Prologue

In all his glory, my ex-boyfriend stood on my doorstep with a pie in his hands.

He had only just woken up. I could tell because he always looked like he never knew where he was when he woke up. The fact that his hair was in a state, his half-open eyes, and the plain gray sweater and pink shorts getup was a dead give-away - those were his summer pajamas. The ones he wore when it was so hot at night he couldn't stand it but he didn't want to sleep shirtless either, because it was too cold for that.

I glanced at the pie for a split second and wondered what was inside.

"Cherries." He said, nodding down at the pie like he had read my mind. "It's for your mom." His voice was croaky, still not fully awake.

We exchanged a stare that seemed like it lasted for centuries, however, it wasn't sweet. I was scowling so hard that I could feel the space between my eyebrows tense and he had an eyebrow raised like he was window shopping for someone he knew nothing about.

"Wait here," I retorted quickly.

I closed the door and headed into the kitchen where my mother, Flora, was eating her mixture of avocado, toast, and honey on the side. She looked at me before realizing I wasn't too impressed.

"What's wrong, Flower?" She asked.

Without a word, I gestured towards our front door. She headed towards the door, then I heard mumbled greetings which turned into exchanges of conversation and laughter which I forced myself to ignore. I had so many questions that would probably turn into an argument, but I was too tired for that so when my mom came back into the kitchen with the pie in hand all I bothered to say was:

"Nice pie, Flora."

She scoffed. "Don't be so bitter, Bailey. You didn't have to answer the door, did you?" She placed the item of my demise in the refrigerator. "I asked Mari to make one of her pies for the kids at the school, she agreed and it just so happens that Dylan was one to deliver it. You could've stayed in bed, you know."

She was right. "Go sulk to Amalia, she'll tell you exactly what you want to hear." She told me and, again, she was right.

I went upstairs, instead of calling Amalia and looking for false truths, I stared at a particular spot on the bedroom wall that sent me into a dreamlike state. I don't know how long I was entranced but long enough to not hear my brother - Blake - enter the house, walk upstairs and enter my bedroom.

"Bailey?" He said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I replied, turning towards him. "I just blanked out. That tends to happen when your demons rock up at your door."

Blake sighed and sat on my desk chair, his usual spot, and stared at me for a while before asking what was wrong.

"Nothing!" I said, slumping onto my bed. "Just saw an old face after so long. Freaked me out."

"So long? Like... four months kind of long?"

"...Yeah."

He sighed again. "That's rough, Bea. Did you say much? The two of you, I mean." Blake started folding an old paper lying on my desk.

I sat up. "No, about seven words in total. About a fucking pie."

"American?"

"Be quiet." I shot him a look, "Cherry."

We exchanged another look and both let out a small laugh, Blake was older than me, worked full-time as a banker and was married to a man so beautiful I cried when I first met him because his face next to my brothers was an insult. "Blake, why does life suck so bad?"

"Every eighteen-year-old thinks that, Bailey." He was trying his best to console me. "How did you even come across each other? Why was he delivering a pie?"

"Mom wanted Mari to make her a cherry pie for her student's cause of some birthday or something, Dylan delivered it this morning and I was the one to open the door." I let out a groan. I made a promise with myself to avoid Dylan for the rest of my life and then some but one unfortunate Saturday morning ruined it all. "I didn't even ask what was in the pie but he told me anyway."

"Because he knew you were wondering what the flavor was..? You are a curious little kitty, my dearest sister." Blake teased, he was right; I was always wondering and never asking but getting the answers anyway. "Well, on the bright side, at least you saw him at his ugliest hour."

"Blake."

"What? No one alive looks sexy at eight o'clock in the morning, not even Dylan. Think of it as a human rat poison."

"OK," I said, going towards the door. "I don't think he was trying to look sexy, nor was that my aim. Besides, Dylan had just rolled out his bed, Mari probably stormed in there and made him do it on purpose."

