Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Sabrina

"Okay, you got this," I told myself as I stared at my apartment door with its crooked ‘6' that refused to stay upright.

Whoever told us that the baby phase was hard must have been incredibly lucky to have produced offspring who, in their teen years, didn't turn out to be mini versions of their own wild, moody, recklessness reinvented. With new slang that required its own dictionary. In a world that forced them to grow up just a little faster than the generation before.

I mean, don't get me wrong, that baby phase was… a whole thing. I was pretty sure I didn't sleep for a full year, running on jangling nerves and, as soon as she stopped nursing, double-shot coffees.

But at least the baby version of my daughter didn't roll her eyes at me and shoot me glances that said she thought I was the most out-of-touch person in the entire world. Or use that voice on me. The one that suggested she'd rather be talking to anyone else. While also informing me I was an idiot. Without directly saying so.

This was one of those situations where most people would feel the need to apologize to their own mothers for putting them through this when they were young.

But my mom cut and run when I was ten, taking off to Europe to "find herself" when, in reality, all she did was leave me and my father behind.

Sure, I had been a bit of a nightmare youth, complete with my very own teenage pregnancy, whose music I could hear through the apartment door, despite telling her a dozen times not to play it so loud since, you know, we had neighbors. But there'd been no one to actually suffer from my teenage antics since my old man worked long hours then drank himself into oblivion afterward.

I once took a road trip in the middle of the school year to go visit a party college. He hadn't even known I was gone.

So as I stood there, trying to get the nerve to go in and speak to my daughter, all I could do was remind myself that, hey, I turned out alright. Despite the years of attitude and antics.

I reached for the door, letting out a sigh as it turned in my hand before I even stuck the key in.

I had to mention at least a dozen times a week that she needed to remember to turn the locks.

To her, she was invincible.

To me, who'd narrowly escaped quite a few shaky situations with my own safety, all I could do was imagine all the horrific things that could happen to a young, pretty girl alone in an apartment with an unlocked door.

I was sure the true crime documentaries I binged at night when I couldn't sleep weren't exactly helping the whole situation.

The door caught on a pair of kicked off shoes that I reached down to set in the shoe organizer just behind the door, kicking myself for not stopping to get myself a coffee on the way home. It was already a long day. And it seemed like it was going to get longer.

How did one, objectively small, person create such a mess in so short a time?

Daphne had only been home for three hours yet shoes were scattered, books and notebooks were all over the coffee table along with three drinks, a bowl of colorful milk from cereal, and an open bag of chips.

I glanced over to the kitchen seeing, yep, the milk was still on the counter.

I made my way over, feeling it. Finding it cold, I stuck it back in the fridge, reminding myself to pick my battles.

I mean at least she clearly did her homework already. On a Friday afternoon instead of Sunday night when I would have to nag her about it, then struggle to get her out of the bed in the morning to get to school.

Really, I should have been suspicious of the work being done as I piled the books and notebooks up then took the dishes to the sink before making my way down the hall to my room.

I kicked out of my own shoes, then reached immediately for the belt that had felt like it'd been cutting off circulation since my—admittedly supersized—lunch.

What can I say? Work had been a nightmare. I'd been eating my feelings. But the uniform made the belt necessary.

I made my way to my closet, mildly resentful that I now heard my daughter's words in my ear each time I reached for an article of clothing.

Apparently, the band tees that I got from actual concerts I'd attended when I was her age were ‘cringe.'

I still slipped one on. Along with my skinny jeans that she'd have to pry from my cold, dead fingers.

Feeling a little more myself, I finally made my way down the hall toward Daphne's room, knocking on the door, but the music was too loud for her to hear me, so I moved in.

"Daph! Daph!" I yelled, catching the gap between songs, making her jerk hard and turn around, eyes wide.

"Knock much?" she yelled back as she stabbed her finger into her phone, making the speaker across the room silence.

"I did knock," I told her as I looked at what was a younger version of myself.

The same black hair, the same hazel eyes, the delicate features that meant she would be carded for several years longer than a lot of her peers.

She was perhaps a little more petite, almost fragile-looking, even if her baggy pants hid some of that.

The crop top made me pray she'd put that on when she'd gotten home, and not that she'd worn it under the perfectly appropriate sweater she'd had on when she'd left for school.

I'd never needed to hide my clothes from a father that didn't care. But I'd been friends with lots of girls who had protective parents, so they'd layered demure clothes over their more scandalous clothes then stripped in the woods next to the high school before going in.

"What?" she asked when I just stood there.

It was then that I glanced down at her bed.

Her bedroom used to be a baby pink with white and purple accents, her favorite colors as a little girl. Just before her last birthday, she'd asked to redecorate. Which included white walls, white linen bedding, and a makeup vanity.

While I understood she was growing up, it kind of gutted me a bit to see the last traces of my little girl disappearing.

On the bed was the big leather weekender bag she'd asked me for Christmas.

Normally, I was wholly anti-sleepovers after seeing a documentary on the statistics of sexual assaults on girls who slept over at friends' houses. From the dads, brothers, neighbors, or even friends of the family that happened to be around.

But Daphne's best friend had two moms and no men around to worry about. So I'd finally loosened the reins just a little bit and let her start staying over once in a while. Just not as often as I allowed her friend, Allie, to sleep over at our place.

"What's this?" I asked, looking at the bag.

"I'm staying with Allie this weekend, remember?"

