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“Yeah,” Chris said. “I’m tired.”
Chris heard him shift to stand, but he didn’t look over. His brother was watching him; he could feel it.
But Michael just sighed and moved toward the door. “Me too, kid. Me too.”
Her mom would flip out if she found mud tracked across the front hall, so Becca trudged through the grass to the back door and let herself in through the laundry room.
Her best friend was sitting at the kitchen table, pawing through a magazine. A half-empty dinner plate sat in front of her. Becca wasn’t surprised to see her—any time Quinn had trouble with her mother, she ended up here. An untouched pile of stuffing and a small slice of turkey were left on the plate, but all the vegetables and most of the protein were gone.
“Hey.” Becca struggled to kick off her shoes.
Quinn lifted her eyes from the magazine. “You walk home or something? Why do you look like that?”
Becca considered reviewing the course of the night’s events. The fight. The drive to Chris’s house. His weird brothers.
Too complicated. “Long story. Is that my dinner?”
Quinn speared the last piece of turkey and slid it into her mouth. “Your mom left two plates.”
Of course she did. “She already leave for work?”
“Yep. Off to save lives, one dumbass at a time.”
Quinn Briscoe had been Becca’s friend since kindergarten. She was a middle kid, smashed between two brothers: Jake was on a basketball scholarship to Duke University, the kind of son who lived on a pedestal, his name trotted out any time the other—lesser—children didn’t measure up. Quinn’s younger brother, Will, rebelled by refusing to participate in any kind of physical activity—and he had the body to prove it.
Quinn could have been a female Jake. She’d inherited the same physical coordination as her brother, his same competitive drive. But Jake was tall and lean. Quinn came broad and stocky.
She’d never been fat—just built like an athlete. Becca used to joke that Quinn could do one push-up and end up with shoulders like a linebacker. Any sports team at the school would have been glad to have her—hell, the football team could probably use her.
But Quinn wanted to be a dancer.
She possessed the rhythm and the physical ability, sure. She just didn’t have the grace or the elegance—or the money—to do it well. She was pretty enough. Long hair? Creamy skin? Big blue eyes? Quinn had those in spades. But skinny low-rise jeans never fit her right, and little baby-doll tees looked ridiculous with her biceps. She looked like she claimed she felt: as if she didn’t fit anywhere, and what she wanted never wanted her back.
And Quinn had a temper. Fights with her mother were legendary. Frightening. The kind of knockdown, drag-out screaming matches that, once witnessed, made Becca want to run home and hug her mother.
Becca’s mom had told Mrs. Briscoe that her daughter was welcome at their house anytime, no questions. Then she’d handed Quinn a key.
This year, more often than not, Becca came home to find Quinn in her kitchen. Usually, she was dumping her troubles on Becca’s mom’s shoulder first, then spending the night. It was like inheriting a sister.
Becca wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She padded across the linoleum to retrieve the second plate from the refrigerator. Her mom had used green beans to make a smiley face in her mashed potatoes.
Becca sighed and slid the plate into the microwave.
“I just took a message for you,” said Quinn.
A message? The only person who ever called was sitting right here in the kitchen. “Who?”
Quinn slid a piece of notebook paper across the table. “Your dad.”
Becca stared at her friend’s loopy script. He called every six months, but every time still hit her like a sucker punch. “He called?”
“A man called and said to tell Becca that her father called. I said he had no right to call himself that, and he sighed and said to just give you the message. So I said it was my job to protect you from ass**les—”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Quinn licked gravy off her spoon. “You know I’m just looking out for you.”
