by Amy Lane
“But Dad!” Dustin complained. “Quinlan hasn’t had any of it. He’s trying to pretend he’s not even at the table!”
Dad grunted. “Quinlan, eat bread.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And eat with us every night.”
“Okay, sir, if you’re—”
“Eat the bread, dammit. And if anybody else had something life-changing happen today, tell me tomorrow.”
As a whole, the family sort of nodded into the silence, apparently agreeing this was enough revelation for the night.
“Conroy,” Mom said, sort of desperately, “tell me more about this fish.”
Four years ago
Quinlan
“WHERE’S your brother?”
Melly didn’t look up from her determined posing by the kitchen counter. She’d been taking ballet for the last three years, and Quinlan had to admit she was getting pretty good at it, just like her Aunt Elena, Tino and Nica’s sister, who still danced down in San Francisco.
“I don’t know,” she said, going up on one toe and leaning forward, sticking her other leg out behind her, and forming a perfect perpendicular shape in the air. Her long blonde hair, much like her father’s, swung gracefully over her shoulder. “He hasn’t said a word since Sammy’s mass text.”
Quinlan grunted. Oh shit. “Did that come when he was driving you home?”
Technically Dustin wasn’t supposed to be driving anybody in the car, because he was still seventeen and his license was provisional until he turned eighteen. Practically, between Melly’s dance lessons, Belinda’s cheerleading practice, Dustin’s karate obsession, Conroy’s art lessons, and Princess and St. Peter’s biweekly gymnastics lessons, if Dustin didn’t participate in the great family migration using one of the two minivans, nobody would get anywhere.
Besides, he helped his father out at the garage after school when he didn’t have karate, and he knew more about the inside and outside of a car, any car, than Quinlan knew about the tour bus that had broken down two summers before, trapping the orchestra inside for six full hours.
And that was a lot.
But usually Dustin and Belinda came into the kitchen to ask for a snack and to share their day and play with St. Peter and Princess for a minute before they went upstairs to do homework.
Belinda had come in while Quinlan was doing dishes—but Dustin hadn’t.
Well, Quinlan had recovered from his crush on Sammy in the last three years. He’d gotten his degree and was working on his masters, and now, when he went on tour with the orchestra, he and Bobbie were paid as teachers, and they performed together as part of the finale.
Quinlan had even entertained two lovers since he’d started working for Sammy’s aunt and uncle—discreetly, of course, taking them into his quarters when the kids couldn’t see. The relationships hadn’t panned out—both men had been looking for complete dedication after the first month, right down to Quinlan quitting his job.
Quinlan wasn’t ready to do that.
Unlike the much-vaunted Taylor, who had married Jacob’s cousin and was best friends with Nica, there was nothing to tether Quinlan to this family if he quit being the nanny.
But he’d eaten dinner at their table for three years. He wanted—more than anything, he wanted—to not have to walk away from the dinner table, not have to walk away from the family, from the kids. He left on the summer tour and mourned—although Belinda and Dustin and now Melly all kept him supplied with pictures from their summer via text.
Those words he’d spoken to Dustin so long ago, about the pain of failed love being better than nothing—those words had faded.
St. Peter had awakened on Christmas morning last year, and—eluding the entire family—run outside and up the stairs to Quinlan’s apartment, banging on the door and insisting he come down to see what Santa had left him.
Santa had left him a new French horn, because it was something he’d said he wanted to learn to play but had admitted over dinner that his own careful frugality kept him from investing in.
But the French horn was incidental.
What mattered was St. Peter and Princess T, in their pajamas, pounding on his door, begging him to come join their Christmas.
What mattered was that, three years running, he had a family to go to for the holidays, and food to eat, even if he’d helped Nica prepare half of it, right down to the freezer cookies that he now had recipes for and would never, ever lose.
