The next thing I know, it’s eleven o’clock at night and Wyatt is pulling into my driveway, sober yet exhausted and jittery.

I climbed out of the warm car into the icy cold, then I fumbled to unlock the door while Wyatt waved at me from the car, which was idling in the driveway.

“Mom? James? Are you still awake?” I called as I walked inside, and found them watching Die Hard in the living room, half asleep.

“Oh, you’re home… Right on time.” My mom smiled. I knew she was overjoyed that I was home on time, sober and unscathed. “Oh, Elena…”

“Listen, Mom. Just listen.” I sat down on the edge of the couch beside her. “Wyatt’s got a seven hour drive to get home, you know, and it’s eleven now, and he’s tired, and-”

“Elena, dear Lord, just ask me what you want to ask me.”

“Could he stay here? Just for tonight? Please?” This is dangerous, my brain screamed at me. Why the hell are you risking it all? Oh, right.

She sighed. “I suppose it’s unfair that I make him drive all the way back, at eleven at night in January. It’s pretty unsafe. But-” She glowered at me sternly, “He will be sleeping on the couch, and only on the couch, while you will be sleeping in your bed. Do you hear me?”

My eyes drifted from the couch to my room down the hall. “What if we’ve got the door open? And the hallway lights on?”

“I’m not falling for that. It’s the couch or nothing, Elena.”

“Okay,” I agreed with a dismal sigh. “Let me go get him, then.”

I jumped outside with a shiver and gestured for Wyatt to follow me in. Shoes and jackets came off, and I heard James call, “How about you two come watch the rest of this movie with us?”

I glanced at Wyatt, frowning, and whispered in the quietest way possible, right in his ear: “Parents think you’re eighteen, by the way.” Which was nonsense, because I hadn’t said anything to my parents about his age. “Just… Don’t mention age, okay? Please.”

“Sure, alright,” he replied, and we awkwardly sat down on the couch with my parents, who both cast sideways glares at him.

“So, Wyatt, is it?” James said with a pessimistic exhale.

“Yeah. Nice to meet you.”

The introductions felt oddly formal, but then we all settled back and watched Bruce Willis kill people on the TV.

“Well, what did you two get up to today?” My mother asked with a smile, but I knew what worries her mind would be conjuring: Drinking? Drugs? Crime? Sex?

“We went to the movies,” I replied. “Some war movie was on, you know. Explosions and shit like that.”

“That’s lovely.”

“Well, Wyatt,” James began, sounding ill-tempered already. “How old are you, exactly? You look pretty wise, eh?” The only way to make it sound not threatening was to add a chuckle at the end.

“I’m eighteen,” he said, forcing a tight smile.

“Ah, so you’ve graduated… What do you do for a living, then?”

“I’m a musician.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I added with a soft grin, “He and his band just released an EP!”

“Oh, that’s amazing!” My mom smiled, clapping her hands together. “I’m sure you’re extremely talented, Wyatt.”

“He is,” I agreed with a nod. “He really is.”

We continued that sort of tense small talk for a while, fraught with undertones of suspicion from everybody, sideways looks that spoke of anxiety, and nervous compulsive twitches. And then, the credits of Die Hard rolled, and my parents went to bed in silence.

“Oh my fucking God,” I whispered to Wyatt. “That just about gave me a fucking panic attack.”

He smiled softly at me. “What? You don’t think they like me?”

“As soon as you leave, they’re gonna give me hell. I just know it.”

“Aw, c’mon, chill out.” He kissed me on the forehead. “Go sleep, okay? I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Between Valium and an assurance that Wyatt was just down the hall, I managed to sleep well, but when I woke up in the morning, with a violent headache and nausea, he’d already left.