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On Friday night, Amalia and I checked into our hotel room at ten o'clock. 
                          
The water front hotel was called Beach House Hermosa. It was three stories tall. At the back of the hotel, there was a wide walkway where families were biking, skating or rollerblading and on the other side of the strip, was the beach. 
                          
From our room, you could see golden sand that was a discoloured blue hue in the moonlight. 
                          
Volleyball nets were spread out. The dock stretched for what appeared to be a hundred or more meters. 
                          
It was late but there were still people enjoying the warm night while the waves lapped at the shore. 
                          
Our room was on the top floor. It was made up of a big open plan living room, kitchen and dining room.
                          
The bathroom had a spa bath and walk in shower. And the bedroom had a king bed with a white comforter and plump pillows. 
                          
The entire left wall was window and a ranch slider that stepped on to a narrow patio. The steel railing was patterned and painted black. 
                          
"This is such a nice room," Amalia commented after she'd had a wander. 
                          
She found me in the bedroom, collapsed on the bed while I stared out at the stars in the black blanket of night. 
                          
"Yeah," I agreed. "I figured we might as well stay somewhere nice while we're here."
                          
She sat down beside me and crossed her feet at the ankles. Her mismatched socks were pink and yellow today. 
                          
Her outfits were always so put together. Today for example, she wore a pair of skin tight blue jeans and a thin white sweater that buttoned up at the front and cut off at her midriff. 
                          
But once she took her white adidas shoes off, she had this little burst of colourful surprise. I loved it. 
                          
"Are you worried about how it will go tomorrow?" She asked, lacing her fingers with mine. 
                          
I stared at the ceiling and ran a hand across my tired face. "Yeah I am. Abby isn't the most expressive person unless it's to express rage. We've always been able to talk pretty well. But I'm bracing for her to blow up."
                          
"Intervention can be hard," she gave me a small, understanding smile. "But if Lucas is right, she needs her people. And she might not see it like that at first. But she will, eventually." 
                          
I squeezed her hand and felt grateful she was here. She'd come into my life just over a month ago and I already felt like I wouldn't know what to do if she were to suddenly leave. 
                          
Everything about her was perfection. Too perfect. Sometimes I felt like I was waiting for the mask to come off. 
                          
Surely someone this incredible, couldn't be real? 
                          
Her willingness to listen, to support. Her patience. Her honesty. Her understanding. 
                          
The smile that lifted her freckled cheeks and the melody of her laugh. 
                          
When I thought about the fact that she was with me, when she could have anyone, it made my breath catch and my stomach flop. 
                          
Would it last? Or would she leave? 
                          
It seemed in life, the good often didn't last. Balance liked to come for those who had outweighed the bad. 
                          
And if I were to lose my second chance at happiness, then I would embrace it while it was still mine. 
                          
I leaned up on an elbow so I was facing Amalia. Our fingers were still intertwined and she tilted her head, smiling with a curious arch in her brow.