Surely he would be there, she thought, trudging towards the bathroom. Logan hadn’t mentioned the festival during any of his inane and unending yammering yesterday but he seemed to be everywhere she was lately so she was just taking it on faith he’d pop up. Quincy turned the water on hot, letting the heat fill the tiny room while she brushed her teeth. She wiped the steam off the mirror and winced. She looked like death. Or something really, really close to death. She always had shadows under her eyes. It was a fact of life she had learned to accept but now, the shadows had deepened to a dusky purple and the skin around them looked waxy and pale, making the darkness stand out even more. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her whole face had a chalky, dull look. She leaned over to spit the toothpaste in the sink and grimaced as she came back up. If she went out looking like this, she was going to scare people. She turned away from the horror and stepped into the shower, sighing as the hot water hit her tired, aching body. That was the stuff, she thought, closing her eyes and letting it run over her head and down her face. She usually hated water around her eyes but right now, she just didn’t care. Maybe it could work a miracle and erase the wretched night she had just spent with nothing but Mr. Darcy and her own mind for company. Not that Mr. Darcy was bad company. Well, he was. At least at the beginning of the book. But he was still usually enough to chase the noise away. If not completely, then enough to let her drift off for a little while. But last night had been bad. Quincy sank to the bottom of the bathtub, leaving the shower on full-blast, huddling under the heavy stream with her head resting on her knees. Sleep. She just wanted to sleep. Even now, relaxed and surrounded by steam and the sound of falling water, she couldn’t let go. Her eyes wanted to close but the banging and pounding in her head wouldn’t relent. She thought fleetingly of the sleeping pills she had tried once or twice. The normal dosage hadn’t touched her but she had kept them anyway. She bet if she took every pill in that bottle, she would finally sleep. And sleep and sleep. She probably wouldn’t wake up. Would that be better, she wondered for a moment? The thought was...appealing. Those pills would probably make everything very, very quiet. So quiet, in fact, that she would never have to wake up again. It was a nice thought, actually. She just wanted to sleep. And if that was the only way to do it -
Quincy jolted as the water suddenly turned cold, jerking her head up and out of whatever place she had just gone. She pulled herself up and shut the water off, shivering as her body adjusted to the shock of the sudden change. She must have been in the shower for a long time to lose the hot water like that. Longer than she thought. Had she managed to nod off for a few minutes? She grimaced, thinking of the path she had been spiraling down. Not that she would ever do something like that, taking enough pills to make sure she slept permanently, but she would do well to not dwell on it too closely. As tired as she was, it was a more attractive choice than she’d like. But still, she would never. Certainly not. Would she? The thought was troubling so she did what she usually did so well - she diverted. She had enough thoughts bouncing around in her head, it wasn’t difficult to pick another one at random.
She toweled off and wrapped up in the battered, threadbare fleece robe she’d picked up at a yard sale for 25 cents a few weeks ago and padded barefoot into the kitchen to start the coffee maker. She might have blamed the coffee for keeping her awake all night but she certainly wasn’t going to skip it. She’d decided during her night from Hades to skip her run altogether in honor of the one day of freedom she’d granted herself out of spite and indulged in the shower that obviously couldn’t work miracles instead. She wasn’t as young as she once was and the long, sleepless night had taken a bigger toll than all the hot water in the world would be able to fix. She poured the coffee and took a long, measured drink. What she wouldn’t give for one uninterrupted night of sleep. No pills or migraines required. Maybe instead of the shadows under her eyes growing, they would shrink. Or disappear altogether. Maybe the paranoia that plagued her every waking minute would disappear too. Maybe she’d stop seeing assassins around every corner and could let herself make a friend. Maybe that friend could be a giant blonde teddy bear of a guy who’d be up for a spur-of-the-moment walk around a downtown fall festival.
