“So my people skills are a little rusty,” she defended. “Not everyone can be the cool guy on campus.”
“If you’re referring to me, then thank you. Saying it myself sounds like bragging.” He grinned and she rolled her eyes. “And I was talking about Brandon over there. He’s not so good with the ladies.”
“Oh,” Quincy said, a little off balance. She hadn’t considered that maybe she wasn’t the weird one. “Thanks. I think.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I wouldn’t have minded some of that pizza.”
“What are you reading?”, Logan asked a few minutes later. “It looks way worse than mine and that’s saying something.”
Quincy looked down in confusion. “Nautical Mile. It’s about boats.”
“Right, yeah, I can see that,” he said dryly. “What I’m wondering is, why are you reading it?”
“Why not?”, Quincy asked, still confused. “It’s better than Emergency Field Medicine for Combat Situations.” She paused. “Right?”
“Huh,” Logan managed. He seemed to think it over. “I’m not sure. Is it?”
“I thought guys liked boats,” Quincy said as she slammed the book shut. “I’m learning about sailing knots and nautical miles and rigging. It’s practical.”
“You live in Arkansas,” he said. “A landlocked state in the middle of the country.”
“So?”
“So? So sailing is about the last skill you need to learn.”
“One never knows what might come in handy,” she sniffed, tucking the book back into her bag. “But fine. If it bothers you so much, I’ll read something else. “Hey,” she said, pulling Pride and Prejudice out of her backpack. “Maybe this is something you’ll appreciate.”
Logan grimaced. “I’m sure Jane Austen was fine. In fact, about an hour ago I learned she’s ‘one of the foremost pioneers in romanticism in the 19th century.” He tapped the book he was reading with the end of his pen. “But I think I’ll stick with my Tom Clancys and my Robert Ludlums.”
Quincy shook her head. “That’s a shame. I’m sure your little research project will confirm it, but Jane Austen was brilliant.”
“What was so brilliant about her?” Logan asked, turning to look at her. “No, really. Defend the statement,” he challenged.
“Fine,” Quincy answered. “She was funny.”
Logan waited, obviously expecting to hear more. “And?” he finally asked.
“And, in an era of Victorian stoicism and dry prose, sarcasm tends to stand out. Especially,” she added, “for a woman.”
“Ah ha!” Logan exclaimed. “I knew it. You only admire her because she’s a woman.”
“Not true,” Quincy protested. “There were plenty of female writers who only wrote dime novels and fluff pieces. They dumbed it down because that was what was expected. But Austen was smart. And she wasn’t afraid to be smart in a culture dominated by men.”
Logan smiled.
“What?” she asked.
“I don’t doubt you. I just wanted to hear you fight for it. You really like her, huh?”
“I do.” Quincy thought about it. “And it isn’t just because she’s smart and cutting. She writes real people. Even written two hundred years ago, her characters still make perfect sense.”
“Well then,” he said, “you’d better get to it.” He sighed. “And I’d better keep going. If I stop, I may never start again. Hey,” he said, “I don’t suppose…”
“No,” Quincy said, cutting him off. “I’m not going to make you a cheat sheet of the authors you’re supposed to be studying.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” he said, indignant. “And also, you already know them all, so why not just…”
“Not going to happen,” she said grabbing his chin and turning his face back towards his book.
“Fine.” He sighed again. “I guess I’ll just muddle through.”
They sat quietly for a few more minutes, Quincy reading and Logan pretending to read, before she broke the silence this time.
“You’re not going to say anything?” she asked.
“About what?” he asked, looking up at her.
“I know you heard Brandon say it. My name,” she prompted when he still appeared clueless.
“Oh. That.” He turned back towards his book, picking up his pen to scribble something completely illegible in his notebook. “Doesn’t count if someone else tells me.”
Quincy smiled and went back to her book, glancing at the man next to her now and again, thinking she might not mind so much if he decided to stick around for a little while.