Oh, I did not remember. Namely because she'd never mentioned it. Sometimes my kid liked to think that my ability to constantly forget to buy milk when we were out or refill the toilet paper in the bathroom meant that my memory was shot.

It was just that I forgot the little things to make room for all of the bigger stuff.

Everything having to do with Daphne was big stuff. I wouldn't have forgotten her requesting to sleep over Allie's place.

But this felt like yet another situation where I probably needed to choose my battles.

I knew Allie's place was a safe space. I was friends with Allie's moms. We were all on the same page on just about everything. What did it matter if she wanted to have some time with her friend?

"First, you didn't tell me, let alone ask," I said, not wanting her to think she was getting something over on me. "Second, that's fine. But I want you home for dinner on Sunday."

There was a split second where surprise was clear on her pretty face before she banked it down.

"Okay," she said, nodding.

"Don't forget your retainer," I reminded her, knowing she hated the thing, especially around other people. "You don't want to have to do the braces again, right?" I added, making her sigh and move past me to go get it out of the hall bathroom.

She could probably go a night or two without the thing. But I still had another year to go to pay off the braces, so I was a little sore about the topic still.

"Do you want me to drop you off at Allie's?" I asked.

"Can I walk?" she asked, tossing the retainer case into her bag, then sealing it up.

I wanted to say no. I hated her walking anywhere.

But she was sixteen.

She was going to be driving soon. God knows where she'd be going then. At least I knew that Allie lived just two streets away.

"Alright," I agreed. "Don't forget your charger," I said, nodding toward where it was still plugged in near the bed.

I was in the kitchen brewing some coffee when she came back out, slipping into her shoes, and grabbing her keys.

"Okay. I'm going," she said.

"Text me when you get there," I demanded.

"Okay."

"Love you," I said, giving her a smile.

"You too," she said, making me miss the days when she would give me a hug before she left.

It's just temporary, Allie's mom had insisted when I'd been a little weepy over ice cream one night when the girls had first skipped out on the game and movie night that had been our tradition for years. They're just trying on the clothes of grown-ups. As soon as they are actual adults, they will be running back to us to beg for advice or comfort. It won't be like this for long.

Having no relationship with my own mother, I had to put my faith to rest in those who had those sorts of experiences.

Shifting out of ‘what am I going to do to try to bond with my teenage daughter all weekend' mode, I decided that my night was going to involve two things.

A shitton of junk food.

And binge-watching TV.

So I grabbed my coffee and my phone, then set to placing delivery orders to Chinese, pizza, and this local dessert place, getting myself half a dozen donuts that, yes, I would eat over the course of the weekend.

Then I went through all of the movies I'd been wanting to watch but Daphne thought were too cheesy or cringe or cheugy or whatever word she'd use to describe something that wasn't cool enough for her.

I was in a food coma and through a movie and a half when I decided to call to check in on Daphne. She was going to hate it, would likely later tell me I was being overprotective. And maybe she was right.

What can I say, though?

She was my whole world for the past sixteen years. I'd, in a way, grown up with her. What choice did you have when you had a baby when you were still a kid yourself?

"Yeah?" Daphne answered.

"Just calling to check in," I said. "If you want to come home but not sound like the bad guy, just tell me you'll do the dishes when you get home."

"Mooom," Daphne said. I could hear the eye roll through the phone.

"Alright. Just checking. Can I talk to Britney?" I asked, figuring Allie's other mom was likely already in bed since she got up at the crack of dawn for work.

"Oh, she ran out to get us ice cream," Daphne said. "I can tell her to call you when she gets back."

"It's no big deal," I said. "Alright, you girls have fun," I said, hanging up.

For a moment, I felt that crushing wave of nostalgia. The carelessness of youth. The feeling like you had all the time in the world. And not a single responsibility to kill your joy.

At the end of the day, though, I'd had my fun. I'd had the fun of ten girls, if I were being honest. When you had no one keeping an eye on you, it really freed up your schedule to do all sorts of wild and shady shit.

You name it, I did it. Sneaking into bars. Clubbing. Having experiences with guys who, looking back, were predators. Smoking, drinking, some other… experimenting.

I even had a tattoo. I would tell Daphne it was on my hip, but it was totally on the side of my ass. It had been done by a friend's older brother who bought a machine somewhere and had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Or having, you know, a single artistic bone in his body.

Three years ago, on my thirtieth birthday, I'd splurged on a professional tattoo session to get the hideous thing covered up. Of course, because of how big the original had been, I'd needed to get a kind of massive floral piece that went from the side of my butt down my thigh to fully cover it.

I secretly loved it. Getting it done and telling no one had felt a bit like a throwback to my mischievous youth.

I guess I should have been glad that my kid was just hanging out with her friend, likely making silly videos on social media than out doing the crazy crap I used to get into at her age.

I pulled the blanket up higher, clicked play on the TV, and grabbed for the jelly donut that was calling my name even if my stomach already felt like it was going to bust.

I even felt myself drifting off to sleep—without the worries of being teased for being old—content with my night to myself.

It was my phone ringing that woke me up. My heartbeat hammered as I struggled toward consciousness, confused at the darkness in the apartment, having no idea how much time had passed as I reached toward the coffee table to get my phone.

Daphne.

It could be Daphne.

Sure enough, it was her name on the screen.

I reached for the remote, clicking it to make the screensaver go away so I could see the clock.

Eleven-thirty.

"Daph, is everything alright?" I answered, pressing a hand to my thumping chest.

And I swear my blood ran cold at hearing not my daughter's voice on the other end of the phone, but a man's.