"You only know that cause you've seen him in his pajamas before," He remarked.

"People can tell what pajamas are, troll face."

"Yes but you've seen him without them too. I can't believe mom thinks you're a Mary. I have that dirt on you for the rest of my life." He finished, heading back into the kitchen where mom and Blake's husband, Gus, was.

I rolled my eyes and got dressed into some more forgiving clothes then headed downstairs to join them; Flora was cooing to Gus about Blake's younger days for the millionth time while Blake was helping himself to our food for the millionth time. I stood at the doorframe for a few, taking in the scene before me and refusing to let this morning get me down.

"All that's missing from this scene is a tiny white dog and some royalty-free music." I chimed into the general conversation. "Hey, Gustavo."

"Hello!" He responded before diving back into Blake's baby photo album. "Your brother was just too cute as a baby, Bailey."

"Gross," Me and Blake chimed at the same time.

I bit into a slice of toast that was on the counter, only to find that it had gone cold, and headed into the living room to call Ama. The phone rang for about a solid minute before a happy-go-lucky voice picked up. "Bailey! What can I do for you this fine Saturday afternoon?" Her Spanish inflection ever so slightly crept through.

"Hey, Ama. I need you to lie to me."

"That I can do - completely free of charge." She chimed.

"I saw Dylan this morning. First time in four whole months. He was delivering a pie for my mom and I was the one that opened the damn door; it was only a super brief exchange but I feel like dying. It wasn't my fault I opened the door right?"

"Pause," Her tone changed. "Did I just hear you correctly?"

I sat on the couch. "If you heard the words 'Dylan showing up at my house with a pie at the forbidden hours of the morning' at any point, then yes. Yes, you did."

"Wow."

"Wow." I copied.

"Four months down the damn drain. Normally, I would lie to you but, Bailey, you didn't have to open the door. Did you not check the peephole first?" Her tone changed again, this time to a more curious one. "I mean, did he look shocked? Did you look shocked? Was anyone shocked? Because I'm shocked." She paused. "Why in the world does your mother want a pie?"

"It was a meeting that was less than two minutes and I didn't even look him in the eyes, Lia. I don't psychoanalyze everything as you do." I groaned.

"I'm just wondering; as long as it wasn't some weird 'The Notebook' type situation then it's all fine..."

"What's wrong, why are you speaking like that."

"If he was just delivering pie and not proclaiming his undying love, then there shouldn't be a single worry. Listen, don't overthink it." She comforted. "I need to go, Bailey. I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

"Sure," I replied. "Thanks for the life advice."

"Anytime." She said, with a happy voice.

I hung up first, switched on the TV, and watched whatever came on first which quickly became white noise as my phone started to seem more interesting. I spent the next five or so hours socializing with the kitchen crew, discovering that Gus had been promoted and that mom was thinking about leaving the Kindergarten and pursuing her own business which is why she was doing so much for them - including the pie - and Blake, although he was a Banker, was in the middle of a financial struggle, which brought tears to my mother's eyes, and I realized that my boy problems were nothing compared to real life. Life outside of an eighteen-year-olds world; outside of school and outside of every teenage catastrophe. I realized that none of today would matter anymore when I would be faced with the actuality of life. It would simply turn into another story to tell co-workers or at a party or in a drunken 3 AM state to some random woman in the bathroom, bonding over a lipstick.

Despite my realization, my world was still falling apart. I didn't have to worry about the real world now, not when my own was disappearing at an alarming rate.

I quickly understood that I didn't fit into the very grown-up conversations my mom and the Duo was having and decided to head back to the couch to once again invest myself in endless hours of the Youtube blackhole.

I spent the rest of that unfortunate Saturday on that burgundy couch and, at some point, the smell of freshly reheated cherry pie worked it's way into my nose and forced me into bed with a sour mood.

"Who even likes cherry pie?" I muttered, heading upstairs.