by Monica James
I can see his toolbox is still propped up on the engine, but he’s not.
And that’s because he’s standing right behind me.
“Enjoying the view?” he chuckles.
Closing my eyes and cursing under my breath, I don’t need to turn around to know that he has a huge, lopsided smirk plastered all over that ridiculously gorgeous face of his.
“I… I lost my nose ring,” I reply quickly, lifting myself to full height and turning to face him.
I gasp as my eyes take in the sight of perfection before me.
He looks pointedly at my nose, his eyes shining in amusement as he leans casually in the doorjamb, arms and ankles crossed.
“I found it,” I reply, raising a finger to my nose.
He totally knows I’m lying.
I turn my back on him and begin busying myself with dinner, placing the potatoes in the oven, hoping he gets the hint to leave me alone.
He doesn’t.
“I thought you had a date,” he says, no doubt with that damn smile on his face.
“I do,” I reply plainly, not giving anything away.
“Ah, so where is he?” he asks as his boots thud against the kitchen floor.
Avoiding his question, I busy myself with wiping down the counter, but from the corner of my eye, I see Quinn standing a few feet away from me, leaning coolly against the edge.
“So, is your date going to care I’m joining you for dinner?” he presses, watching me closely when I don’t speak.
“Nope, not at all,” I reply quickly, not meeting his eyes, as my breath is coming out in labored puffs with him being so near.
“Really?”
“Yup.”
Silence.
“When you said you were dating someone you work with, I began thinking of all the people at the diner. The only guy that is half decent and close to your age is my brother,” he says after a minute of silence.
I turn quickly, panicked to tell him the truth.
“It’s not Tristan,” I say speedily, for some reason needing to defend him.
“I know,” Quinn replies, wearing a smug smile.
“You do?” I ask, knitting my eyebrows together. “How?”
“Well, as much as I know my brother is dying to get into your pants, he’s working tonight, so I know it’s not him.”
I blanch at his choice of words.
“I’m kidding, Red.” He chuckles when witnessing my reaction.
“Oh,” I reply, huffing out a relieved breath.
“About him working, not the wanting to get in your pants part,” he adds with a wink.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Tristan wants to get into my pants? He hardly knows me! And Quinn still hasn’t explained how he knew that Tristan wasn’t my ‘date.’ Does he think I’m not good enough for his baby brother?
He is right though… I’m not.
I don’t know how to respond, so I do so with sarcasm.
“Nice story. What are you even doing here?”
“That’s not a nice way to treat your guest,” he smirks, his vivid eyes lightening up.
“You invited yourself,” I retort. “And I’m still trying to figure out why.”
He shrugs calmly. “Why not?”
Okay, I may not be in tune with the whole social etiquette thing. But I do know inviting oneself to dinner is normally considered rude. But looking at Quinn, standing in the small kitchen without a care in the world, I know the rules of society don’t apply to him.
He’s like me in a way. However, where I am new and naive to the dos and don’ts, he just doesn’t give a fuck.
“My ‘date’ is Hank,” I confess, making quotation marks around the word date.
Quinn smirks, reaching for a sliced apple, popping it into his mouth. “Well, be kind to the old man, he’ll have a heart attack dealing with a girl like you.”
“Eww!” I slap his arm. “Firstly, gross. And secondly, there’s no one I would rather share a date with than him,” I reply truthfully.
Quinn looks taken aback by my confession as I see his eyebrows furrow over my comment. But he quickly recovers with a joke. “I should be kinda offended, seeing as I’m standing right here. But since it’s Hank, I’ll let it slide. If you’re going to ‘date’ anyone, I’d rather it be Hank,” he says, which throws me off.
“But not your brother?” I ask quickly for some stupid reason.
I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, and I hurriedly reach for an apple to distract myself with. Quinn clutches my wrist softly, stopping me from moving… or breathing.
He leans forward and slowly inches into my face, while toying with his lip ring. “My brother couldn’t handle you,” he whispers, his words penetrating straight through me.
“And you could?” I whisper back with bated breath.
He looks me straight in the eyes and replies huskily, “You know I could.”
He still has a firm but tender grip around my wrist, and he tightens his fingers to emphasize his point.
Why aren’t I recoiling like I normally would? Why don’t I have a smartass reply to knock him down a peg or two? Why does the thought of him ‘handling’ me make me shiver in desire?
“Everything okay, kids?” Hank asks as he shuffles into the kitchen, eyeing us curiously.
Quinn turns at the waist to face Grandpa, his hand still searing my skin. “Yes. I was just telling Red to go easy on you,” he jokes.
Grandpa cackles. “Oh, Quinn Berkeley, you’ve always been a troublemaker. You need a good clip around the ears. I need to have a word with your mother,” Grandpa says, not looking at us as he reaches for three glasses in the cabinet.
I feel Quinn’s fingers stiffen on my wrist at the mention of his mom and I wonder why.
He clears his throat, releasing my wrist abruptly before he says, “I better go finish checking out your truck.”
Ah, so that’s why he’s here.
He’s taking a look at Hank’s truck because knowing Grandpa, he wants to make sure it’s safe because I’m driving it now.
