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“I’m gonna get out and help you in, okay?” Sadie says, turned toward me in the passenger seat. Freddy’s driving her car.

“I’m . . . I’m not allowed,” I whisper, the words difficult to push through my tired lips. “I don’t live there anymore. I’m—” Embarrassment clogs my throat even with the alcohol running through my system. “Was gonna just sleep in my car. I don’t have anywhere else. I’m sorry.”

Sadie looks at Freddy and says something quietly to him. He nods and starts driving again, slow enough not to jostle me. I fall easily back to sleep with the movement.

Chapter 6

NOW

Bennett

“I said I can’t today.”

“Ben—”

“I have to go,” I snap, hanging up and tossing my phone into my bag as Rhys exits from the showers, towel tucked around his waist. He pauses, examining my face before sitting down next to me.

“All good?”

“Mmhmm.”

“That your dad?” he asks. I can hear the reluctance in his voice. Rhys and I don’t talk about Adam anymore. He still has dinners with Max and Anna—they’re his best friends, though I’m convinced there’s much more to their relationship. Sometimes I go to dinner at the Koteskiys’, sometimes I don’t. But Max Koteskiy’s relationship with his son is different than my father’s relationship with me.

I just . . . don’t trust my dad right now. And part of me hates that Rhys still does.

Trying to talk it out with my therapist didn’t help. And then I’d tried to talk about it with my dad—resulting in the stalemate we currently find ourselves in. It hurts to feel so distant from him. It’s never been like this between us. Adam Reiner had always been the soothing lullaby in my brain. He was my defender and protector; the only person who managed to make me laugh as a kid—before Rhys—and the only person in the world who hugged me the exact right way.

And now . . . now all that is left between us is a tangled knot of blame and anger and frustration and sadness, tightening around us both like collars of iron until I can’t breathe from the strain.

“And your dad?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“He never loved my mom. He left her. Same as he always does with everyone.” A pause. And then, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

My therapist moved on after that, but I knew I hadn’t escaped the conversation entirely. I just wasn’t ready to discuss any of it—to her or him or anyone.

Today was a two-a-day practice and it’s late as I make my way to my truck. I idle in the parking lot while I collect myself.

I check my phone. And then again, impulsively. I clench my teeth when I realize I’ve grabbed for it a third time. The compulsion has become bad enough that my therapist brought it up last year.

Paloma soothed your anxiety, and now that she’s gone, your brain is trying to find other outlets. What else could we do when you worry like that?

I turn on my music, the soft guitar of Ben Howard comforting me as I close my eyes, lean my head back against the headrest, and massage the bridge of my nose.

She’s fine.

She’s fine. She’s fine.

But what if she isn’t?

My thoughts start to scramble away from me, a losing battle as I try to collect myself.

“Check the facts,” I mutter beneath my breath, tapping my knee and blowing out a breath.

1.It’s a Monday night. There are no parties, and nearly all the Waterfell University bars are closed.