Summer listened to the Tori Amos song while she got ready for class in the morning. Then she turned it on as soon as she got back. She’d even been listening to it when she worked on homework, in the hours when she couldn’t afford to lie on the floor.

At some point, she would stop.

But stopping would be the start of getting over what had happened. And Summer had no interest in doing that. She wanted to stay right here, as long as she could, mourning the loss of Charlie. And more than that, mourning what she’d had with Charlie—being in love, belonging to someone, being part of something warm. And even more than that, mourning the loss of herself.

Summer had always been the sort of person who believed in true love. She wasn’t a hopeless romantic, but she’d thought that when she said, “I’ll always love you,” it was a promise she could keep.

It wasn’t.

She’d know now that she couldn’t be trusted.

Probably Summer would never make promises like that again—but if she did, she’d know they were written in disappearing ink.

And she’d know not to believe the next person who promised to always love her.

Summer was the sort of person that love didn’t stick to. That was a terrible thing to know about yourself.

There was a knock at Summer’s door.

Her friend Michelle usually stopped by her room after dinner, and they’d go work out at the rec center together. But Michelle knew that Summer was out of commission . . .

She might be checking on her. Summer didn’t want to be checked on. She ignored the knocking.

But it didn’t stop.

Summer got up and looked through the peephole in the door. She didn’t know the person who was standing there. Or, like, she did know him—they lived in the same building—but she’d never talked to him.

It was that big, kind of gross guy who wore his gym clothes in the cafeteria and was always too loud in the elevators.

She thought about ignoring him, but he started knocking again while Summer was standing there—so she opened her door and frowned.

“Hey,” the guy said, “I’m going to need you to turn that off.”

“Turn what off?” (“Silent All These Years” had just started again.)

“The music.”

“I’m listening to it.”

“You’re listening to it, I’m listening to it, floors ten through twelve are listening to it.”

Normally Summer would apologize in a situation like this. She didn’t want to impose on anyone. She didn’t want to be a bad neighbor. But she really didn’t like to be told what to do. And she felt, in her current state, entitled to some rude behavior.