She is feeling better and clearly milking it for all she’s worth, and I’m about to lose my shit.

Reese was right. I’m falling into Abby’s old manipulative ways. She’s dragging her injuries out, playing the woe is me card over and over again, and using me to hide everything from her parents.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

With a sigh, I go to the kitchen for a glass to bring to the princess upstairs.

She’s being extra bratty because her momma went to the store to buy her more magazines—since she ran out—and her dad’s at work, so she knows I’m the only one who can respond.

I need to tell her parents the truth about our relationship, or lack thereof. But the few times I’ve mustered up the courage to say something, Martha looks at me with those wide eyes. The same ones I’ve known my whole life and I falter and change the subject.

But I can’t go on like this anymore.

And honestly, neither can Abby. She needs help, more than what I can give.

I hate lying. I hate not talking to Reese like I want to. I can’t even imagine what she’s feeling. When I think about how I would feel if she had to pretend to be with Duke or something, my heart breaks all over again.

It’s Sunday, and Jude agreed to hold off the final Bedlam event until Tuesday, which would be exactly two weeks from when we held the first event. But I need to see Reese long before then. I need to get Abby to tell her folks the truth, and quick.

Inside Abby’s bedroom—still set up like it was before we went off to college, with her four-post bed and fluffy white comforter and pink carpet—I set the glass on her bedside table. Her face must feel better since her volume has increased, but it still looks terrible, dark-purple splotches mixed with mottled shades of yellow and green.

“Thanks, sweetie.” She takes a sip from the cup and sets it back down delicately. “Will you get me the nail polish from over there, too?” She points a languid finger to the white vanity.

I hand it to her. “I’m not your sweetie, Abby. And we need to talk about your accident.”

She grimaces. “You know, now isn’t a great time. Maybe tomorrow.” She opens her nail polish and starts painting her toes.

Her tone is flippant. Dismissive. Like now she’s got her nail polish and she’s done with me and the complete lack of caring about anything but herself snaps something inside of me.

“No, Abby. We’re talking about it now.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m the dramatic one?” I think my head might pop off I’m so angry. “I refuse to be held hostage by you forever. You will tell me what really happened and why you crashed into that tree.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “I’m still recovering. My parents have already been through so much. How can you do this to them?” She weeps quietly into her hands, but it doesn’t sway me.