She stood in her tiny kitchenette, leaning back against the outdated counter and sipping her coffee, taking her time and letting the shower and the coffee work whatever magic they could, when she realized It was darker than usual for, she shot a glance at the clock on the coffee maker, almost 9:00 in the morning. Quincy pushed off the counter and wandered over to the sliding glass door, looking out over her balcony towards downtown. It wasn’t raining but it sure didn’t look like what she would consider festival weather. Granted, she had never been to a fall festival but still, shouldn’t it be sunny? If felt like it should be sunny. Instead, it was overcast and dim, without a hint of break in the clouds. She stood there with her coffee, debating whether to go. She could use the weather as an excuse; Mr. and Mrs. Boatright would certainly understand and it would mean not having to deal with either of the men in her life. It would be easy. She could stay in her sweatpants and flip on the television for a movie marathon. Or keep working her way back through Pride and Prejudice. She could even curl back into bed and...what? Not sleep. And if she couldn’t sleep, what was the point? Really, what was the point of any of it? She couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t make friends, she was utterly exhausted. Life was little more than a habit some days, barely worth living. Maybe it would be better if she just...no. She shut the thought down. She had told Mr. and Mrs. Boatright she might come. If nothing else, she would see it through for them. She turned and set her half-empty mug on the banister and walked back into her room. Five minutes later, she slipped out the door, hair up and running shoes on. It had been a mistake to skip her run, she’d decided. So she’d just run to the festival - two birds, one stone. Her feet found their steady rhythm as she headed out on her normal loop, allowing the familiar cadence to slow the pounding of her head and her heart, washing away all thoughts save for two - finding Logan and having one single, solitary day of normality.
By the time she reached downtown, Quincy was feeling a little more human. The run hadn’t completely cleared her mind but it had helped her tuck the noise back into a corner of her mind, safely away so she could at least function. And while she was still exhausted, she didn’t feel desperate enough to wish her life away. Since she was only running the few miles to downtown and not her whole loop, she’d left her ear buds at home and had been able to hear the festival from a mile away. She dropped out of her jog to a walk when it came into view. She wasn’t sure what she had expected but this was, well, more. The entire historical downtown area had been blocked off from traffic like Mr. Boatright said and booths and tents had sprung up all over. The botanical garden had been transformed into a giant, open-air greenhouse and dozens of people were milling through the flowers and plants on display. The playground had an assortment of bounce houses and sprinklers set up for the kids, with a park attendant keeping watch so little ones couldn’t accidentally slip away while their parents relaxed a few feet away. There was Mr. Boatright’s petting zoo off to the side, complete with an area for pony rides. Quincy smiled as she walked, taking her time and looking at all there was to see. Like Mr. Boatright said, all the local businesses were set up outside their shops in booths or at tables, selling drinks and snacks for quarters. Mr. and Mrs. Sanders had a big tent set up in front of PaddyO’s with bean bag chairs and blankets spread out in the shade and there were several people taking advantage, perusing the piles of books spread out like coffee tables between the seats. Mrs. Sanders waved as Quincy walked by and she smiled, waving back. She felt like she had stepped out of real life and into an old-fashioned episode of Andy Griffith. It was the perfect little town.
“Quincy!” Mr. Boatright hollered, and she jogged across the gazebo to find him and Mrs. Boatright surrounded by a small crowd.
“Here you are dear,” Mrs. Boatright said, handing something iced
to a worn father of three, before turning to Quincy.
“You made it,” she said, beaming. “What do you think?” she asked, turning and looking out over the crowd. “Do we know how to throw a festival or what?”
Quincy grinned. “I had no idea it would be this big,” she said. “This is amazing.”
A block down from the Boatrights’ tent, there was a group of tables set up with what looked like a pumpkin carving contest in progress. To her right, a line of people stretched out in front of a giant tank of water, waiting for their turn at a chance to dunk the town mayor as he called out good natured taunts to anyone who missed.
“It’s really amazing,” she said again. “But I’m sorry the weather isn’t better. It’s so cloudy,” she said, glancing up to where the clouds were still hiding the sun.
“Actually,” Mrs. Boatright said, “that’s a blessing. It can get so hot some years when the sun is out. There’s usually a much bigger crowd at Martin and Lou’s book tent. Helps us when it’s cooler too. Coffee just sounds better when it’s not blazing hot outside.”
Quincy supposed that was true, although it wouldn’t deter her.
“And speaking of.” Mrs. Boatright turned and opened a cooler she had set up under the table. “I iced yours this morning. Figured you might run out here and would need something for a cool down.” Quincy accepted the large cup gratefully.
“You look tired dear,” Mrs. Boatright said kindly. She put a hand on Quincy’s back, patting it maternally. “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you look tired a lot. Is everything okay?”