Chapter 12
Quincy
Quincy wasn’t quite ready to go back to her apartment when she got off work so she decided to walk the long way home through downtown. Logan had, surprisingly, not volunteered or insisted on walking with her. She almost felt like they had reached some sort of understanding tonight. He was so pushy and she’d figured, once Brandon said her name, he would become even more impossible. But in a shocking turn of events, he had instead been...gracious. He hadn’t rubbed it in her face or been smug, both things he had proven himself more than capable of being. Instead, he had backed off. By not using her name, he was allowing her to set the terms of their friendship. It seemed completely out of character, based on the few interactions they’d had so far. But the disparity made him interesting. Against her better judgement, she was intrigued. He honestly didn’t seem to want anything from her besides friendship. He could be playing her, of course. Maybe he had already known her name and was trying to ingratiate himself after his original approach failed. Who was she kidding? If it had failed completely, he wouldn’t still be hanging around. He would have made a move already. And besides, there were easier ways to get close to someone than investing four hours in a ten pound book about Victorian women who liked to write.
Someone called her name and Quincy glanced up. “Hi Mr. Boatright,” she answered with a smile.
It was a nice evening, cool and clear, and the locals were out en masse. Mr. Boatright had stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of Sit-A-Spell, broom in hand, and noticed her walking by.
“Quincy, my girl. Come on over here. I need your opinion on something.”
Quincy jogged across the square, not minding the pit stop, and followed Mr. Boatright into the store. “Hi Mrs. Boatright,” she called.
“Hi sweetheart,” answered the woman wiping down the bar. Stout and matronly, Mrs. Boatright served as an impressive foil to her always affable husband, who seemed to take life as it came. Quincy had never seen them not bickering. She had, however, seen the loving glances Mrs. Boatright aimed at her husband when she thought no one was looking and the way Mr. Boatright couldn’t seem to keep from touching her every time she came near.
They’re not fooling anyone, Quincy thought with a smile.
Mrs. Boatright tossed her rag down and rolled her eyes. “Did Mackey drag you in here to prove him right? Because it’s going to backfire.”
Quincy grinned. “He just said he needed an opinion.”
“I’ve already given him his opinion but he’s too stubborn to hear it,” she answered, shooting a mock glare at her husband.
“Well, I’m glad to be of service,” Quincy assured her. “Especially if it involves drinking coffee.”
“You drink too much of it,” Mrs. Boatright scolded. “It’s not good for you.”
“Interesting opinion, coming from a coffee shop owner,” Mr. Boatright observed wryly. “Here,” he said, sitting a mug down in front of here. “Tell us what you think.”
“What is it?” Quincy asked, leaning down and breathing deep. It smelled amazing.
“That,” Mrs. Boatright said, “is our new fall coffee flavor. Mackey doesn’t like it.”
“It’s fluffy coffee. We don’t sell fluffy coffee!” Mr. Boatright insisted.
“It’s pumpkin cider. Pumpkin cider is not fluffy. It’s seasonal. People go crazy for pumpkin-flavored anything this time o
f year.” Mrs. Boatright rolled her eyes again and then smiled brightly at Quincy. “Go ahead dear. Give it a try.”
Quincy wasn’t really sure how she felt about pumpkin-flavored coffee but she took a tentative sip. “Huh.” And then she took another one. “Is there apple in this, too?”
Mrs. Boatright beamed. “I brewed it with apple cider and added a splash of pumpkin creamer. What do you think?”
Quincy looked at Mr. Boatright apologetically. “Sorry Mr. Boatright. But this is amazing.” She looked back at the woman trying oh-so-conspicuously not to gloat. “Inspired. Life-changing, even. Definitely a winner.”
Mrs. Boatright laughed outright. “For that, you get a cup to go - on the house.”
Mr. Boatright sighed. “Well, I suppose if you want to cater to yuppies and hipsters, it is your business too,” he said.
“Yuppies and hipsters need coffee just like everyone else,” Mrs. Boatright answered, turning back to Quincy. “Now, dear. Tell us how you’ve been. Anything new to report?”
Quincy took another sip of her coffee, thinking of how to answer. Her usual reaction was to deflect. Give a vague answer and change the subject. But nothing out of the ordinary had happened lately so maybe she could tell the truth this one time and get away with it. Even though she tried not to, she actually cared what these two people thought. And it was nice to have them care about her. So she threw caution to the wind and took the plunge.