Quinn pops a piece of apple into his mouth, licking the fallen juice from his lips. He steals one final look at me over his shoulder before leaving.
Only then, do I breathe.
Chapter 16
Give Me a Chance
Placing everything in the center of the small table and looking at my handiwork, I must admit¸ it doesn’t look too bad. The potatoes are a little burned, and the beans are a little limp, but overall, it’s not a total disaster.
I hope it tastes okay.
Grandpa is pouring himself a glass of cider when Quinn comes out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dishcloth.
“Smells awesome, Red,” he says, pulling up a plastic chair near me.
“Thanks. Hopefully it tastes awesome,” I reply a little tensely.
Once we’re all settled, Grandpa clears his throat.
“Would it be okay if I said grace?”
I’ve never been a big believer in God or religion, how could I? My whole life I prayed for my dad to stop getting high, and I prayed for my mom to come back and make everything okay again. My prayers obviously went unheard, because the more I prayed, the worse things got. So after a while, I just stopped altogether. He wasn’t listening, so I stopped talking. I mean, how many times can you go unnoticed before you lose faith?
Quinn nods and Grandpa looks at me for approval.
“Sure,” I reply softly, because it makes no difference to me.
Grandpa interlaces his hands and slightly bows his head.
“Thank you for this meal we are about to eat. And thank you for allowing me to share this meal with two wonderful people. But most of all, thank you for Paige.”
My eyes snap up to meet Grandpa, as I’m stunned for what he’s thankful for.
“Amen,” I hear Quinn mutter softly.
We’re all silent until Grandpa announces, “Let’s eat,” as he reaches for the pork chops, oblivious that
he just paid me the sweetest compliment of my life.
Quinn, however, is well aware of it, and he softly reaches for my hands that are twisting in my lap under the table, stilling them under his.
I risk a glance at him and am greeted with a genuine smile.
A smile that tells me he knows.
***
Dinner actually turned out okay.
Quinn and Hank polished off everything I laid out on the table, and I hate to admit, the sight was one that made me feel good. We chatted over dinner, both Quinn and Hank not pushing to know too much about my past, for which I respected them.
They both know I’m running away from something, of that I am certain.
I’m elbow deep in soap suds when Quinn places a few dirty dishes on the sink next to me.
“I said I was happy to wash up,” he says, grabbing a clean dishcloth as he commences drying the dishes.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I reply, because I really don’t.
This mundane chore is one that makes me feel normal, and I would wash a hundred more if it meant this feeling of normalcy stayed.
We’re quiet for a long while, both deep in thought and the silence isn’t uncomfortable, it’s reflective. We work side by side, me washing and Quinn drying, and it’s nice to just ‘hang’ with someone. Only the low snoring of Grandpa in the next room breaks through the silence, but it’s not bothersome, it’s actually a nice sound as it’s a reminder that I’m not alone.
After I’m done washing the last dish, Quinn tosses the dishcloth onto the counter and reaches for my wrist.
I look up at him, stunned and confused. “What are you doing?”
Quinn, however, doesn’t reply, he only pulls me away from the sink and leads me toward the door.
I shrink out of his loose grip and pull back.
“Where are we going?” I ask, stopping dead in my tracks.
My hands are still sopping wet and dripping onto the kitchen floor.
Quinn turns at the waist, smiling cheekily.
“Live a little, Red. Trust me?” he asks, extending his hand out toward me.
The simple gesture is one that shouldn’t leave me anxious and troubled, but it does. Peering at his hand like it will rear up and bite me, I raise my eyes to meet his, biting my lip.
“Trust me, Red.”
This time however, it’s not a question, it’s a promise.
I work my lower lip feverishly, eyeing his outstretched palm fearfully. I have never trusted another human being in my entire life.
Can I trust Quinn? A complete stranger.
As my eyes meet his, I see nothing sinister or cruel in them, so, I take a small breath and I slip my hand into his.
Trust has never felt so good.
We walk silently hand in hand, tip-toeing through the living area where Grandpa has passed out on the couch, the TV flashing shadows across his lined face.
It must be nice to sleep so peacefully.
Stopping and slipping my hand out of Quinn’s, I silently reach for an afghan rug which is thrown across the back of the sofa. I tuck it around Grandpa and he stirs, snuggling into the blanket contentedly.
I turn back to Quinn, who’s watching me with an unreadable look. I give him a small, embarrassed smile, and he returns it quickly before reaching for my hand and tightly interlacing his fingers through mine.
I look down at our union and then back up at him, and all I see reflected in his emerald jewels is warmth and sincerity.
Without a word, we walk through the small living room and out through the front door.
The night’s breeze is cool against my cheeks and is welcome, due to the heat I’m rapidly feeling with my palm sitting snugly in Quinn’s. The air smells of rain, which is normal for the season of fall. I’ve always been a fan of fall, as there is something inspirational at the sight of big, orange leaves catching on the breeze, swinging backward and forward, until they can no longer remain attached to the branch they dangle from. As they tumble to the ground to join their fallen brothers on the frosty ground, you can smell new beginnings lingering in the air.
I wish it was that easy for me.
