Page 44 of North

The morning light seeped through the curtains, too bright, too exposing. I reached down, picking up the shattered pieces of my phone, and turning them over in my hands. The cracked screen reflected back at me, fractured and broken.

Just like everything else.

Her face flashed in my mind again, those hazel eyes wide, filled with something that looked too much like trust before it shattered into betrayal.

I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. So what if she was crying? So what if she hated me now?

It didn’t matter.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to believe it.

But the guilt gnawed at me, relentless, and no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t make it stop.

I swallowed another mouthful of whiskey, closing my eyes.

Maybe I never would.

Chapter 16

Quinn

I woke up to the smell of something warm and sweet filling the house. Pancakes. It was surreal, how normal it felt after the night before. My body ached in a way that wasn’t just physical, the exhaustion pressing down on me like I’d been crushed under the weight of something heavy. And maybe I had. Maybe I was still suffocating beneath it.

My throat felt raw, my face stiff from dried tears. I should’ve stayed in bed. I should’ve curled up under the covers and let the world disappear for a little while longer. But the gnawing hunger in my stomach pushed me forward and forced me to move even when every part of me felt stuck at that moment. The moment I realized North had used me. That he’d humiliated me.

That I had cared for him even for a second.

The thought made me sick.

I walked barefoot down the hallway, my movements sluggish. The kitchen came into view, and for a split second, I expected to see my mother, even though she hardly even cooked. Maybe I just needed to believe someone still cared about me. Maybe I needed my mother like most girls did after their first heartbreak. Regardless, she wasn’t the one standing at the stove. Instead, dressed in a casual sweater and leggings, flipping pancakes like she did this every morning, was Evie.

Perfect, untouchable Evie.

The sight was so jarring, that I almost turned around and walked right back to my room.

She looked up, smiling at me like nothing about this was strange. Like she hadn’t found me sobbing on the floor last night, broken in ways I still hadn’t pieced together.

“Morning,” she said easily, her voice soft. “I made breakfast.”

I hesitated, standing there, unsure of how to react.

Evie and I weren’t close. We were step-sisters, sure, but that had never meant much. She was the golden girl, Mark’s favorite, the one my mother adored, the one who had everything handed to her on a silver fucking platter.

A silver Audi for her graduation, an apartment in California near college—my mother married Mark before I even got to high school, I think I must’ve been thirteen or fourteen. Evie was a year older than me, but she’d been brought along for every single one of Mom’s trips to see me. I never liked her back then, and I was struggling to like her right now—even with how nice she was. Or rather, because of it.

Because, when I was only thirteen years old, my mom had lavished all her attention on Evie instead of her own daughter. It only got worse from there—I guess you could say that’s the real reason we stopped talking instead of the fact that she’d married my father’s best friend.

“You don’t have to eat if you’re not hungry,” Evie said as she continued to dish up. “But it’ll probably be best considering everything.” She gestured toward me, and I hated to say it, but I must’ve looked really ridiculous in the torn dress from the night before and a pair of pajama pants she’d pulled from my cupboard.

“No, that’s alright,” I answered just as quietly. “I’ll eat.”

I hesitated for another beat before shuffling to the table and sliding into one of the chairs. She moved effortlessly, setting a plate in front of me, then a glass of orange juice. I stared down at the food, unsure if I could even stomach it, despite the emptiness in my gut.

Evie sat across from me, cradling a cup of coffee, her sharp eyes studying me over the rim. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched, letting the silence stretch between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy, either.

After a long moment, she finally spoke. “You were upset last night.” Her voice was even, patient. “Do you want to talk about it?”

My fingers tightened around my fork. I should’ve lied. I should’ve brushed it off, made some excuse about being tired, about drinking too much at the party. But I knew Evie wouldn’t buy it. She’d seen me. She’d heard me say his name.

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