I hang around the Lima Bean for several hours, on the off chance that the mysterious Kurt might return today. He doesnt, though, and Bethanys curious glances have graduated to full-on staring sessions, so I finally pack up my things and go.

Its hard to drive long distances when youre prone to having spells. I keep my eyes resolutely on the road and sing along with the songs on the radio to distract myself. There are a lot of songs that I still dont know, though – catching up on a missed year extends well beyond what anyone realizes.

Once Im home, once Im lying on my bed with my eyes closed, I finally let my mind wander and settle on Kurt. I remember the bewitching shade of his eyes – blue with some green and gray mixed in – and how soft his lips looked. I remember the soft lilt of his voice, and the smooth lines of his coat, and the way his eyes lit up when I told him I loved him–

My eyes fly open, and I sit up blearily. The clock says its six-thirty in the evening. I must have fallen asleep.

Blinking away the remnants of the dream, I make my way downstairs, following the faint clanking of pots and pans and the aroma of garlic and chicken. My mother is in there, wearing a cotton dress and pearls, looking every bit the 50s American housewife. Except for the Filipina part, of course.

"Hi, Mom."

She looks up and smiles at me, pressing a dry kiss to my cheek. "Daddy will be home from work soon. Set the table for me?"

I havent called my father Daddy since I was four, but Mom persists in referring to him that way. "Sure. Linen napkins?"

"Of course."

By the time Dad walks in the door, briefcase in hand, dinner is ready. Mom serves them both wine, and hands my dad the carving knife. He carves the meat, and we clap our hands politely before serving ourselves dinner.

When Im buttering the inside of my roll, my dad starts telling my mom about a particularly difficult patient at work. The attention is off me, so I allow my mind to wander again. I wonder how I knew this morning that Kurt drives a Navigator. I wonder how I know what the seats feel like on my bare skin as we–

"And how was your day today, dear?"

I blink rapidly, trying to chase away the mental image of Kurt and me making out feverishly in the back seat of his car. Its a good image – a great image – but from the way my parents are both peering at me over the dining room table, I have the paranoid thought that they know what I was imagining. "My day? It was fine."

"Hows the paper on the Holy Roman Empire coming?" Dad asks.

"Fine. I finished the research part and wrote the outline."

"I called the house phone around eleven," Mom says, taking a sip of wine. "There was no answer."

"I went to a coffee shop to study. Did you try my cell phone?"

She huffs out a laugh. "No, right after I called you the florist delivered carnations to the luncheon. Carnations, can you imagine? So I had to call around and see who could arrange thirty Calla lily centerpieces in half an hour. Quite a day."

Dad smiles fondly at her. "Youre cool as a cucumber under pressure, Cece."

"You really are," I chime in. "I dont think Ive ever seen you get ruffled by anything."

I expect her usual preening acceptance of my compliment, but instead, theres a strange tension that settles around my parents. Mom keeps her eyes down as she spears baby carrots with her fork, and Dad clears his throat a few times. For several minutes, the only sounds are of clinking silverware.

I push my food around on my plate. "I met someone today," I venture. "At the coffee shop." Theres a loud clatter as my father drops his fork on his plate. Mom and I look at him, and he takes a deep breath, picking the fork back up with a blank expression.

"Oh?"

I cant even say why it is that I dont tell them about Kurt in that moment. Theres something about the tone in my dads voice - almost like a warning - that makes me hesitate. "Yeah, a girl named Bethany. We chatted for a while; she seems nice."

Moms eyebrows shoot up. "Is this a potential love interest, sweetie?"

"What? No... Im gay, Mom, remember?"

"Im just asking," she sighs. "After everything that happened with Rachel..."

"Whos Rachel?"

Mom looks at Dad, who looks at me. "Rachel, from the Bible," he says quickly. "Dont you remember learning about her in Sunday School?"

No, actually. But admitting that I dont would be an invitation for them to make me go to church again, so I just nod. "Right. Of course, I understand the connection."

I dont understand the connection.

"Well, if you ever feel romantically toward Bethany, thats fine too," Mom says sweetly. "Youre too young to box yourself into any labels."

"Its not even like youve ever had a boyfriend," Dad reminds me.

"Right," I agree. Even though I know hes wrong.

After dinner, after Ive cleared the dishes from the table and stacked them in the dishwasher, I head up to my bedroom. Four steps into the room I stop, turning around slowly and trying for the hundredth time to figure out what is missing.

Someone went through my room, while I was in the hospital. Someone took things, changed things. To the unsuspecting observer, it might look like any other teenage boys bedroom. Ive got a dresser filled with clothes... a bookshelf filled with my favorite novels and CDs... even a desktop computer with internet access.

