This story is a reworking and continuation of another, unfinished work on this website by the writer Darcydarcy. The first few chapters are reworkings of the chapters in Darcydarcy's story. I don't mean to steal her work and pass it off as my own-I simply enjoyed her take on these characters and wanted to continue and finish it. If you want to read the story that I've based mine off of, it's called What Was Enough. Just a warning: There are spoilers in her story that I will reveal in my version much later on.

Winter, 2004

One of my favorite memories is lit in an orange glow. Stevie Nicks' silvery voice drifted about the room as I watched my dad twirl my mom around like a princess at a ball, then cross her arms in front of her, holding her hands from behind. He tucked his chin up against her ear, crooning. It was a Sunday evening, just us in our living room, my little sister Sophie curled up on the corduroy recliner, dozing off. It had gotten dark, past our bedtime, but they didn't notice. They just moved together, melting into each other, slowly dancing. My mom had her eyes closed, and at something my dad whispered, her lips curled into a lazy half smile. My dad stared at her, his eyes dark and heavy, and suddenly the room felt stuffy, too small for all four of us. Softly, I crept up, slipped my arms around Sophie's sleeping form, and left. My parents never even looked up.

Memories seemed to be my singular brand of torture. The good ones, the ones that are so sweet and warm at the front of your mind, are always tangled up with the bad, like dock lines ensnarled into each other, that both surface at once in the mind. Before you know it, the sweet memory is gone and suddenly all that's left is the bitter aftertaste of seawater on your tongue. You try not to think about it, but of course you end up dwelling on it more, because thinking about forgetting just makes you remember.

"That's it!"

My brother Christopher tossed his fork, sounding disgusted, and it landed with a sad clatter on the kitchen table. Startled, I looked up from the knot in the wooden floor that I had been zoning out at. He seemed flushed. It was hard to tell. He was always sunburned.

"What?" I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Chris' wife Penelope staring at her plate, suddenly fascinated by her pasta.

"This isn't healthy, Kim," he said, his voice somehow firm and resigned all at once. "You can't keep doing this. You're not eating well, you hardly talk anymore, and it's like you don't have any friends. I never see you leave the house on weekends."

I began to study my pasta too. "Junior year's been pretty intense so far," I mumbled, and attempted a nonchalant shrug. Chris didn't buy it.

"Bullshit," he declared. "You're depressed, but that's fine. I get it, I do. But that means we need to get you fixed up."

I wanted to tell him no, that I wasn't depressed, that I was perfectly fine, but I couldn't even form the words. Even I couldn't lie to myself—the truth was so obvious. Sophie sat on one hand, then the other, then pulled both hands out again, shifting her eyes between me and Chris as we spoke.

"Penny and I have talked about this," Christ was speaking again, "And we've agreed that it would probably be good for you if you saw a counselor."

"A counselor?" I repeated, not comprehending.

"A psychiatrist," he said, "You know, like a therapist."

I paused. "So, a shrink."

"Something like that."

"But I'm not crazy," I blurted out. "I'm not sick either. There's nothing wrong with me! I'm just—"

"Sweetie," said Penelope, "there's nothing wrong with talking it out with someone. I went to a therapist when I was your age, when my parents separated. It helped a lot, you know."

She was trying to be comforting, I knew, but I certainly didn't feel comforted. Maybe her voice was naturally condescending.

"You're not going to let me say no, are you?" I spun some pasta onto my fork, then turned my fork down and let the spaghetti drop onto the plate again.

"It'll be good for you," Christ repeated, avoiding my question.

I fell silent as I weighed my options. I could resist it, and waste energy I didn't have, or I could go see some shrink and spend time staring at her office walls instead of sitting on my bed and staring at my own. I supposed a change in scenery couldn't hurt.

"Fine, whatever," I said.

They looked relieved, and satisfied, as if they had done their duty and manifested their care for my well-being. Was it a sign that they loved me? I wasn't sure anymore. It had been a while since I'd felt love for sure.

Little Ethan made coughing sounds from his highchair, and Penelope immediately jumped up to tend to her son. It was odd to live with my brother's family, to be sixteen but live in a house run by a young couple just starting out with a family. Living here felt out of place in the continuum on things, disjointed somehow, as if this time in my life shouldn't have been entwined with this time in theirs.

