Quinn stared at Tyler, wondering if she should grab the phone or kiss him.

Then Tyler said, “No, you’re right. It sucks, kid. It does.

Look, see if you can get a pen. I’ll give you my number. If you change your mind, call me. We’ll come get you. All right?”

Then he gave his number, got her brother to promise to use it, and pushed the button to end the call.

Quinn couldn’t stop staring at him. She’d never met anyone like him, so self-assured and confident yet not completely into himself.

“What?” said Tyler.

She shook herself. “Nothing. Let’s get out—”

She froze. Her mother stood by the corner leading to the gal-ley kitchen. A threadbare bathrobe clung to her frame, and Quinn was glad the belt seemed securely knotted, because the drooping shoulder showed that her mom wasn’t wearing anything beneath the terry cloth. She’d showered at some point, because her hair had dried into unbrushed clumps, but from the waves of alcohol emanating from her, she’d been hitting the bottle since then.

The expression in her eyes was terrifying. A trophy was clutched in one hand. A basketball trophy. One of Jake’s.

Quinn wasn’t sure whether to be relieved her mom was still alive, or disgusted that she was obviously still obsessed with Jake’s success.

Then her mother spoke.

“How could you do that?” she said, her voice cracked and raw. And slurring. She took a few steps toward the couch.

“How could you, Quinn?”

Quinn swallowed. “I didn’t—I didn’t do—”

“Shut up! Shut up! You’re out whoring around and now you—”

“I’m not whoring around!” Quinn was on her feet, ready to get in her mother’s face.

“Take it easy.” Tyler had a hand on her arm, and his voice was quiet. “Let’s just walk out.”

“Shut up!” Quinn’s mom shrieked. “You were here, too! You did this! He had a future, you bitch! You screw up everything!

Everything!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Now Quinn was crying, and she didn’t care. “He was—”

“Shut up!” The words were practically unintelligible with rage. “Shut the f**k up! You did this! You!”

And then, without warning, her mom crumpled to the carpet, sobbing, the trophy pressed to her face.

Quinn stood there, shaking. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know what to do.

Tyler’s voice was low. “Let’s get out of here, Quinn.”

But she couldn’t leave, not like this. Some part of her couldn’t leave her mother a weeping mess on the floor. The drooping side of the bathrobe gaped now, revealing a sagging breast. Hair was sticking to her mother’s saliva. She wailed.

Quinn went to her, dropping to her knees. “Mom. Mom, stop. Please, let me help you.” She put a hand on a shaky shoulder. “Mom, it’s okay—”

“Don’t touch me! You ruin everything!”

Then her mom swung at her with the trophy.

Quinn didn’t even see it coming. The marble base caught her square in the face. She saw stars. Constellations. Whole frigging galaxies. Then blackness.

She wasn’t out for long. She came to in Tyler’s arms, still in her apartment foyer. Her mother was shrieking at them to get out, to get the f**k out, to get that whore out of her apartment.

Quinn couldn’t seem to get her eyes to focus on anything, from Tyler’s face, to the doorway, to the dashboard in front of her when Tyler buckled her into the seat.

“Fuck this,” he said, starting his ignition, but not shifting into gear. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

Quinn struggled to get her limbs to respond. “No,” she said.

“No police.”

Tyler sucked in a long breath and touched her face. “Sweetheart, I think you need an ambulance.”

“No. Please. No. They’ll call—they’ll call—”

She couldn’t get her voice to work, and she realized she was crying.

“Shh,” said Tyler. “It’s all right. I’ll just drive you to the hospital. Okay?” He shifted into gear.

“No. No. They’ll make me go to a foster home or something.

Please, Tyler. Please.” She was hiccupping now, ugly crying, full out. “Please. No.”

He stopped at the end of the parking lot and looked at her.

“You need help. She might have broken your cheekbone.” He winced. “Your face is already swelling.”

She knew it was. She could feel it all the way into her eye.

“Can’t you heal it?”

He looked back at the road. His voice was suddenly hollow.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I could.”

“Nick healed me once. Please, Tyler. Please, I can’t—I can’t—”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.” He rubbed at his temples, then pulled out of the parking lot.

“No hospital,” she said. Her words were slurring, and it reminded her of her mother. That made fresh tears well.

You ruin everything.

Her breath caught and stuttered.

“Easy,” said Tyler. “No hospital, okay?”

“Then where?” He hit a bump and a wave of pain swept through her face, and she almost reconsidered.

“The beach,” he said. “I need fire.”

Quinn felt like time somehow vanished.