Quincy sipped her coffee, trying not to let Mrs. Boatright see how on-the-mark she was. “Just a long night,” she finally said. “I didn’t get much sleep. But the run helped.” She held up her cup. “And this is the icing on the cake.”
“And that’s all it is?” Mrs. Boatright asked, still looking concerned. “Because if it’s something else, you know me and the mister would be glad to help. Would insist on it, actually.”
Quincy forced a smile, blinking back the tears that seemed to come out of nowhere. She had never had anyone act like they cared about her the way these people did. It was both wonderful and terrible. She had no doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Boatright would do whatever they could to help and, in that moment, she wanted so very, very badly to let them. She had a momentary regret that she had shoved her sunglasses on when she left her apartment despite the cloudy weather. If Mrs. Boatright had seen the tears, it might have been all the excuse Quincy would have needed to let it all out. As it was, the giant aviators did their job and kept even the most kindly of concern away.
“That’s all it is. I’m going to try to turn in early tonight. Maybe I can get caught up.”
“Well,” Mrs. Boatright said, still not looking completely convinced. “I’d better get back to it. I need to brew another batch of the pumpkin fluff the mister detests so much.” Mrs. Boatright beamed. “It’s selling like crazy.”
She gestured out towards the crowds. “You get out there and see what you can see. And then go home and take a nap,” she scolded, shaking her finger in Quincy’s face. “I don’t like wan and worn. It’s not a good look for you.”
As she scuttled off, Mr. Boatright appeared at Quincy’s side. “She’s taken quite a shine to you,” he drawled lazily. “She worries.” He shot her a side glance. “We both do.”
Again, the sunglasses were her saving grace.
“I know,” Quincy said. “I’ll try to drop by more, let her know I’m okay. Let you both know,” she added. “See you around Mr. Boatright.”
She was a few feet away when she heard Mr. Boatright call after her. “That man you bumped into last night outside the store. Brendan, was it?”
“Brandon,” she corrected.
“Yes, Brandon. That was it. Is he a friend of yours?” he asked.
“We work together at the library,” she said. “He’s new.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“Well,” he said, hesitating. “I can’t put my finger on it, but that boy bothers me. He came in after you left, asking questions. Seemed nice enough,” Mr. Boatright said, trailing off. “But still, he just rubbed me the wrong way.”
Brandon seemed to have that effect on people, she thought. “He’s just awkward,” Quincy said, trying to reassure Mr. Boatright. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“You’re probably right,” he said, “but still, never hurts to be careful these days.”
“No sir, it sure doesn’t,” she answered. “Thanks for the heads up.”
He finally smiled and waved her away. “You have fun now, you hear?” he said. “And come back when you’re ready for a refill.” He turned back to the booth and Quincy stepped down off the curb and headed into the fray.
There was so much to see and do packed around the square that Quincy didn’t really know where to start. But the longer she looked, the more she realized there was a method to the madness. The games and petting zoo were set up in the center of the square, ringed by food and drink tents - everything from grilled burgers, soft pretzels, and pizza by the slice to slushes, snow cones, and cotton candy. And surrounding all of that were the vendors selling handmade goods, all manner of woodworking, jewelry, and clothing. She took another drink of coffee and decided to just start from the outside and work her way in. It wasn’t like she was in a hurry. She might as well enjoy the day. Stick with her determination to have an ordinary day. The sun was finally starting to peek through the clouds and she was more glad than ever she had her sunglasses. She waved at Mr. and Mrs. Sanders again, stacking some of the books scattered between the bean bags and quilts under their tent as she stepped off the sidewalk towards the first group of booths. She took her time wandering around the crafts, admiring the different odds and ends, watching as others haggled with the owners, looking for a better price on this necklace or that scrolled leather purse. Frankly, she thought anyone with the ability to carve such beautiful swirls and flowers on a piece of leather or etch designs into a piece of glass should be able to set the price at whatever they wanted. But this seemed to be something the buyers and sellers were comfortable with, so what did she know. A couple of the buyers noticed her looking and tried to wave her in closer but she smiled and shook her head. She was just looking. It didn’t make any sense to buy something that’s she’d either have to pack around with her or abandon at a moment’s notice. She already had enough stuff she was going to have to walk away from. No use adding more. As she wandered, the different scents of food cooking on the grills mingled in the air and she knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d be ready to start sampling. She might not be interested in buying the homemade goods scattered around but she was going to enjoy the food.