And part of the price Quinlan gladly paid for those recipes and the warm Christmas mornings—and the insane Christmas afternoons—with Jacob and Nica’s family, and Sammy’s uncles and siblings, and Nica’s parents, and even Taylor and Brandon, who were friends now, was that he knew what Dustin was feeling, what was hurting him, even when the closemouthed little shit wouldn’t mention a thing to anybody else in the world.
“Dustin?” Quinlan had come armed—he brought cookies, milk, and a turkey sandwich, because Dustin practiced three days a week and taught a couple of junior classes as well. Metabolism—the boy had it. “Dustin, I brought you a snack.”
He waited then. Barging in then would destroy all the trust they’d so carefully built.
“Fine.”
Quinlan pushed the door open and sniffed. Dustin had been smoking—not in the room, but possibly after his lesson, or even before he’d come inside. Now he was hunched over his desk, laptop pushed back so he could work on his physics homework, pretending he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“Don’t let your father catch you,” Quinlan said mildly, setting the plate down by Dustin’s elbow. “And be sure to shower before dinner.”
Dustin’s head drooped on his neck. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“They’re going to be really happy.”
Quinlan let that hang in the room, but he didn’t state the obvious. Sammy and Cooper were going to be really happy for a really short time if Sammy couldn’t find a bone marrow donor sometime in the next two years. Sammy’s health had become more than just a “concern.” Sammy’s Uncle Channing and his husband, Tino, Nica’s brother, had spent the better part of a year searching donor databases for a match.
From what Sammy had confided, Channing had even written a conciliatory letter to Sammy’s long-absent father, asking if he could at least come get tested to see if he would work. They were waiting on a response, last Quinlan had heard, and Quinlan was just going to pray a lot and have some faith. Because… because Sammy.
But the fear for his health hadn’t stopped Sammy and Cooper from going forward with the wedding, and Quinlan—who worried incessantly, along with the rest of the family—was so very happy.
But he wasn’t sure how Dustin would feel about it.
“I want them to be happy forever,” Dustin said, his voice choked. “Did you see him last week?”
Chapped lips, chapped fingers—Quinlan thought his hair was thinning, in spite of frequent blood transfusions.
“He looks like hell,” Quinlan said softly, because Dustin wasn’t a fool.
“I love him, Quin—but… but I love him like… like I want him to be healthy. Cooper’s a good guy. I’m fine with him being with Cooper. But… but… why can’t he have them both? The good guy and the good blood and the….”
Dustin’s voice broke, and Quinlan crouched in front of him and hugged him, just hugged him, and let him cry.
For once, Quinlan didn’t have any lessons to teach or anything to say that would make it better. The boy had grown up in his own heart already—he knew all he needed to about loving without condition and about letting people go.
All he wanted was what they all wanted—for someone he cared about to be okay.
Dustin
DUSTIN trotted across the quad, holding his mortarboard flat against the unexpected winds of the early-June day. Jesus, could a few more people show up here? It was bad enough his entire family had to attend, but he could swear they emptied out the damned county for one lousy high school graduation.
He pau
sed uncomfortably to take congratulations from his teachers, from his friends, from his first boyfriend, who was going to Texas A&M. Josh tugged on his sleeve, asking if he wanted to go out for coffee now that the ceremony was over, but Dustin told him no.
“Sorry, man—it’s a nice idea, but we got family drama going down right now. My cousin—”
“Is he okay?” Josh knew all about it—Dustin had been grateful for a confidant this last year who did not talk to his parents on a daily basis.
“I don’t know!” Dustin said impatiently. “He was going in for his final appointment today—we should find out at the family thing later.”
“Oh! Hey—I’ll text you later.” Josh held out his hands, giving Dustin permission to blow him off, and Dustin took a deep breath and tried what he thought of as “channeling Quinlan.”
“Please do,” he said with all the graciousness in his soul. “I’d love to go out for coffee sometime this summer.” He summoned a wistful smile for a lot of kisses and one giddy, moonlit night of mutual hand jobs—as well as lots of late-night study sessions and some serious friendship under the bridge as Dustin figured out what he wanted to do with his life.
