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But article after article focused on the cause. Genetics. Hormones. Environment.Stress.

Bingo.

Mack conjured up every occurrence of her terrible adolescent behavior. Holing up in libraries or coffee shops and ignoring everyone—including her frantic parents—for hours because she needed quiet like she needed air. Talking back. Sneaking out at night, solo, to see how the city slept. Screaming matches.

The fights gave Mack comfort. Because her mom loved Mack the hardest and challenged her the most, she was Mack’s easiest target. She was Mack’ssafesttarget. And Mack couldn’t bear to think of a world that didn’t contain her.

Then her dad called her for help with decoding insurance and hospital bills. Her dad was the builder, not the contracts person, and there was just. So. Much. Paper. He tried to make sense of it all, and he tried to call different places, but things didn’t add up. How did they owethat much?he had said.He had crap self-employed insurance, he knew, but hedidhave insurance.

Mack looked. After months and months of not doing jack for her mom, the opportunity arose. And the decision was easy.

“Mack. Are you in some kind of trouble?” her mother repeated.

“I’mfine.”

Narrowed eyes zeroed in on Mack. The equivalent of an MMA fighter who shoved in their mouth guard, ready for the battle. “No. You’re not.”

Jesus.The tone slashed Mack’s good mood. “Don’t do this, Mom, please. Not now.”

“Do what?”

Mack refused to respond. Right now, she didn’t have her knuckles taped up. Her shoes were unlaced. And her coach vanished.

“Do. What. Mack?” Her mom’s tiny frame turned rigid. “You’re clearly holding something in. You’realwaysholding something in. You don’t visit, you stopped FaceTiming, and you give crappy one-word answers. I’m trying to pry any detail I can out of you to feel some actual connection. So tell me, what do you not want me to do?”

The words sputtered out, the verbal engine that was either going to roar or crash, and right now, Mack couldn’t deal with either. What did her mom want to hear? That Mack was a selfish jerk who had abandoned her mom during her time of need after her mother sacrificed her entire life for her? That being around her vibrant, full-of-life, strong mom as she lost her hair at the same rate as her weight crushed her creative juices, and she chose to stay away and edit her first manuscript while her mom battled for her life? That when her mom got her double mastectomy, Mack didn’t know where to look because her mom’s body was a shell of what it used to be, and Mack going on submission and signing contracts was more important than holding her hand through reconstructive surgery?

So, no. Mack had nothing to say.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I’m just up against a deadline, you know. And I want to make sure I deliver.” She forced a smile that she was sure her mom knew was fake, but her mom’s jawline went lax a moment later.

Intermission. Thank God.

“So. Cute redhead, huh? When are you going to stop being single and actually settle down?”

Her mother. The master of the emotional grenade drop.

“I’ve never once heard you talk about anyone.” Her mom blissfully ignored Mack’s silence. “I’d like to think you’re not wasting your prime years trapped in that tiny apartment by yourself.”

Mack eased the empty cup to the edge of the nightstand and dangled her feet over the side of the bed. “I date all the time.” Notexactlya lie. Dinner, conversation, and dessert in the bedroom. Maybe a few text messages so she didn’t seem like a total asshole, and slowly fade into the background with one-word, delayed responses.

Her mother raised her eyebrows.

“After this manuscript is done, maybe I’ll think about it.”Probably not.Mack was not totally opposed to love, but she preferred the companionship of her words over human interaction. A disconnect occurred with anything three-dimensional, and she couldn’t envision a nondigital future consisting of real-time dialogue and touch.

“You said that after your last one. And then said after the book tour was done. And now you’re saying after this one.”

“Jesus Christ, Mom. Really?”

How could Mack possibly focus on another human when she couldn’t even focus on strengthening her current verb game? Or properly finishing a chapter. A partner would never understand her addiction to bury herself in a creative mental black hole for hours, maybe days, ignoring everything in the world, including them. They’d think she was a selfish jerk.Because she was.Look at how she treated her mom because she was uncomfortable, and preferred avoidance over confrontation. The relationship would be slaughtered before its inception.

“Sorry, sorry.” Her mother patted her knee. “It’s okay, honey. I just want you to be happy.”

“Iamhappy.” The words snapped like a whip as Mack recognized but failed to break the irrational irritation. She slid off the bed with a raging pulse and thudded to the closet. She shuffled each hanger three inches apart and flattened the fabric of the shirts between her forearms, so no shirt touched another. Soon, her heartbeat slowed.

Her mom didn’t understand the suffocating pressure. She couldn’t fathom the spotlight lurking behind the corner, begging to amplify her failures and expose her nightmare.

Her vibrating phone rattled against the side table.