"Are you okay?"

No.

I turned my back to him and tried to get my shit together. But the more I told myself that I was fine, that I was strong, that I was used to being alone, ignored by my parents, left behind by my friends and still standing, the worse I felt. My arms went around me, trying to offer me comfort.

It didn't work, but maybe throwing my phone against the wall would. Except I needed it and couldn't afford to buy a new one. I was up to my neck in debt and still barely making ends meet.

With a shaky voice I said, "Thanks for the rescue back there, but I'm okay. You can go back to class."

Miguel appeared before me, arms folded and a clear are you shitting me look. "You're crying, how's that the same as being okay?"

I wiped my face, but new salty streams of tears trickled down my cheeks further proving his point.

"Look, I honestly just need a good cry," I said, voice trembling because my chin continued quivering. "Guys hate crying women and I don't want to put you through that, especially because-" I cut myself off from finishing that sentence. But I meant to say because we weren't close friends or anything.

"Anyway, please go."

"No," he said.

I spluttered, "What?"

"I'm not one of those guys who runs away from my friends when they're obviously having a difficult time." Then he looked around and because it was still pouring outside he pointed at a corner against the wall, far from the classroom door. "Let's sit."

I was a bit stupefied as he joined me on the floor in silence, just waiting until I let it all out. Asking no questions. Giving no empty advice. Miguel just... waited for me to be ready. That was a type of kindness I hadn't experienced in my life and it filled my chest up. All the emotions came out with ugly sobs. I raised my knees up and put my face in between them. My jeans had begun drying up, but now were soaking up the tears and who knew what else. Miguel's hand was on my back, rubbing circles and giving me gentle pats that actually did help through the hiccups.

In all these months I hadn't cried so hard a single time and I was angry with myself that I couldn't hold it any longer. Nothing good was going to come out of me crying. If anything it sapped me off the energy I needed to get things done, keep going. Pull myself up from my bootstraps. That was how I rolled, no matter what blows life threw at me I stood back up and kept going. But this one? This one cut deeply past all the walls I built around my heart, to the softest part of it. This was the moment I understood that to my parents I was nothing but a bargaining chip. Not their child, someone they loved and had to protect. But almost like an acquaintance.

Realizing that I'd grown up my entire life without love was killing me.

Miguel's arm tightened around my shoulders and I burrowed into his chest. I didn't know how much time passed. I heard steps come and go and figured class must be over. The rain slowed down to a soft pitter patter and I slowed down to a few sniffles here and there. That was when self consciousness took over and I pulled away.

"Uh, sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he said, leaning back against the cool wall. "Would you like to share what the problem is?"

I realized that through all my crying I hadn't said a word. I fidgeted with the hem of my damp blouse, wondering how to even say something that didn't sound like it came from a petulant child in mid tantrum. My hair had come loose from the messy bun I'd put it in, and I set out to fix that just to have something to do.

Miguel gave me a look like he knew I was stalling. "Well, you don't have to tell me. I'm just glad you got it off your chest."

"No!" I dropped my hands and let my hair fall where it may. "It's not that I don't trust you or anything. I just don't know where to begin."

"The beginning's usually good." He grinned. "Besides, we're not in a hurry, right?"

He disarmed me. I had no choice but to start talking if I wanted to avoid looking at him like he was a piece of candy I was hungry for. Which was exactly the way I was looking at him, anyway.

"Um, my parents are finally getting a divorce," I started.

With that out of the way it was a lot easier. I told him about the brunch, the abuse that was hurled from one side and the other. I told him about my father's decision to make me pay for my mother's indiscretions.

"What the fuck?" he asked. "How is that any fair?"

I shrugged. "Nothing's fair in the Holt-Winterbourne household."

There were many more examples. Like the Christmas eleven years ago we were supposed to spend in Paris. Mother wore a scarlet dress that showed a bit too much skin, and father accused her of being a whore. His word choice, not mine. A huge fight broke out before we even got in the car that was supposed to take us to the private jet and it only broke when she stomped away in her stiletto heels. Father decided to cancel the trip on the spot and he made arrangements to go back to New York and visit the offices there.

"What about me?" I asked father. I'd been looking forward to a white Christmas with my parents, lazy strolls through the Champs-Elysées, holding hands with each one of them, stopping by for a spontaneous shopping spree and maybe some hot chocolate.

He'd just given me a cold look and said, "You go back to school."

I hadn't cried then. I'd just gone up to my room, unpacked my wonderful winter clothes and made a small bag with Central Florida appropriate outfits. I'd asked our driver to take me somewhere I could see Christmas lights, and we'd both ended up at a cafe downtown sipping from hot chocolate before he took me back to Trinity.

"I should've realized it then," I told Miguel. "That my wellbeing was never above their drama. That would be the kind of thing a responsible parent considers, and they just don't have the capacity to love someone other than themselves."

He sighed. "I was ready to tell you that I'm sure your parents love you, but I don't think they do. This is terrible and you don't deserve it."

"Thank you." A little hysterical laugh left me. The sound so jarring that it broke my heart even further. "You know, for years I resented them for sending me to Trinity, but that was probably the best thing they ever did for me. It spared me from some of their worst moments."

"And you got to meet us," Miguel added with a shit-eating grin. "Your friends are your chosen family, you know."

"This is true." I thought of Vera and the band, Ayrton, Page and Jace and...

At my look he said, "Yep, we're friends."

"Even after I slobbered all over you like a drama queen?"

"Especially after that," he responded, all smooth and charming and warm like only he could be. "What are you going to do about your mom's texts, though?"

We both looked at my phone, which was facedown on the floor between us. No further text messages had come in during the entire time I'd had my little breakdown with Miguel. Clearly, after she'd had her piece all that mattered to her was that I said yes, and that was that. She wasn't in it for an honest conversation or concerned about what had happened to me for months. My mother was so used to me functioning as a separate individual that I was just an afterthought in her life.

Until now. Until her lawyer thought I could bring her some kind of benefit.

"I'm going to ignore her," I decided right there and then. "Like she's done to me all my life. Does that make me a bad person?"

"Nope, it makes you a survivor."

That wasn't a term I'd have ever applied to myself. It was much larger than I was, for people who overcame harder struggles and were much more magnificent. But in a way, I was. I was the child of a neglectful, broken home, and somehow I hadn't turned out as horrible a person as my parents were. There was something to say about that, wasn't there?

"C'mon," he said as he pulled himself up in a swift move. He offered his hand to me. "It's ice cream o'clock and I'm buying."

I looked at his outstretched hand and said, "I can't."

"Are you lactose intolerant?" Miguel asked with no qualms, which actually made me laugh.

"No, I just mean I can't take your hand. I'm too heavy."

He rolled his eyes, but he pulled me up to my feet with one tug anyway. "Don't insult yourself or me, geez."

I just gaped.

"Goddamn, are your muscles made of steel or what?"

Miguel threw his head back and laughed, but he flexed said muscles in the silliest poses and explained they were the product of Crossfit. Behind him the rain had cleared and the clouds were beginning to part. The afternoon sun shone throw, casting a ray towards us that would've blinded me had Miguel not stood there in the way. We grabbed our bags from the classroom and walked together out of campus, our shoes squelching with every step. And we talked. And talked.

And I had to stop lying to myself, because even if to him we were going to be just friends, to me he was always going to be my first crush.

raise your hand if Miguel got you like