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had been before. A lot fewer donut places, which was a shame. The nice seafood restaurants were all still there: the Lobster Pot and Sweetgrass. The dive bars; Frankie’s still had its peel and eat special and dollar drafts at happy hour.
    A few of the old condos had gotten facelifts. Paint jobs.
    But all in all—unchanged. Like nothing had happened.
    Time moved on in other parts of the world. Not in Indian Shores, Florida.
    What a weird relief.
    I found her condo because I remembered it was across the street from the gas station with the night shift guys who never carded me during those few years I lived here. All the smokes and beers I wanted for the small price of a little flirtation. It had been cheap currency back then.
    I pulled into the circular parking area in front of the building feeling utterly conspicuous. Like I was driving the bloodmobile.
    Exhaustion made me buzz. And it seemed possible that I could just evaporate in the humidity. And that would be fine. A relief even.
    Putting the car in park was an epic act of will.
    The engine of the car hummed beneath me and I was so tired, even my cellphone felt heavy in my hand. I was so tired that I took a second to make sure this was my real cellphone and not the one that would make bombs go off.
    Real.
    Thank God.
    I pressed in the number I knew by heart even now. It was like I knew somehow I would need it. Some dangerous day ahead of me would require Aunt Fern.
    Fern answered her cellphone on the third ring.
    “Hello?” She said it like “yel-lo” and I smiled despite the fact that there was something like a sob rising up in my chest.
    I closed my eyes and concentrated on the burn I felt. The pain gave me a little strength.
    Grounded me to this shitty car with its sticky velour seats, the scent of blood that filled it, and the soft breathing of a possibly dying man in the backseat.
    Jennifer. I thought of Jennifer. And I swallowed the sob. And my pride.
    “Aunt Fern?”
    “Jesus…Olivia?”
    That name again, it was so weird to hear it. It was like Fern was talking about a different person. Some stranger.
    “Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “It’s me.”
    “God. You gotta lot of nerve, kid, you know that?”
    “That’s what you always told me.”
    “It’s been…it’s been years.”
    “Seven. It’s been seven years.”
    Since Jennifer turned eighteen. Jen went to college and I took off with Jared (Bad Boyfriend #1) like an asshole in the night. Stupid. God, I was so stupid coming here. She was not going to help. I’d never given her any reason to.
    “Seven years and no word.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Fern laughed that throaty laugh of hers. It was surprising, that laugh. Surprisingly happy. And Fern never seemed very happy.
    “No you’re not,” she said. Which wasn’t exactly true. At this moment, alone and desperate, I was sorry for everything. “Where are you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
    I laughed and used the neck of my shirt to wipe at my eyes. “I’m out front.”
    “Out front where?”
    “Here. I mean. Your condo. Indian Shores—”
    “You’re outside my condo?”
    This is where she tells me to get lost. It’s where I’d tell me to get lost. The water under our bridge was totally indifferent. She did not care enough about me to take on all this drama.
    “I am.”
    She hung up.
    I’d been expecting it in a way. Her refusing to see me had been a looming shadow in the back of my head for the last seven hours. The boogey man in the closet I refused to check because I didn’t know what to do with it if it was real.
    I put my head down on the gummy plastic steering wheel. If I stayed here long enough the cops would come and then…then it would be over. Everything would be over.
    I’d go to jail. Get myself a girlfriend and a couple of prison tattoos. Max would…Max would go to the hospital and then to jail where he’d be raped and then stabbed in the shower. And Jennifer…
    I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m so fucking