“Hey Quincy!” someone yelled and she turned to see Caroline from the bakery waving her over. “I didn’t think we’d see you today,” she said. “Don’t you only hold vampire hours?”
Quincy paused, not sure how to respond.
“You know.” Caroline said. “We only see you jog through early in the morning and walk home at night. In the dark. Vampire hours.”
“Oh,” Quincy said. Vampire hours. Super. “Well, you know. Got to get the exercise in where I can.”
“I definitely wouldn’t be getting up so early if I didn’t have to,” Caroline said obliviously. “I don’t know how you do it. Here,” she said suddenly, grabbing a spoon and sticking it in the jar she was holding. “Give this a try.”
She shoved a heaping spoonful of red stuff at Quincy, who took it out of self-preservation but didn’t know exactly what to do with it. “What is it?” she finally asked, holding it up to smell it. It looked...wet. And red.
“Jam,” Caroline said slowly, clearly having an internal debate about Quincy’s intellectual prowess, or lack thereof. “Strawberry,” she added, as though that might help. “It’s super good. We make it from scratch.”
It didn’t really look like any jam Quincy had ever seen but it did smell good, so why
not? She popped the spoon in her mouth, afraid further hesitation might invoke further wrath. And was shocked.
“Oh wow. Caroline, this is amazing!”
And it was. It didn’t taste like the strawberry-flavored stuff she’d bought at the store. Quincy could taste the real strawberries and something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
“What is that?” she asked Caroline. “It’s almost...minty, maybe?”
Caroline beamed. “We added some fresh mint leaves while we were boiling the strawberries. And we don’t use any of the preservatives and fillers big companies use.” She shrugged. “It’s a little runny but totally worth it.”
“For sure.” Quincy agreed. “I wasn’t planning to buy anything today but give me a jar of that.” Jam was an acceptable purchase, she decided. She’d eat it for breakfast a couple of times and be good to go. Besides, it was too good not to take home for later. She gave Caroline her money and tucked the jar into her backpack, $5 well-spent.
“Bye Quincy,” Caroline waved and Quincy stepped back off the curb, deciding she’d take a look at the games before grabbing some lunch.
The games had a fair mix of children and adults lined up to take part and it was fun watching what everyone was doing. There was a booth where kids were tossing rings at a pyramid of 2-liter soda bottles, trying to land a ring around the top of one of the bottles to win their prize. Quincy grinned as a tiny girl who couldn’t have been much older than five lumbered past her, trying and failing to carry her soda bottle back to where her mother lounged with a toddler, sweaty and red in the face, sprawled across her lap, sound asleep. Behind the ring toss, a group of people were walking in a circle in time to a fiddle being played with pizzazz by an elderly gentleman who looked to be roughly 105 years old. He was wearing a pair of worn overalls, one strap flung haphazardly off his shoulder, working the bow over the strings with hands that looked gnarled and twisted from either years of heavy labor or arthritis. Most likely both. But it didn’t seem to hamper him in the least. The bow flew and both the people playing the game and those watching from the sidelines were clapping their own hands in time with the music. All the setting lacked, she decided, was an old guy playing a jug. Quincy stood and watched the way the fingers of the man’s left hand played over the strings, pushing at one here, letting go of one there. There was a rhythm to it, a kind of symmetry that absorbed her. The man’s right hand slid the bow back and forth across the strings, almost too quickly for Quincy to keep up with. The movements of his fingers were subtle, set apart only by the tiny differences in angles and the sounds they produced. She stood watching those minuscule movements in a daze, every sound except the notes of the fiddle dying away until even the noise in her head was blissfully silent. She stood that way, absorbed with the man’s hands, listening to the music while the breeze played across her hair, until the music stopped abruptly, jarring her out of her reverie. The players froze and Quincy realized they each stood on a paper number staked to the ground. The old fiddle player dropped one of his gnarled hands into an upside-down hat propped up beside him and called out “Four!” A cheer went up as the sweet little lady standing on the number four stepped out of line and walked to a row of tables stacked with cakes that Quincy hadn’t even noticed. A woman was standing behind them and handed the winner a cake that was sitting in the spot marked with a paper four just like the circle on the ground.
Shattered Highways Page 9