I squeeze my eyes shut, suddenly feeling emotional and not angry for the first time in two years. “I was never mad at you. I was mad at what she made us into.”

“I think we can at least both agree she’s the devil.”

“I pray for her death. Is that horrible?”

“She’s not even that pretty.”

“THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!” I nearly shout. “Like what the hell, man?”

Quinn bursts out laughing, then sits up. I look over my shoulder and smile. “More truth?”

I gulp. “Sure.”

“Good.” He lays back down. “I miss my best friend.”

That’s how we end it.

Maybe I’m still drunk.

I know we should have talked years ago, but both of our parents made it impossible. He wasn’t allowed here, and I wasn’t allowed there. In the hallways, news would somehow get back to my dad if we chatted or even looked at each other, and then the resentment between both of us burned. It was a catastrophic firestorm that left nothing in its wake.

And left us both empty.

Very imperfect. Very used. Very alone.

I close my eyes and finally let out the words I should have said a long time ago. “I missed you too.”

I think he’s asleep when he answers back. “You totally slept with your foster sister.”

Weirdly enough, I laugh.

He laughs.

And then I fall asleep, thinking, it must have been a really good dream, having him in my room again and knowing that when I wake up, he’ll still be there telling me that we’ll be ride or die, dicks before chicks, but knowing that he won’t be.

He won’t.

Because when I needed Quinn the most, when he needed me the most—we both bailed.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mary-Belle

I wake up to the smell of bacon. Then I truly jolt up from my bed and look around my room, thinking I’m hallucinating. Is his mom back? Is she cooking us actual breakfast?

It’s Saturday.

He said his dad used to cook breakfast on Saturdays. My chest hurts a bit as I try not to think about that night. I grab a black Nike sweatshirt—the first thing I can find—then put on a pair of loose gray sweats that I’m pretty sure Ambrose gave me but can’t remember since I’m still sleepy and my stomach’s growling. I pull my hair into a messy bun and leave my room in search of food. The stairway is long and winding, with its stark white marble stairs as my bare feet slap against each step until I make my way into the main entryway. A thirty-foot ceiling with a huge chandelier greets me as if to say, hey guess what? We’re still perfect; everything’s fine—how could it not be when you walk into this house? A family picture sets on the wall, and I almost stop to stare at it.

Ambrose’s smile is fake.

So is his dad’s.

His mom’s, however, in that trapped moment, seems real, and it hurts my heart even more that she’s gone because I think she tried, she really did, but how does anyone stand this sort of pressure?