He shoves past me and laughs. “Might need a clean uniform tomorrow after all that ketchup… never saw you as one who’d slum it with someone like Quinn, good work with that stellar reputation.”

Quinn stiffens; I can feel him.

I grab his hand.

And it’s at the same time that Ambrose turns and sees. His eyes light up with fury before he grabs my arm. “Be more careful.”

Quinn smirks. “Maybe be more polite.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” Ambrose asks.

The bell rings.

It saves us.

I jerk away and stumble into Quinn’s arms while Ambrose watches, angry, vindictive.

I wonder if it’s the worst move I could have accidentally made.

A challenge.

A wave of the red flag.

Because I’ve never seen Ambrose so angry.

And I’ve never felt so safe.

In Quinn’s arms.

Chapter Twelve

Ambrose

I hear her come into the house a few hours later. She’s trying to be quiet, and I refuse to feel bad about it even though my heart pounds in my chest. She’s always so afraid of making noise, and it makes me wonder, no matter how much I despise her now.

What caused that?

Why is noise bad?

Who hurt her?

I have so many questions.

I have zero answers.

I lay in my bed, and despite my hatred of what happened of what went down and her inability to be honest.

I wait.

I wait more.

Click. Her door opens.

Click. It closes.

Ten minutes later, it opens again.

She must be going downstairs to grab a snack like she always does because she was too nervous to eat dinner with us, or according to her, doing homework and taking a nap because she didn’t feel well, but I know the truth, she knows she isn’t wanted so she waits with her excuses every night. I jump out of bed and run down the stairs. Sure enough, she’s in the kitchen making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—her favorite.

I hate that I know that.

I watch her eat it like she hasn’t eaten in days, and the guilt comes back full force even though it shouldn’t.

She moans and takes another bite like our peanut butter just saved her life or something.

She finishes it off with a glass of water, then leans against the counter.

That’s new.

She usually just runs back upstairs. I stay and watch as she grips it, her nails nearly digging in.

She shakes her head. “I can’t, I can’t. It wouldn’t even help. I can’t. I love him.”

Who the hell does she love?

What can’t she do?

I stay and watch her longer than I should, and then the front door alarm makes a beeping noise as my mom strolls in.

MB swipes tears on her face, walks right past me, makes zero eye contact, and walks up the stairs.

I follow.

My mom sees nothing but the wine on the counter that she’s been waiting to chug; that’s how it’s been since my dad’s death. And I still only see MB and hate her for it. Mom isn’t even paying attention to us; she goes to the counter and stares at her phone while I’m chasing MB up the stairs.