“You and me, we’re good, right?”
Josh bit his lip and nodded, expressive blue eyes getting shiny. “Yeah, Dustin. We’re friends. I’m… I mean, you’re my best friend—I hope that’s okay.”
Dustin nodded and swallowed, for a moment remembering that he wasn’t ever going to see all the people he’d just crossed the stage with in one place again. “That’s great,” he said honestly. “I… we never would have worked the other way, but you’re a good friend.”
They hugged warmly, and then Dustin broke away, feeling his pocket buzz. “I gotta go—but text me!”
He turned around and pulled out his phone, seeing his sister’s text. We’re back by the theater, dumbass—there’s a zillion of us!
He looked up past the milling parents and grimaced. Belinda, Melly, Conroy, and Tay—because she was seven now and too old for Princess T—were standing on chairs back by the theater, holding a homemade butcher-paper banner that read “Well done, Dustin!”
Quinlan stood next to them, holding St. Peter on his hip while Dustin’s parents waved madly on the other side. Of course, Sammy and his siblings had wanted to come, and so had his husband and his uncles, as well as the grandparents—but you only got so many tickets to give your family for graduation. In fact, Dustin had needed to hit Josh up for two of his extras as it was.
They were all going to the uncles’ place after this to celebrate, along with Dustin’s grandparents—both sets.
It was sort of daunting, being the oldest and graduating from high school. Dustin’s Uncle Tino had told Dustin that Sammy put a lot of pressure on himself when he was younger—and Tino had done the same when he’d been Dustin’s age.
“It’s not your fault you’re the first,” he’d said, the crinkles at the corners of his brown eyes making him look a lot like Dustin’s mom. “Your whole family loves you, in spite of the fact that you spit and growl worse than a stray cat. Enjoy that, okay?”
At the time, Cooper and Sammy had been sitting outside in the shade, and Cooper had been plying Sammy with juice, to try to keep Sammy’s health up.
“Not everybody has the things you do.”
Dustin had looked out beyond the window to Sammy and Cooper and thought about Sammy’s health and the fact that Cooper had been a foster kid with no family at all.
And he’d thought about Quinlan, whose family had apparently turned their backs for good, because Quinlan certainly hadn’t heard from them in the past four years.
“I’ll do my best, Uncle Tino,” Dustin had said at the time, feeling overwhelmed. “Just… I mean… you’re super smart at business. And Sammy’s got music. You… you all know, I’ll probably be just like my dad and work on cars, right?”
A spasm of regret crossed Tino’s face, and Dustin’s heart fell.
Then Tino said, “Dustin, I used to worry so hard about your dad. Because he was so smart, but all he wanted to do was ‘work on cars.’ And then he fell in love with my sister the same summer Channing and I got together, and I realized that just because Jacob didn’t have his life planned out didn’t mean he wasn’t going to have an amazing life. And look at him—your dad is the happiest, most content man I’ve ever known. Being your dad was the thing he was born to do. So if all you want to do with your life is be part of the family business, and that will make you happy, do that. He’s built you a dynasty. Be a part of that. Be proud of it. I’m sure he’d love to give his son the business he built with his two hands.”
Dustin had needed to swallow a lot and clear his throat then. Because coming from Tino, who ran multiple businesses with Sammy’s Uncle Channing, having that sort of validation meant a lot.
But then, so did Quinlan’s quiet hum of approval when Dustin asked his dad if he could go to automotive classes after graduation, so he could learn all the latest diagnostics and the new engines his father’s crew didn’t know yet.
“What?” Dustin had asked defensively. “What’s that sound?”
“That’s the sound of someone who’s watching you make a good decision and doing something proactive with your life,” Quinlan told him. “I think you and your father will make a wonderful team.”
“He’ll need business school too!” his mother called from the kitchen, because God forbid she not have her word in there somewhere, so Dustin had signed up for junior college classes after the automotive workshops.
