easy. I wish drawing lines and making up rules was liberating. But right now, all I feel is entrapped in my own borders.

I push up my direction indicator and park myself in the first parking spot I find. I turn a blind eye to her confused expression as I shut off my car and step out. I jog over to her side and swing open her door.

"What are you doing?" I ignore her question as I lean over and unbuckle her seatbelt. I grab her elbow and nudge her out of the car. "Colin," she says my name in protest but she follows me nonetheless. "What are you doing?"

Once she's fully out of my car I pull her into my arms. "C'mere." The walls in her eyes perish, showing her tiredness. Then, she crumbles into my embrace. As if her trying to hold in whatever is bothering her was a house and I ripped away the foundation with my gesture. Her hands slide around my torso before she rests her cheek in the crook of my neck. I squeeze her closer, tangle one of my hands in her hair and lay my chin on her head. I close my eyes and focus on the rhythm of her breathing I feel against my chest. I listen to the sounds of the sleeping city as I hug her in an attempt to relief her from some of the emtions bottled up inside of her. We stay like that for a while before August gives the thoughts in her mind a voice.

"Sometimes I feel like my mom doesn't love me. That she raised me until the day she thought I was old enough and then moved on." Her voice is small and light like a feather but the sentences it gives sound to are the equivalents of a bulldozer crashing into everything in its path.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because she's never there." I'm holding her yet I can't stop her from breaking in between my arms. "Not since the divorce. Since the day she moved out, her work has been her number one and I don't mind that. I admire her work drive but I don't think I'm even on her list of priorities anymore. She never calls me. She's never there for the things I deem important even though she promises and when we try to meet up she almost always cancels. I've tried to blame the distance, or her work but then she started dating Mike and it seems like she does have time for him. So maybe it's just me. Maybe I-"

I lean back and cup her cheeks as I tilt her head so her eyes would meet mine. "Don't do that."

"What?" I erase her tears with my thumbs, wishing I could erase the sadness in her eyes too.

"Don't blame yourself for someone else's behavior. You reach out to her. It's not your fault she doesn't give back to you what you give to her." She doesn't answer. Instead, she leans forward and hugs me tighter, burying her face in my chest. 

"Have you talked to her about how you feel?" She shakes her head. "Do you want to?" 

"Maybe. I don't know," she shrugs. "Sometimes I do but then right before I confront her she makes me doubt myself by showing she cares in some way. And then I think I was only overreacting so I push whatever I wanted to say back down."

"You can't choose how you feel. It just happens. It's not because one day someone makes you feel happy that the times they made you feel otherwise aren't worth discussing anymore. Because sometimes there are things left unsaid and problems left unsolved that can be cleared by a good conversation. Not everything, of course, but it's a start." By hearing my own words I start to think about my conversation with Dan. How I shut him down after he suggested I should talk to August about the night she left. How I should dig deeper to find answers to the questions that haunt me at the most inconvenient times. I shut down the idea because I thought I could leave it all behind me but the longer I'm holding her in my arms, the louder the questions become, and the harder it becomes to toss them aside into the category 'it doesn't matter anymore'.

"I'm sorry for ruining your shirt." Her apology tears me away from my thoughts and back to her. I look down at the wet black spots of her mascara on my shirt that she's currently trying to scrub away. I take her hand away. shake my head.

"It's okay," I reassure her. "I'd say it's abstract art." She snorts and the corner of her mouth slightly lifts. I'd lie if I said it doesn't feel good to make her smile. It feels fucking wonderful.

"Be careful. Before you know it, it's worth millions."

I bow my head to her in old-fashioned appreciation. "Thank you for making me rich."

"You're welcome." Her growing smile brightens mine and when her eyes flicker down to my lips, the comfortable feeling of having her close morphs into a sizzling fire attempting to reignite. I feel a soft squeeze in my hand. I glance down, realizing I never let go of hers when I stopped her from attempting to clean my shirt. When our eyes lock again, she rises on her tiptoes, and in a split second all the questions I've been trying to suppress arise. It's like I've fallen back in time because I've been here before. I've been in the situation constructed by tempting affection, tear-stained shirts, and comforting words. I've seen the outcome. I've held the broken pieces of my heart and tried to put them back together after her. I've lived through that outcome once and I don't want to again so I clear my throat, release her hand, and take a step back.

"I should bring you home." I tuck my hands in my pockets and walk back to my side of the car. Not once do I dare to look into her eyes because stepping away took more strength than it should've taken me and I'm afraid that her eyes could demolish the last borders holding me back from repeating history.