Mel arched an eyebrow, topping off her glass of wine and shrugging. “She could always come back.”

“Fat chance.” Rosie snorted.

“I hope she does. Luna needs a mother,” Emilia muttered.

“If she does, I bet he will never let her go. He should have given her a fair chance when she told him she was pregnant. Jaime said he still beats himself up about it sometimes. While he’s always been a good dad, Trent never gave Val a chance to be more than Luna’s mother. I’m not saying I understand her, or sympathize with what she did, but if she does come back, I think he might actually try to make it work with her. Does that make sense?” Melody explained in her no-nonsense, approachable tone.

“No,” Rosie deadpanned, rearranging Lev’s head on her arms as he sucked on her tit hungrily.

“I second that, my sister.” Emilia took a small sip of wine. “Trent is rightfully angry.”

“And hurt,” Rosie added.

“More reason to wait for the woman who rocked his world to come back and collect the pieces with her.” Mel poured herself a third glass of wine.

I tried to tell myself that she was drunk, and wrong, and absolutely out of line. But deep down, she touched on my biggest fears. She was his teacher in high school. She knew him. Probably more than anyone at that table, myself included.

I spent the rest of my time wishing I was far away, with Theo, where boys were never an issue. My lips were still burning with mine and Trent’s kiss so I picked an ice cube from my virgin lemonade and pressed it against them, trying to think clearly.

Trent Rexroth wasn’t a crush. He was the very thing that’d end up crushing me if I wasn’t careful.

People often have flairs for dramatics. That’s why I never believe it when someone tells me they knew something bad was about to happen even before it did. I stood corrected the minute I opened the door to my house on Saturday night, because the bad feeling gripped me by the bones. Calamity, as it turned out, had a scent. It smelled of faint, expensive alcohol, a stale cigarette, and Chanel No. 5.

I watched the floor like I was walking death row. Every step I took toward the kitchen filled me with more dread, and I didn’t understand why. Everything looked the same. The walls were still the same contemporary shade of light gray, the French furniture was still fair and heavy, the silk crème couches were still a hundred grand a piece, and the paintings on the wall still cost more than anyone could ever dream of having in their bank account.

A gurgling sound came from the kitchen and I tensed up.

It’s nothing. You heard nothing. Move on.

Another step, and then another. I wanted to be a coward. I wanted to go up to my room and not deal with it. Not again. It could not happen again. How bad was it that I suspected my mother’s life was in danger, and all I wanted to do was bury my face in a pillow and replay the last day, especially the part where Trent broke all of his rules and sucked my mouth like I was the most delicious thing on the menu? I knew the answer to that one. It was very bad. Inexcusable, actually.

“Khhstttt, ehhss, pppfff…” The gurgling continued. This was not a drill. It was not my sick imagination. I threw my backpack down and ran to the kitchen. My hair covered my face, as if to protect me, and I blew it away, chanting breathlessly, “No, no, no.”

My mother was lying on the floor—why did she always do it in the kitchen? Why not in her bathroom? Why did she always need an audience?—foam trickling from her mouth. On the table above her were dozens of empty pill bottles, with a rainbow assortment of pills scattered like sad, blown dandelion fluff. A pile of separation papers sat atop the table, already signed by my father. “Shit.” I sucked in a breath, running over toward her.

Jesus Christ, he was here. He told her.

I rolled her onto her side and cupped her cheeks, staring into her vacant eyes.

“How many did you take?”

She shook her head, not answering. I was pretty sure the main reason for her lack of response was that she was halfway gone. I plucked my phone from my back pocket, my hands shaking.

I forgot about the cute girl who’d handed me her heart, and her dad who’d rewarded me with hidden kisses. I forgot about laughing with Rosie and Emilia and scowling at a drunken, albeit harmless Mel. This, right here, was my real life, and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to forget it even for a moment.

My mother lurched forward, retching. The only thing to come out of her mouth was more foam.

“Throw it up, throw it up, throw it up,” I repeated sullenly. Last time I’d stuck a finger down her throat when I was only twelve. I was really hoping to keep that incident a one-time thing. My mother’s eyes rolled in their sockets. I hated the world once again. I pushed my mother onto her knees with the phone pressed between my ear and shoulder and shoved a finger down her throat, but nothing came out.

“How long ago?” I asked, even though it was futile. She couldn’t answer. She wasn’t even all the way conscious. Not like last time. Jesus, Mom.