So Dustin’s future was all planned out—or, not really all, but at least it wasn’t frightening and at loose ends. All he really had to worry about was Sammy.
Sammy’s Uncle Channing had finally gotten hold of Sammy’s father, and although nobody was supposed to know why the man had agreed to give his son his bone marrow and platelets and then walk off into the sunset, everybody was pretty sure Channing had paid him off.
Dustin figured if that were the case, then just as well. Money, his family seemed to have enough of, but they only had one Sammy, and he was the most important thing.
Sammy had gone in for the first transplant procedure a month before the December wedding. His platelet count had improved—but not enough. He’d gone in for a second transplant in March, and the last three months, the entire family had been holding their breath.
Waiting.
“Has he been to the doctor’s yet? What’s his platelet count? Is he still doing good? He’s still taking his supplements?” It was a daily conversation.
On the one hand, if Dustin knew all his family and extended family were obsessing over his health the way they were over his cousin’s, he’d fucking lose his shit all over everybody for butting in where he most assuredly did not want them.
On the other hand, this was Sammy, and he was the oldest cousin period, and he was sweet and kind and dreamy and special, and the entire family—including Dustin’s parents and his brothers and sisters—depended on him to be okay.
Quinlan’s face—hell, his breath, his heart, every emotion Quinlan usually showed—seemed to have been frozen since December.
Nobody else in the family seemed to have noticed.
Dustin had. Quinlan usually played tag or peekaboo with St. Peter until the baby dropped from exhaustion. Okay, not a baby—he was starting preschool next fall. Dustin had seen him prance Tay around the living room, laughing until she peed.
For nearly four years, Quinlan Gregory had been the quiet strength behind the family, the reason everybody got out the door fed, dressed, and in a decent mood. The reason Dustin’s mom didn’t lose her shit on Fridays because she was exhausted and had to cook, and the reason Jacob could stay well-informed on what his children were up to.
And in the last month, as they’d been waiting for the final visit from the doctor to declare Sammy’s anemia was in remission, Quinlan’s emotions had been on such tight lockdown that the little kids had taken to walking through the house q
uietly through sheer empathy—not because he yelled, because he never yelled, but because any interruption, any distraction from the complicated mental gymnastics that seemed to be holding him together, felt like cruelty beyond belief.
As Dustin had completed the final hurdles of public education, he’d been keeping an eye out on Quinlan, waiting to see when he took his first real breath.
They were supposed to find out about Sammy’s health when they met at the big house to celebrate the graduation. Dustin might have just walked the stage in his robe and hood—an honors student, after all—and gotten a diploma case with the diploma to be mailed later, but he had to admit, the climax of his day was waiting for him by his Uncle Tino’s swimming pool with a buffet dinner and—ugh!—carrot cake.
Still, Dustin took everybody’s hugs stoically, saying thank you to his brothers and sisters and trying not to notice that his mom was weeping like a sieve.
He watched as Quinlan pulled a travel-sized Kleenex from his back pocket and passed it to Mom, and felt a little surge of irritation.
Quinlan had lost weight these last months—he’d almost forgotten how to laugh. He was leaving on tour in a week, and Dustin hadn’t seen him as much as do laundry or ask Belinda to tend his fish. Who was taking care of him?
But St. Peter was getting fractious, and Tay was whining about being hungry—it was time to pile into one of the two family minivans that had brought the mess of them to the school and go.
Except when he got to the cars, his dad said, “Quin—you want to do the honors?”
Quinlan grinned—his first real smile in forever, and it hit Dustin in the gut. “So, Dusty—you sure you want to get in your mom’s minivan?”
“Where else am I gonna go?” Dustin asked, feeling surly. Sammy, dammit! It was consuming them all whole!
Quinlan chuckled, like he’d expected no less. Dustin was torn between irritation and a quiet, burning joy at seeing Quin—just for a moment—looking like himself.
“Well, I think you still need to show up at Tino and Channing’s, but you may want to drive this instead.”