“My engineering class is going pretty well. Professor Michaels has taken an interest in me. Says I should be enrolled as a student instead of auditing for no credit.”
“Well, he’s right,” said Mrs. Boatright fiercely. “I never could understand what a smart young thing like you is doing working in a library for minimum wage.”
Quincy opened her mouth but Mrs. Boatright wasn’t done.
“You read all the time. And not just the squishy stuff like I do. Hard stuff, like doctoring books and law books. It can’t be that hard to get a scholarship if you’re hurting for money. In fact,” she pointed at her husband, “Mackey, go get the checkbook. We’re going to pay for this class.”
Quincy couldn’t help but grin as Mr. Boatright shoved himself up out of his chair, no questions asked.
“Really, it’s okay. That’s so nice of you,” she said, as Mrs. Boatright tried to interrupt, “but it isn’t the money. I don’t really know what I want to do and until I do, I’m okay with trying out different things. Plus,” she smiled gently at Mrs. Boatright to soothe any indignation, “the library is the perfect job. It’s close to work and I get to spend most of my day reading. What’s not to love?”
“Well,” Mrs. Boatright said with a sigh, “I still don’t understand it.” She pointed her finger right in Quincy’s face. “But the offer still stands.”
“Yes ma’am. I appreciate it.”
They sat in silence for a few more minutes, the women sipping their pumpkin cider coffees and Mr. Boatright drinking a straight black, before what looked to be a late-night study group came in.
“I’d better get going,” Quincy said. She stood.
“Make sure you come by tomorrow. We’ve got a tent set up to sell our new fluffy coffee down by the corn maze. We’ll save you a cup.”
Quincy looked at Mr. Boatright. “What’s a corn maze?”
Mrs. Boatright put a large to-go cup in her hand. “Sweetheart, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed all the hubbub out on the street tonight?” Quincy just shook her head. “Child, I just don’t know about you sometimes. This weekend is our fall festival.”
“It’s historic you know,” Mr. Boatright chimed in.
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Boatright huffed, annoyed at being interrupted. “We have apple bobbing and pumpkin carving and all sorts of games set up around the square and a hayride that takes you out to the corn maze. We always have lots of people.”
“It’s really great for the local businesses,” Mr. Boatright had the nerve to add. “We all get in on the festivities.”
“The best part is,” Mrs. Boatright said, ignoring her husband’s obvious delight in ruffling her feathers, “the streets are blocked off to traffic. If you want to come, you have to park and walk in. The kids have a great time running and playing.”
“The petting zoo is always a big hit.”
Mrs. Boatright gave her husband a wry smile. “That’s always been your favorite.”
He leaned across the counter and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Second only to you.” Quincy shook her head. “Okay you two. I get the picture.” She turned and headed toward the door. “Thanks for the coffee. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Quincy took a sip of her coffee as she pulled the door open and stepped out into the night air. It was a clear, brisk night and the locals really were out in full force, setting up tents and decorating the square with hay bales and pumpkins. She frowned. She had to have been very distracted to not notice. She was slipping. She tipped her head up to look at the stars, letting her irritation go and savoring the moment. The Boatrights’ always had a way of making her feel at home, almost like a part of their family. They talked to her like she was important, let her know she mattered. Kind of like Gus and the girls back at the diner in Boise. Just one more reason she was finding it harder and harder to think about leaving, and one more reason why she should. She took another drink of her coffee, shaking off her suddenly pensive mood, and turned to go, slamming face-first into a wall. A moving wall of flesh and cotton. And coffee.
“I’m so sorry,” Quincy gasped, wiping awkwardly at the soaked shirt in front of her.
“My fault,” the wall said. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” Quincy finally looked up, recognizing the voice with some trepidation.
“I didn’t know you lived out this way,” she said.
“I don’t,” Brandon answered. “But I know you like to walk this way so I thought I’d take a chance.” He paused. “Looks like it paid off.”
