And then he was crying.
Quinn sank onto the couch, distantly aware of Tyler sitting beside her, probably close enough to hear half of what Jordan was saying.
Her younger brother barely talked to her except to ask when she’d be done with the television so he could play with his PlayStation. It was unthinkable he would be crying to her on the phone, and Quinn didn’t know how to deal with this.
And where the hell was her mother?
“Are you okay?” she said. “Jordan, are you safe where you are?”
“Yeah.” He sniffled loudly and got it together. “Kurt’s mom said I could stay through the weekend. I told her Mom and Dad were going out of town. I was going to stay at Jeremy’s, but his mom always wants to call.”
“What happened with Mom?”
“I came home for clothes and she—she—” Crying again.
Tyler leaned into her and caught her eye. “Tell him we’ll come get him,” he said. “See if he can get you an address.”
“Do you want us to come get you?” said Quinn. “I’m with a friend.”
Jordan’s voice tightened right up. “Gross. I don’t want to hang out with you and your boyfriend.”
Fear and tension caught up with Quinn. “Damn it, Jordan, I’m trying to—”
“Stop screaming at me, Quinn! I’m sick of people screaming at me!”
She so didn’t need this. Quinn inhaled to lay into him, but Tyler plucked the phone out of her hand. “Hey, man, this is Quinn’s friend Tyler. Are you all right where you are, or do you want us to come get you?”
His voice was level, easy, very we’re-all-bros-in-this-together. And Jordan was responding, from the bits she could hear. 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 galley 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 fuck 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 fuck 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.
Stars scattered overhead, spinning wildly every time she moved her eyes. She lay in the sand, beside a roaring bonfire that seemed to stretch a mile high. The heat was intense, forcing sweat from her skin. Her head pounded like her mother kept swinging that trophy over and over again.
Tyler crouched over her, stroking his finger along her cheek, so lightly that Quinn barely felt it. “She broke the skin, too.”
Quinn sniffed and put a hand to her eyes, but she felt the edge of the swelling and dropped her hand. “I don’t—I don’t know why she hates me.”
“I don’t think she hates you, baby girl,” he said. “I think she hates herself.”
She gave half a choked sob. “I feel ridiculous when you call me that.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head. The motion hurt. She wanted to throw up. Nausea meant broken bones, didn’t it? She was terrified to touch her cheek, to feel whether anything would shift.