But there are drawers with clearly missing clothing. Gaps in the bookshelf where I think yearbooks would go. The computer – like my laptop – was brand new when I came home from the hospital, so there were no photo or video files on it. My old email address had been terminated.

There are other signs, too. I have a huge bulletin board hanging over my desk, and while there are a few items tacked to it – like last years Buckeyes roster and game schedule, an autographed poster from the first time I saw Avenue Q, a couple of ticket stubs from a concert I saw in eighth grade – its mostly empty. Which you could attribute to my being dull, I guess, except that there are hundreds of little pushpin holes, all over the board.

There was a life up there, and somebody took it down.

"Blaine?" I look up to see my father in the doorway. "Is everything all right?"

I must seem ridiculous to him, standing stock-still in the middle of my room. "Of course, why?"

"You had a few spells at dinner," he admits, and I can feel my cheeks color.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Dont apologize, kiddo. I just wonder if youd like for me to give you some more lithium–"

"Dad. Weve been over this a dozen times," I remind him firmly. "No more lithium. I dont like how it makes me feel. Besides, Im sure you could get in trouble for bringing me all those samples home from your office."

He just waves his hand dismissively. "Youd be horrified if you knew how many samples the drug companies send us. Why, I could save my patients the trouble of getting prescriptions written, and just give them samples for as long as they needed the medication."

"Why dont you, then?"

His eyes narrow a little, and he ignores the question. "What are you reading?" he asks, gesturing over to my bedside table, where a paperback book is lying open on the surface.

"A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Have you read it?"

"Not since I was your age." He regards me curiously, opening his mouth and then closing it abruptly. "Well, have a good night."

"You too."

"I love you."

"Love you too."

He waves a little before shutting my bedroom door.

This is new. All of it; meals together as a family, little chats after dinner, nightly professions of love. Before the attack, Id see my dad a couple of times a week. Mom was usually off at some charity events planning meeting until the late evening, and so I spent most of my time alone. Going to Dalton had been an adjustment – there was constant noise and activity. At first it had been overwhelming. After a few weeks, though, I couldnt get enough of it.

Thats another thing. I was at Dalton from the spring of freshman year through the beginning of senior year. Shouldnt I have had some friends when I left? Why didnt they ever come to visit me when I was in the hospital, or even when I came home? I was there for over two years. Id been friendly with Wes and David sophomore year. Could I really have burned my bridges when I left as a senior?

For that matter, shouldnt I have a junior yearbook? The Dalton Academy Annuals from freshman and sophomore year are on my bottom shelf, but theres a space next to them. Why wouldnt I have gotten one the following year? And if I did get one... where did it go?

I glance back at the closed door. My parents have always been good about letting me have my space. When my door is closed, they dont bother me unless its an emergency. So I head over to my bed, reaching behind the headboard and pulling out a short, folded step-ladder. Theres a high shelf in my closet, too high to be very useful. I put old board games and my broken keyboard up there to fill the space, because theyre easy to pull down. I do so now, stacking them to the side of the closet, and set up the step-ladder, climbing carefully until I can ease myself up onto the shelf.

I started doing this as a kid, when Id heard my dad telling my mom Id be safer in the closet, and misunderstood him. But even once I realized what hed meant, I kept coming up here. Theres something about a high, tight space that makes me feel safe. I used to bring a blanket up and read books by flashlight.

Now, I just gaze at my roses.

There are four of them in total. Pinned right by the ceiling on the little lip above the closet doors. Three are red, one is white. They have little bows on them, and clearly came from some sort of corsage or boutonnière. Theyre only in view when Im up on my shelf. Whoever wiped my room clean missed them completely.

I rest my cheek against the thick wood of the shelf and stare at the roses.

Somebody loved me once.

Its the only feasible explanation. If theyd been congratulatory flowers after a Warblers performance, or corsages that I wore while escorting female friends to their proms, I wouldnt have pinned them up here, out of sight. This is my secret place, my safe place, and if theyre up here, it means I was hiding them from my parents. And as far as I can figure, that implies only one thing: I used to have a boyfriend. Hes clearly not in the picture anymore; the attack was nearly a year ago, and surely he would have visited me in the hospital if wed still been together.

Even still, somebody loved me once. Somebody loved me enough to buy me flowers, and I loved him enough to pin them up to grow dry and brittle in my secret spot.

I breathe slowly, listening to the stillness. For months, Ive come up here and stared at the roses, as though they could tell me everything Ive forgotten. Ive tried imagining the person who gave them to me, but he was always faceless, shapeless. I let my mind drift now, knowing a spell is coming but accepting it anyway. Its so warm in my room, so warm in my closet, and Kurt and I are slow-dancing across my shelf as I fall asleep smiling.