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Treena's door is unlocked, but she's gone. There's a note on her desk.

Early class. Chai and gossip later?

Love, T

I put it down and sigh. Short and to the point, with no mention of last night. Either she forgot what happened, or doesn't want to address it. Probably the latter. She's never been one for confrontation.

After showering and getting ready, I call my mom to check in, not going into many details yet about what I've been up to, then meet Bennett outside his room.

“How do you feel about bagels?” he asks, locking his door. The smell of soap rushes out, and his hair is still wet, hanging limply on his face. He's back in his uniform of cargo shorts, red T-shirt, and hoodie.

“I'm in full support of bagels,” I say, ready to start my day.

“Great, I know a place,” he says, raising his eyebrows. I smile and follow him down the hall.

“You are oddly excited about this place,” I say when we walk in. It's not much, really, just . . . a bagel shop. Not a fancy one, either. There's nothing on the walls; they're just painted an off-white that looks like it hasn't been repainted in years. Decades. There are a few small two-person tables, and a food counter, and that's it.

“It's really good!” he says excitedly. “It's been here for, like, a million years apparently. I don't know, I just like it,” he ends with a shrug. I nod and follow him to the counter.

I still have Treena's bike key, so we rode bikes here, because why not? The weather was nice, and I kind of wanted to feel the movement under my feet again, especially now, when we're at a standstill on my search. I need to know that I'm going somewhere.

“I usually get the everything bagel, but it's a bit . . . garlicky, so I'll pass today,” he says, turning around to me.

“Please, do not let me tear you away from the garlic,” I answer, looking at the baskets of bagels. I will agree with
him—they do look good.

“Nah,” he says, then turns back to the counter. “I'll have one sesame seed bagel with cream cheese. And an orange juice.”

“And you?” the guy behind the counter asks, not acting entirely polite. He has a thick black mustache that must have a story of its own.

“Um, cinnamon bagel with cream cheese, and just a cup of water,” I answer.

“I've got it,” Bennett says, taking his wallet out of his pocket.

“What? No, it's okay. I can pay.”

“Maude, it's, like, a dollar. Plus, you're taking me on an awesome adventure, so I owe you,” he says, handing over a few bills to the mustached guy.

“It's you who I owe. You're the one showing me around.”

“Let's just say we're even,” he says, putting his change into the tip jar and picking up our bagels.

We walk to an open table and sit down. There are a few other people here, but not many. I guess it's not packed at 10:00 a.m. on a weekday.

“It's usually more crowded on the weekends,” Bennett says, as if reading my mind.

“I'd imagine,” I say, and take a bite of the bagel. It's just the right mixture of crisp and bready, with the perfect amount of cream cheese. “This
is
good!”

“See? Told you. Best bagels.” He smiles, taking a bite of
his. “Especially for hangovers. How're you feeling?”

“Better.” I shrug. “It really wasn't that bad.”

“You really weren't that drunk,” he points out.

“Uh-huh,” I say, not really able to agree or disagree. “How'd you find this place, anyway?”

“Know how I used to help out with the computers at the school? I was in this area, so I just dropped in. I like trying the local places.”

“Has it really been here for a long time? I wonder if my mother ever came here.”

“Who knows? It's been here for almost fifty years, though,” he says, pointing to a small plaque that says it was opened on April 14, 1968.

“Very cool.”

We eat our bagels and quietly laugh when someone asks for a venti coffee, as if Starbucks lingo is the norm.

“So what do you want to see on this side of town?” he asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“I don't know. I guess we can bike around until we find something that might be cool?”

“Yeah. Okay. Later, we can go around campus again, too, if you'd like.”

“Oh, that'd be awesome. My mom asked me if I've seen much of it yet, and I, um, haven't,” I admit.

“You saw the FAB,” he offers.

“I told her that!”

We finish up our bagels and are walking outside toward
the bike rack when my phone buzzes.

“A new message?” Bennett asks, getting on his bike and seeing my phone in my hand.

