The worst part was, Quinn believed her mother. Hell, she had proof. She dated guy after guy who was perfectly content to sleep with her and shell out the bucks for a movie or a dinner, but when she needed a friend? Yeah, busy. Or the dance team at school, who’d kicked her to the curb for a bad attitude. Well, who could blame her, with those bitchy girls. Attitude was just a way to endure it all.

Maybe that was her fault, after all. Maybe she had ruined it.

But then Nick. And Becca. No one wanted her. No one needed her. Even when she was needed—like for Adam’s dance audition—she couldn’t get it together to show up with any regularity. Clearly her fault.

Besides, it wasn’t like Adam had asked what was wrong when she’d texted him earlier. He’d almost brushed her off like he’d expected her to space out. Suddenly furious, Quinn picked up her phone to read the text again.

No worries, he’d said. Let me know when you can meet again.

Okay, maybe she was reading negativity into that. He didn’t know what was going on. Maybe she should have texted something like, Sorry. My room was turned into a crack den. Catch you tomorrow maybe?

Yeah, and then what would have happened? He probably wouldn’t have believed her.

Quinn remembered this one time her mom had thrown a knife at her head. Two years ago, the first week of freshman year. They’d been screaming about something inconsequential—as usual—and her mother had grabbed a steak knife from the block on the counter and flung it at her.

Quinn had run to Becca’s, using the key her best friend’s mom had provided, sitting shaking in a kitchen chair until Becca came home.

Becca had thought she was being overdramatic. “A knife,” she’d said, her voice ringing with skepticism. “Come on, Quinn.”

And Quinn had been worried she’d alienate the only friend she had, so she’d recanted her story.

Becca never brought it up again.

Admittedly, it was rarely that bad back in those days. Her mom had been normal enough, coming to Quinn’s school events on occasion, mingling with other parents like she didn’t come home and knock back a bottle of Jack Daniel’s every other night.

Then their lives had started a downward spiral.

Or continued down it, depending on your perspective.

A knock sounded on the bathroom door, and Quinn jumped.

Tyler spoke from the other side. “You okay in there?”

“I’m a girl. Takes a while.” But Quinn hurriedly started pulling her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head. She untied the towel wrapped around her body and threw it over the shower rod.

“I’m not trying to rush you,” he said. “Just checking.”