“Please, Mom, please. Just…throw it all up. Please.” I didn’t know what shook harder, my voice or my hands. Both were out of control, and I felt myself slipping beyond. Beyond the control I’d held over myself.

Did she not love me?

Did she not care?

I pushed and shoved, but she just quivered like a leaf, going through some kind of seizure. Finally, the call went live.

“Nine-one-one, what’s the emergency?”

I broke down in tears, giving her our address. The operator took our details and sent in help. Even nine-one-freaking-one couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

“MY MOM TRIED TO KILL herself.”

The words haunted me as I sped through the streets of Todos Santos toward Saint John’s hospital. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew exactly what I was doing by rushing to her side. Her dad was probably there—he fucking better be—I thought angrily. I was the first person she’d called, and I wasn’t going to put a time limit on my stay there. The minute I’d received the call, I dropped Luna at Camila’s—I didn’t want them in the penthouse in case Edie wanted to crash there—and told her I’d need at least a few hours to sort through some personal shit and let her know when I’d be back.

Poor Edie.

Poor, poor Edie.

While my child’s mother was avoiding responsibilities at all costs, Edie tried to take care of everyone in her world while watching her youth slip between her fingers. I loathed myself for having assumed the worst about her. That she was a spoiled-ass kid who tried to steal money for the thrill of it, or just to be a cunt. Edie wasn’t a brat. She was dealing with a very ill mother and, apparently, was being blackmailed by her father, too.

I parked in a hurry and called Edie’s cell. She picked up on the third ring, making my fucking heart almost detonate inside my chest. And it was ironic, the way I’d thrived on her weaknesses when we first met, and now how desperately I wanted for her to cling onto her strength to survive this.

“Fourth floor, I’ll be outside room 412,” she whispered, like she didn’t want to disturb anyone. The journey to her was the longest I’d ever taken. The pale blue walls and tired, reassuring eyes of the hospital staff haunted me, slamming me with memories I’d wanted to forget.

“Your leg is broken. Your college scholarship is, well, not going to materialize, Trent.”

“Congratulations. It’s a girl. The mother will sign the birth certificate shortly. Here’s hoping she’ll give the kid your last name, eh?”

“She is fine. There is nothing wrong with her voice. She is just…well, anyway, I have the name of a really good child psychologist.”

I stopped by door 412, pressing my palm onto the cool wood and closing my eyes. I was past caring about Jordan at this stage. If he was there, asking questions, like why the fuck Edie had called me, I’d be frank. I rapped on the door three times, as softly as I could, turned around and paced the hallway.

Ten seconds later, Edie walked out. She was still wearing the same flowery #SunChaser tank top and tiny burgundy shorts that had made all the men at the party salivate. Only she no longer looked like Edie. She looked like someone ten years her senior. Ironically, someone I wouldn’t feel so horrified about sleeping with.

“Hey.” My voice came out soft, and I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, my face, my fucking being, so I approached her for an awkward hug, which she—thank fuck—returned. We stood there in a loose embrace outside her mother’s hospital room. I stared at the plain door; she stared at some banal painting behind me probably donated to the hospital by some rich asshole. Her shoulders were frail and so was her mind, I was sure. Time seemed to stand still just like we did, for a while, before she disconnected from me and looked down.

“Is she okay?” I asked. Was it wrong that I didn’t truly care? The only person I was interested in at that moment was Edie, and I wasn’t entirely sure if her mother’s recovery would be a good or a bad thing for her. Edie blew a lock of hair from her face, her eyes cutting to the mostly empty corridor behind us. A nurse was leaning lazily along an oval reception desk. Phones were ringing. A doctor was scribbling something on a whiteboard.

Edie was waiting for someone. For her fucking father, most likely.

“I don’t know. She is stable now, but…” She rubbed her face wearily, shaking her head. I wanted to suck her pain away and make it my own. “But she’s in a coma, Trent. Her vital organs are working, but she’s not conscious.” Her chin was quivering, and tears glimmered in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether I should tell him…”

“You haven’t told your father yet?” I asked, caving into the urge to touch her. I stroked her arm, putting some reassuring weight on her body and encouraging her to lean into me. She shook her head, throwing another glance at the corridor. Edie sniffed.

“Let’s talk somewhere else. I have a long night ahead and I probably need to recharge.”