"Shh, calm down, sweet boy. Mommy's here," Penelope was murmuring. She settled Ethan over her shoulder and petted down his spine, which usually made him fall asleep right away. Penelope was the kind of mother who had gotten one of those CD player belts a pregnant woman could wrap around her belly so that her baby had close access to Mozart from the womb. Ethan, sadly, was going to be subjected to a childhood filled with bilingual baby shows and a mother who strapped him in elbow protectors when he first started out on his tricycle.

"I'm full," Sophie declared, pushing her plate away. There was still pasta left on her plate, but Sophie only ever finished a food if it was dessert. "I'm going to my room."

"Me too," I said, "I've got homework."

Penelope opened her mouth to say something, but closed it again in silence. She always insisted that we sat down for family dinner every night, not something Sophie and I are used to in our old house. I would have preferred to eat in my room most nights, but it was hard to say no when she insisted. I grabbed a banana for breakfast before I headed through the kitchen door.

Chris and Penelope's house was nice, but it was meant for a small family—just two bedrooms, not big enough for five people. We hadn't been their plan when they'd bought it. Penelope had only wanted one child, but now she was stuck with two that weren't even hers.

Because of the space issue, and because I wanted to separate myself from the rest of the family in any way I could, I opted to move my room to the attic instead of sharing with Sophie. I was glad with my choice, because even though a few ceiling beams crossed a precarious three inches above my head, the space was big enough to move in my queen bed, desk, and dresser. There was a nook that I had turned into a walk-in closet, and the single window let in sufficient light. There was even a tiny bathroom, though I had to go down to the house to shower.

When I'd first moved in, Penelope had coaxed me into a shopping day and bought me new bedding and rugs, making the cold attic feel a little homier. The only issue with the attic was that the only way to get up was through a ladder that extended into the garage. It did add to the privacy, but annoyed me every time I had to take my shoes on and off between the house and my room.

Up in the attic, I sat down on my bed and wondered if it was too early to get ready for bed. I didn't actually have homework. It was Sunday night, and without anything to do on weekends, naturally I had finished all my work by noon on Saturday. Unable to help myself, I pulled my chair over to the window and looked out. It was getting dark and no one was out on the beach, which I could see just over the house across from ours. Penelope was always complaining that we are so close to the ocean yet didn't have a view, but she clearly didn't come up here enough. I had a perfect waterfront view of the cliffs and the choppy water splashing against the jagged rocks that dotted the shore. Unfortunately, looking at the ocean was the last thing I wanted to do.

Good thing, then, that I had other things to distract me. It was, objectively, stalkerish and unhealthy, and if anyone found out I would probably have died, but watching Jared Cameron's room had become something of a pastime for me in the eight months since I'd moved in with Chris. Jared's house was bigger than ours, stilted, with two full stories and a smaller attic level. I had a perfect view of the second floor from my window, diagonally across the way, and I knew for a fact that Jared's room was the second on the left. For a very popular boy who got invited to everything, he spent a surprising amount of time at home. He always left his lights on and his curtains drawn at night, like now, so I could clearly make out his figure moving around in his warmly lit room.

It looked like he was doing homework tonight, but I couldn't be sure. He was sitting on his bed scribbling something, hunched over in concentration. I couldn't see his facial features from so far away, but I liked to think that I had Jared's memorized. He has one of those faces that strikes you the first time you see it, and after that, you can't ever forget. Certainly, I couldn't.

As I watched, Jared flipped open his cell phone and put it to his ear for a few seconds, then laid it down. He ran a hand through his hair, then rested it behind his neck. I could almost hear the sigh he let out. A few minutes passed, and I tried to look away for a while, but then his bedroom door opened.

Someone entered his room, and I didn't need to be close to see that it was a girl. I couldn't tell who it was, only that her body was lithe and tall. I bit into my lip as Jared got up from his bed and walked over to her. I wanted to look away, because I hated to see what I knew was happening, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the window. The girl wrapped her arms around Jared's waist and then, before I realized he had turned his head, Jared's eyes connected with mine. I gasped, a short, rough sound, then, in a snap of instinct, I ripped my curtain across the window.