Her time with Dr. Roberts had been like crossing a bridge built of rotted wood, each step exposing new vulnerabilities. He’d explained that her suicide attempt had been about much more than a single attack. It had been about her father abandoning her. It had been about the uncle who touched her when she was too young to understand. And it had been about Sylvie Dubois, Lila’s best friend, and the betrayal that Lila still held close to her heart.

She had expected Dr. Roberts to chastise her when she told him about her downward spiral of alcohol and boys. She was smart enough to understand that the self-worth she craved could never be found in the backseats of their cars, but that didn’t stop her from looking for it there. She thought her confession might dishearten the good doctor, but he simply nodded as if Lila were telling him what she ate for breakfast.

Then he explained that her reaction to boys was not unexpected of someone who had been abused. And the drinking was simply a form of self-medication. He had a way of explaining things so that none of it seemed to be Lila’s fault, as though she were a casualty of some war being waged deep in her subconscious mind.

But it was her fault, no matter what Dr. Roberts said. She chose to drink because it hid the ugliness. Lila embraced it—a hand to hold when she acted out. She could laugh when she was drunk, if only for a moment. Vodka had been the friendly nudge at her back when she flirted with the boys. It blunted the sharp edges of her regret and softened the memory of how they touched her. It whispered promises in her ear as she followed them to their cars. With enough alcohol, the broken parts no longer seemed vital.

But those moments always came to an end, and when they did, she had to pretend that it didn’t hurt, pretend that she didn’t notice how the boys, who gave her so much attention at the parties, turned away when she passed them in school. She understood why. She heard the nickname, the one whispered by boys and girls alike—Nasty Nash. Even Sylvie, the one friend Lila thought she had left, called Lila by that name the day she spat in Lila’s face—the day Lila destroyed the last remnant of their friendship.