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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.”
“Does Mom know?”
“Nope. She’d already left for the ER.”
Becca stared at those numbers, as if they’d somehow shift into an essay on where he’d been this time.
Becca had been eleven when he’d left, in school and blissfully oblivious until she got off the bus that afternoon. Even then, her mom didn’t drop the bomb until that weekend. Becca still felt like an idiot—believing some crap about a business trip. For days, she’d believed it.
But he was gone. He’d been gone. He’d woken up in the morning, gotten a phone call, and said he had to leave.
And then he didn’t come back.
He pretended to give a crap, calling twice a year to ask about her life, but it wasn’t like it made a difference. She used to make lists, so she could detail every accomplishment, tell him every way she’d be a perfect daughter when he came back. He made the right sounds, said the right words of encouragement, but then she’d beg him to come home, and he’d sigh and say he had things to take care of. When she’d been in middle school, it all sounded very exciting and mysterious. Like he was some kind of secret agent.
She knew now he’d played to that, strung her out on whispered conversations and empty promises.
What a dick.
She used to keep the ringer volume all the way up so there was no way she’d miss a call—because he never left a message, never left any way to get in touch with him.
Until now.
Staring down at his number, Becca wasn’t quite sure how to react.
So she crumpled up the note, tossed it into the trash can, tied up the bag, and took it out to the curb. Her heart was pounding, but she told it to knock it off.
