A/N: This the first story I've written with intentions of being more than a one-parter. This is just a sort intro chapter. This whole thing came to me when I was at the beach, in the bathroom, thinking about how bad my sunburn hurt. What I mean is, I miss Jess.

I spend a week with him in California. I do it because I have thought of nothing but him for almost a year. I do it because I have been miserable since he left. I do it because he made me feel imperfect and I liked feeling imperfect. I do it because I had been too selfish and angry to realize why he left. I do it because he sends me a plane ticket with a note that simply says, "I'm sorry."

My mom finds it before I do as she goes through the mail after our return from Europe. There is no return address and no addressee name, just our house number printed plainly in all capital letters. She opens it curiously and slowly as I watch. Then, she looks at me and laughs the laugh she uses when something is entirely unfunny.

"Huh. Now, who on earth would be sending one of us a plane ticket to California accompanied by a very brief apology note?" I'm standing in the living room entryway and she looks at me from the couch.

"Oh." She's looking at me as if I knew this was going to happen. She thinks I've been hiding this from her. She thinks I've planned this already. I haven't.

She holds the envelope behind her back, trying to keep it from me. I'm frustrated because she's being childish about this. She gets up from the couch and walks over to me, bringing the envelope out in front of her as though she's presenting it to me. "So…are you gonna go?"

"I don't know." I try to take it from her but she pulls it away. "Just…let me see it." I grab it out of her hands and sit down. I'm breathing hard and my hands are shaking. The note is written on a small scrap of paper that looks like it was torn hastily from a notebook. Maybe he was just going to send the ticket without a word but decided against it. I finger the frayed edges and stare at the two words, reading them over and over.

When I look up, she's watching me but her eyes are soft. "You should go."

"What?" This is not what I expected her to say. She is supposed to be against this. She is supposed to talk some sense into me, make me realize this is stupid. I want her to tell me not to forgive him, not to fly across the country to see him. "But…what about everything?"

"You want to go. You're practically making love to those words with your eyes."

"You're actually telling me that I should fly 3,000 miles to the other side of the country to see a boy who left without saying a word about it to me? Need I remind you this is the same boy who told you off the first time you met him? Broke my heart? Tried to have sex with me? Crashed my car? You're telling me that it's okay to forgive him after that?" I'm mad at him, really, but I'm directing it toward her because she's here now and he's not.

"Babe, he did some awful things, sure." She laughs slightly under her breath. "But, despite all of that, somehow he managed to get you to fall in love with him."

"I'm not…" I stop because she's right.

"Go. I hate it. But, go." She smiles faintly at me.

"I don't know if it's….right. Shouldn't he be coming to me or something?"

"Probably. But, he sent you a plane ticket. That counts for something." She walks over to me and sits down on the couch, placing her hand on my back. "Of all people, I have never been a fan of Jess. But, you were so happy with him. I mean, you were different with him, a good different."

I'm shaking my head. "No, I was not a good different. I was one of those stupid girls who lets their boyfriend treat them like they're nothing only to forgive them the minute they start to apologize. I'm like one of those battered women who say, 'Oh, but I love him and he really doesn't mean it.' I hate that."

"You're not one of those girls. And if Jess ever lays a finger on you, he's dead."

"I am one of those girls."

"No, you're not. You just...know he means well." She laughs. "At least one of us knows that."

Every part of me wants to believe her, wants to tell her that she's right about everything. But, there is a nagging reluctance that keeps pulling at me. The part of me that knows he doesn't deserve to be forgiven.

I look up at my mom, making a final decision despite how wrong it feels. "He really did try."

"Yes, he did." She puts her arms around me, pulling my head to her chest. "So, you're going?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

And I'm imagining him, standing on the beach. I'm imagining him with his father, laughing and listening to records. I'm imagining me there, sleeping in his bed while he takes the couch. I'm imaging him ending up in the bed anyway, the two of us entwined together, as though nothing had come between us.