“Yes, from Bee. Oh god.” I open it and Bennett jumps behind me to read along.

Maude, I really would rather not talk about Claire. It's been too long, and in this case, absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Just know that our problems, like many others, stemmed from a boy named Chad. They started and ended there.

“Oh,” I say. I put my phone in my bag and sit back on the bike's seat.

“So, Chad—” Bennett starts. “The guy in the picture . . .”

“I'm guessing he dumped Bee for Claire? Or cheated on her with Claire,” I say, and Bennett flinches. “Still, why hold a grudge so many years later?”

“Maybe there's more to it?”

“Well, it doesn't look like she's going to tell.”

“Maybe we can track her down?” Bennett says. He's fiddling with the handlebars on his bike. His fingers are long, and they snap the gears back and forth distractedly.

“Maybe,” I say.

“No, come on,” he says. “Pull up her message again.”

“Okay,” I say, getting my phone out. “Here.”

“Let's see how public her profile is,” he says, taking my
phone. He clicks her profile and scans down. “Look, it says she works at the capitol, in the museum area.”

“We can't just go and track her down at work,” I say.

“Who says we can't? Like everything else with your quest, the worst that can happen is she won't talk to us. And the best . . .”

“Yeah, I know, but it's very clear that she hates my mother. How thrilled would she be at me turning up at her job?
At the capitol?
”

“Are you more worried about seeing Bee or the phallic monstrosity that is the capitol?” he asks, grinning.

“Shut up,” I say, but still smile. I reason with myself that this is a terrible idea, that we'll probably have the cops called on us, but, really, they can't do anything that bad. We're not going to be arrested or thrown in jail. If anything, they'll just escort us out, and Bee will have another reason to hate my family. But maybe she won't freak out; maybe she'll talk to me. I do
want
to see her, now that I know the connection. “Okay.” I nod. “Yeah, okay, let's go.”

“Bennett Holmes and Maude Watson are on the case!” he says, hopping onto his bike.

“Hey, why do I have to be the sidekick?” I complain.

“Because it was my absolutely brilliant idea,” he says, pushing off the ground triumphantly and heading toward the capitol.

The neighborhood is empty, so I move my bike next to his in the middle of the street. We're off the main roads and
ride for about twenty minutes through the streets. Houses are stacked close to one another on both sides like dominoes. There are tires scattered about on front yards, and multiple cars in the driveways, each crappier-looking than the last. Some people are sitting outside, just resting and following us with suspicious eyes.

I wonder if my mother lived here, among the crowded front yards and discarded bicycles. I wonder if this is why she was so free-spirited, so rebellious—because she always dreamt of leaving it. Flying away from cars backfiring and the glares of the neighbors. From the broken fences and clusters of crows. It all feels like a home, but not one I'm used to.

“There's a park over there,” Bennett says, nodding toward the right. “Take a break?”

I'm eager to get to the capitol before my nerves catch up with me, but I'm also tired from pedaling, so I nod and follow him down a side street, past more run-down houses, and at the end find a small swing set and slide. When I check my phone again, I see that we've been biking for over half an hour.

I walk over to the swing and he follows, sitting on the one next to me. I hold my phone and take some pictures of the slide, the houses. Of the neighborhood that feels more forced than friendly. I quickly post one to my blog without a caption.

“It's kind of insane,” I say, moving the swing with my feet. “Being here.”

“Yeah. I'd imagine. I mean, she could have sat in that swing, right?”

“Right,” I say, thinking about the possibility. “Do you think she liked it here?”

“Don't know. I guess if this is where you grow up, it's all you know, so you just deal with it, right? It becomes home.”

“Yeah.”

He adds, “I mean, it could have been nicer back then?”

“Maybe.” I pause. “What's Miami like?”

He starts pumping his swing, pushing and emphasizing his words. “Miami is crazy loud. I think that's the best way to describe it. Just, so loud and bright. I mean, depending on where you are, you could walk down an entire row of neon buildings.”

“That is bright.”