We are still silent as we hit the gravel, and the only sound that can be heard is the stones crunching under our sneakers.
My hand is still enclosed in Quinn’s, and I’m allowing him to lead me blindly to God knows where. But I’m not anxious or worried, I’m more curious as to where he’s taking me.
He leads me up around the corner of the motel, and begins trekking up a hill.
“Hey, where are we going?” I ask, holding tightly onto his hand, as the terrain is uneven and littered with the occasional boulder and pothole.
Quinn chuckles. “You’ll see. We’re nearly there.”
The further we walk, the higher up we climb, the steeper the terrain. My worn out soles offer me no grip, and I keep slipping. Thankfully, Quinn’s hand grips harder around mine to offer me support.
With my other hand, I inadvertently latch onto Quinn’s wrist to stabilize myself when I slip.
“C’mon, Red, man up,” he jokes, never faltering in his step.
Even though he appears nonchalant, I can see him every so often peer over his shoulder to make sure I am keeping up, and that I am okay.
The sentiment for some reason touches me.
We finally reach the top, and I hate to admit, I am a little breathless.
Quinn lets go of my hand, staring off into the distance ahead of him. I wonder what has captured his attention, so I turn and gasp when I see what he’s looking at.
The lights of South Boston flicker before me, and the sight is actually quite beautiful. Being this high up, I feel like I have a bird’s eye view of the town below me. I can’t actually make out one single person, or event, but my mind fills in the blanks and begins envisioning all kinds of images, and I smile at the normality of it.
“It’s amazing. We’re so high up,” I comment, my eyes still taking in everything before me.
Quinn doesn’t speak, but dusts off his hands and takes a seat on the ground, his knees drawn up toward him. I feel silly standing, so I too take a seat near him, my eyes never leaving the city below me.
Seeing the town from up here, at a different angle, where everything looks so tiny and simple, I wish I could stay up here forever. I can almost forget that down there lays the truth of who I am and what I did. Up here, I can almost pretend that I’m just a normal nineteen-year-old without a dark past that will one day catch up with me.
“Can I ask you something?” Quinn asks, disturbing my childlike thoughts.
“Sure,” I reply, drawing my knees up toward me and interlacing my arms around them.
“Do you ever think, what’s the point?”
“What’s the point to what?” I ask, resting my chin on hands, turning to look at him.
The moonlight bounces off his reflective eyes as he weighs up his next sentence.
“The point to everything. To life. To why we try so hard when no one seems to give a damn. Looking down there,” he says, gesturing with his chin to the town beneath us, “is a town full of people who smile, and go about their daily life like it’s easy. Like living everyday is effortless and they don’t go to sleep wondering, what’s the point to living, when all it does is hurt.”
I don’t know what to say, because Quinn has just summed up how I feel every second of every day. I know that Quinn also has demons locked inside of him, waiting to break free in a moment of weakness.
“I think we just go on because what other alternative do we have? We can either give up, or we can fight. And you don’t look like a quitter to me,” I say, looking at him closely. “So we push on, we live the best way that we can, hoping that one day we’ll find the purpose to our existence.”
Quinn nods, taking in everything I just said. “So have you found your purpose yet?”
I look back out into the starless sky, the only thing lighting it up are the lights below.
“No, but I’m trying. And I’ll be damned if life gets the better of me a second longer than it already has.”
Wow, this is the first time I have openly expressed how I feel to anyone. But I feel stupid for opening my mouth and I begin closing in on myself.
“Hey, don’t do that,” Quinn says, his green eyes sparkling in the moonlight. “Don’t ever feel stupid for being honest. Especially with me,” he adds with sincerity.
I don’t know what it is about him, but I feel comfortable around him and I actually trust him. The thought of trying to stay away from him fades, little by little, and I know I’m in trouble, but I just can’t stay away.
“Red…what are you running from?” he whispers earnestly, afraid I’ll blow up in his face, or run away.
I sigh, and am surprised I don’t flinch or break into a sprint when asked a question which weighs so heavily on me.
Looking at Quinn and peering into his deep, green eyes, I realize I have never felt this connection with a single soul.
“I can’t tell you,” I admit without thinking.
“Why not?” he asks. “We all have our own demons. I would never judge you. I just want to…”
“You want to what?” I ask, suddenly very curious as to what he’s about to say.
“There’s something about you, and I just can’t stay away. But I don’t want to freak you out, or push too hard. But the more I get to know you, the deeper in I fall. You’re not like anyone I have ever met before, and I just want to get to know you, the real you,” he confesses, and I know his admission was a hard one for him to make.
Call it intuition, but I know he has baggage, just like me. Fair to say his baggage is probably not as fucked up as mine, but that doesn’t make it any less significant. But I can’t do this. This wasn’t the plan. I was to come here, be invisible, and not make friends, or feel… this. I don’t even know what this feeling is, but I know it can only lead to trouble.
I stand up quickly, feeling too exposed and vulnerable under his penetrating gaze.
“I gotta go,” I respond in quickened breaths.
“What? Why?” he asks, standing up promptly, afraid he has said something wrong.
“I just have to,” I reply vaguely, and make a run for it when I witness the sting in his eyes.