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Original Edition: Chapter Seventeen

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The next afternoon, there was a knock on the door.

Rachel and I were seated on opposite ends of the living room, both of us still dressed in our pajamas and neither of us showered. We had done a good job of ignoring each other all morning, except for the occasional glares Rachel sent my way, but the silence in the house was starting to eat away at me. To be completely honest, I was considering breaking out into song—just to fill the void—before we heard that knock on the front door.

"I'll get it," I said, making a move to get up from the armchair I was seated in.

"No," Rachel snapped, "I'll get it. You stay there."

She leapt up from the couch and shuffled across the living room, the soles of her fuzzy blue slippers slapping against the hardwood floor. I sunk back into the armchair and buried my face in my hands, feeling miserable. 

Whatever trust Rachel had given me, I had managed to lose it in one evening of bad decisions and pure stupidity. I had followed Blake Hamilton to a party. I had technically stolen Rachel's car. And I had done it all with a two-year-old.

I was not exactly killing it on the responsibility front.

Rachel pulled the front door open. I listened, a little curious to know who would be dropping by the house.

"Lena," Rachel chirped, her voice still a bit groggy.

"Hi, Ms. Lyons," Lena's voice sounded cheerful, but there was a hint of calculation in her voice. I dropped my hands back into my lap to see Lena standing in the front doorway, her wild mass of blonde curls pulled up into a bun and her hazel eyes bright. She looked rested. At least one of us had gotten some sleep last night.

"What brings you here so early?" Rachel asked her, yawning as if for emphasis.

"It's almost three o'clock, actually."

Rachel blinked at Lena as if she'd just told her that the Earth was square.

But I couldn't exactly blame her. She'd had a long night, and it been mostly my fault.

Rachel always took the bus back and forth between Marlin Bay and Holden, partly because it was cheaper than paying for gas and partly because it was easier than sitting behind the wheel of a car for forty-five minutes after a long day of painting. When she had finally trudged into the house, covered in paint splatters and looking like all she wanted to do was pass out on the couch, I'm sure the last thing she wanted to see was her niece with a black eye.

The next three hours had been dedicated to figuring out what the hell had happened and what we needed to do before I could fall asleep. 

Rachel went on her computer and searched the word concussion on one of those medical websites, but after five minutes of reading, she was convinced that I had some form of tetanus infection—which, might I point out, could only be acquired in the waters off the port of Acapulco—and was going to die a slow, painful death. 

So I made her shut down the computer and call one of her friends, a nurse, from the hospital down in Marlin Bay to ask what really happens when you have a concussion.

It was probably one o'clock in the morning by the time Rachel hung up the phone and sent me to my bedroom, saying we'd discuss this in the morning. I had made it halfway upstairs before I realized I hadn't apologized for making Rachel's night so long. But by the time I had spun around at the top of the stairs, a weak I'm sorry hovering on the tip of my tongue, Rachel was already fast asleep on the couch, the decorative pillows strewn across the floor.

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