“Ah,” Quincy replied, not really sure what else to say. Maybe Logan was right. This was getting kind of creepy. “Well. I was just heading home actually.”
Brandon cut her off. “I was going to offer to buy you a coffee but it looks like someone beat me to it.” He nodded towards her cup.
“If you’re looking for coffee, you’ve come to the right place,” she said, gesturing behind her towards Sit-A-Spell. “They should be open for another hour or so. Order their fall special,” she said, lifting her cup. “You won’t regret it.”
“Good to know. Listen.” Quincy tensed, already knowing where this was going. “Are you going to be at this fall block party they’re having tomorrow? I thought, if you were, you might like some company.”
“That’s such a nice offer,” she said, reaching out and squeezing his arm so he’d know she was sincere. Sincerely trying to put an end to his awkward, stilted attempts to ask her out. “But I actually have plans to meet someone here.”
“Someone I know?,” he asked with suspicion.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Seriously, what was with this guy and his complete inability to let things go? And not in a somewhat charming way like Logan. Speaking of Logan …
“I don’t know,” she answered casually. “He goes to school at the university, so maybe you’ve seen him around. He’s tall.” She stopped for a minute to size Brandon up. “A couple inches taller than you, I’d say.” Brandon frowned. “Um, blonde hair. Loud and annoying.” How else could she describe Logan? She didn’t think Brandon would be interested in hearing about his beautiful eyes and infectious smile.
The idea to use Logan had been a spur-of-the-moment yet brilliant decision. A desperate attempt to ward Brandon off yes, but effective just the same. One of the dearest lessons she had learned was that the most believable lies were based in truth. And if there had been anyone she might go with, it would be Logan. Mostly because she didn’t have anyone else, but still.
“Oh. Him. The guy hanging out at the library tonight.” The way he sai
d it made it sound like Logan was the gum Brandon had stepped in and couldn’t scrape off his shoe. Come to think of it, that had kind of been her experience with him too.
“That’s the one,” she said. “So, anyway, I guess I’ll head out.”
“Want me to walk you home?,” he asked, in one last shot at the title.
“Oh, wow.” Absolutely not. “So nice of you to offer.” So concerning of you to offer. “But that’s okay. I don’t want to stand in the way of your coffee.” Brandon started to respond, probably to shoot down her excuse.
“Good night,” she said brightly and turned on her heel, speed walking away as quickly as she could go without running. That guy was really starting to creep her out. She couldn’t put her finger on why, other than the pushy invitations, but he did. And now, thanks to him, she was going to have to track Logan down, convince him to go to the festival with her, and then convince him it was his idea. Fantastic.
Chapter 13
Quincy
Quincy groaned, reluctant to get up, miserable. The night had been a long one, even by her standards. After tossing and turning for the better part of the night, she’d finally hauled herself upright and grabbed a book off the nightstand, flipping on the lamp as she went. But she hadn’t been in the mood to read. She hadn’t been in the mood to do anything except sleep. Even with her usual broken and erratic sleep habits, she could usually piece together an hour here, thirty minutes there. But tonight, she just couldn’t calm down. Maybe it had been the coffee. It didn’t usually bother her but maybe Mrs. Boatright put something extra in her ‘special’ coffee. Something to give it more of a kick. Whatever the reason, sleep just hadn’t come. Even reading hadn’t slowed her mind enough to let her rest, which was unusual. Quincy had been on the verge of going for a 1 a.m. run, almost desperate. She was so, so tired. Tired enough to want to stay where she was, hoping against hope she’d eventual nod off. But miserable and uncomfortable enough to force herself out of bed anyway. Despite herself, Quincy had been looking forward to the festival. She had never been somewhere long enough or been comfortable enough to go to a town event before. That little voice in the back of her head kept nagging her, telling her she was going to be sorry for getting so cozy, sorry she was leaving herself vulnerable. But she buried it beneath the raucous stream of background noise in her brain. One day. She could give herself one day. One day to not think about safety. One day to take life at face value. One day to just assume she’d survive and actually enjoy herself. One day to pretend she could have an actual friend.
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