Her mouth parted slightly, like she was about to say something, but then she closed it.

Silence can be more devastating than any argument. Did you know that? It holds a power to break hearts, to create distance where there should be connection.

I should’ve said something.

Should’ve asked if she was okay.

Should’ve admitted that I wasn’t.

But instead, I turned around and sat back down, feeling the weight of her silence settle like a stone in my chest.

18

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

Blake sat back down, stretching his arms over the back of the couch like he hadn’t just dragged Drew off me and stared him into submission.

Like that whole thing had been some minor inconvenience, something he could brush off like dust on his sleeve.

I needed another drink. A real one. Not because I was thirsty, but because I needed something to do—something other than looking at Blake. Something other than feeling the heat crawl under my skin, his words still curled around my spine.

She’s done dancing with you.

He had no right. And yet, I didn’t stop him.

Because some horrible, secret part of me wanted him to do it.

I shoved my way through the crowd, ignoring the way Tiffany tried to call after me. My skin was hot, my pulse too loud, and my fingers itched to do something. I turned away, found the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of whatever was closest, ignoring the way my fingers trembled slightly as I brought it to my lips.

The scent of coconut and sugar filled the air, but it did nothing to calm my nerves. I took a long sip, wincing at the burn but welcoming the distraction.

Outside, loud voices erupted.

I could hear the chanting: “Do it! Do it! Do it!”

A rush of people streamed toward the backyard, everyone desperate to witness whatever reckless idiot was about to belly flop into the pool from the roof.

“Come on, Bev,” Tiffany called, grinning as she shoved her way through the crowd. “They’re about to do something stupid.”

“You go.” I waved her off, shaking my head. “I’ll catch up.”

I wouldn’t.

I wasn’t interested in drunken boys proving their masculinity through bad decisions.

I was interested in something else.

Something far worse.

Tiffany raised an eyebrow but shrugged, disappearing into the backyard, Jamal trailing behind her.

I took another sip of my drink as the house emptied out. Then I turned my head slightly, just enough to scan the room without making it obvious. That’s when I saw her.

Tall, tan, dark eyes, dark hair—pretty in that effortless way that made other girls hate her a little. The kind of girl who chewed pink bubblegum and had mastered the art of the perfect coy smile. I recognized her—Rachel something.