“Yeah. And it's huge. I live in the outskirts, like, away from the craziness and beaches, but still.”

“Same here.”

“You live in the outskirts of Miami, too?” He eyes me jokingly.

“No, no, the outskirts of Orlando. There's Disney and the parks, but they're, like, forty-five minutes away. I live away from that and the beaches and stuff.”

“Suburbia at its best.”

“Exactly.”

“You graduate this year, right? Are you going to stay in Orlando for college?”

I shake my head. “No, I'd rather go somewhere else. I mean, I like Orlando and all, but I want a new experience. So, I'm looking here, among other places,” I say, pushing a little harder on the swing, and letting my feet leave the ground. “What brought you here?”

“Animation scholarship. Also, it wasn't too far away, but wasn't too close. Like, I could go home if I needed something, but didn't have to if I didn't want to.”

“And your girlfriend was there, right?”

He doesn't answer, just stares out ahead of us.

“Sorry, I shouldn't have . . .”

He skids his feet and stops his swing, turning to me with a weary look. “No, it's okay,” he says. “But yeah, that was a consideration when I came here. She stayed in Miami, so it wasn't extremely hard for us to visit each other.”

“And it still didn't work out?”

“She cheated on me within the first two weeks, so, no, not really,” he says, with a slight laugh.

“Seriously?” I ask, surprised.

“Seriously.” His hands grab the metal chains and hold on tight. “So . . . that was that.”

My heart falters for him, and I want to reach out, comfort him, after all the times he's helped me, but I'm still unsure if I can or should, or if he even wants me to. So I simply say, “I'm sorry.”

He shrugs, and then continues. “It sucked, but better I learned who she was sooner than later, right?” He looks at
me with questions in his eyes. “I guess I kind of hoped that when I'd see her back at home for Thanksgiving we'd magically make everything right again,” he says with a flourish of his hand. “But . . . it turns out she's on guy number four or something, so, yeah, that's not happening.” I watch the emotions wash across his face, from disappointment to embarrassment to acceptance.

“Wow. She moves fast,” I mumble. I can't imagine how he feels—I've never dated before. And I guess not dating has saved me from the pain of being cheated on, but unrequited crushes have their own pains, too.

“You're telling me.” He laughs halfheartedly. “Clearly I wasn't enough for her.”

“Hey, I'm sure that's not it,” I say. “Some people go wild in college, from what I hear. I mean, Treena has a guy. And that's . . . different.”

“She didn't in high school?” he asks curiously.

“Nope.” I shake my head.

“And you . . . ?” His voice is tentative now.

“Nope. We're kind of loners,” I joke, letting out my nerves. “I mean, it's not that I don't
want
to date or anything, I just haven't, I guess. I hang out with the art crowd, and everyone is either weird, introverted, or both—like me, I guess—or outgoing like my friend Celine. And aside from me, Treena was mostly with her family friends, and her parents were pretty strict about no dating. So we had each other, and that seemed like enough sometimes. But,
you know, not always.”

“I get that. I mean, I've only had one girlfriend. And she was already a friend, so it was easier, I guess. I don't know.”

“We can be loners together,” I joke.

“And bask in each other's awesomeness,” he says, and I can tell he's feeling less down, less reflective on what happened.

“You're different.”

“And how's that?”

“Well, for one thing, you're a total dork,” I say, trying to cheer him up.

“If you're trying to cheer me up, it's not working,” he says, pushing my swing to the side.

“And another”—I laugh, trying to regain the swing's balance—“you don't make me nervous.” I wasn't intending to go that far, but the words just naturally come out.

“Good.” He smiles, and I look down.

I move my swing closer to his so we're facing each other, knees touching, and all wrapped up in the chains. He reaches over and grabs my swing, bringing me closer and wrapping me in a hug. I let go and hug back, for the first time allowing myself to see Bennett, really see him, without any sort of apprehension or barrier in the way. Without wondering if I was wrong to be here with him. I hold on tight, closing my eyes and memorizing the feel and shape of his body.