by Penny Reid
But then, just as suddenly, I felt grateful and…certain.
Quinn and me were always going to be Quinn and me. I could go through the motions, but the end result was going to be the same. Postponing the inevitable was making me miserable, and being miserable wasn’t okay with me anymore.
In fact, I wasn’t okay with being just okay anymore either, not when I could take a simple action and grab happiness by the scrotum.
As Fiona had said, happiness doesn’t have to be fleeting if you accept it. I think in a lot of ways, I had difficulty allowing myself to be happy. Maybe I thought I wasn’t deserving enough to be happy, that I hadn’t earned it. Maybe I thought it wouldn’t last, and I was frightened of one day facing the end of my happiness. Maybe I associated it with selfishness, because my mother always seemed to choose her own happiness over everyone else’s wellbeing.
More likely, I didn’t think it was possible to just be happy.
Just…happy.
No one else was in the wings, suffering because I was happy.
No rigorous minefield of proof was necessary.
No litmus test of worthiness.
No secret handshake.
My eyes were open. I was in love. I wanted to be happy.
I didn’t surrender to it. I grabbed the reigns. I loved Quinn without condition.
I chose happy.
I jumped off his lap.
“Take your pants off.” I motioned to his pants with a flick of my wrist, straightened my skirt and underwear.
Quinn lifted a single eyebrow at me, a cautious smile pulling at his lips. “Janie….”
“Take them off.” I whipped my shirt from my arms, tossed it over my shoulder, and unhooked my bra, casting that aside as well.
Quinn’s eyes immediately went to my breasts and I thought I heard him growl. He reached for me, brought my bare chest to his mouth, and lavished my skin with hungry bites and kisses.
“Pants. Off,” I repeated, arching against him and slipping my hands down his stomach to his belt.
“Why, Kitten? What are you going to do?”
I smiled, kissed him quickly, sank to my knees, and said, “I’m getting married.”
***
Suffice to say, both Quinn and I were very relaxed when the plane touched down in Boston.
He was smirking. It was the worst kind of smirk, too—a smug, arrogant, proud smirk, and I didn’t mind one bit. Yes, I’d abandoned my plans for a big wedding. Yes, I would have to break the news to Marie that all her good advice was for naught. Yes, I was a quitter.
But I didn’t care, because I was happy.
I did feel sorry for our flight attendant, however. If anyone was waiting in the wings suffering due to our happiness, it had to be Donna. Technically, she wasn’t in the wings; she was in the galley. I found her there just before the plane landed.
When I apologized profusely, she was very gracious about it, said that she was happy for us, and then she also apologized. I suggested we work out some kind of signal, like the seatbelt sign on commercial airlines, for future trips. She seemed to think this was a good plan.
Pragmatically, I knew this flight was not the last time Quinn and I would be intimate on the plane. As such, I would have to work on my loud sex noises.
I also thought noise-cancelling headphones would make a great gift for her birthday and made a mental note to pick up a pair.
The plane landed. We changed clothes. Dan was waiting for us in the limo.
As soon as Quinn saw him, everything about his demeanor changed. The smirk disappeared, his eyes shuttered, and a coolness seemed to radiate from his pores. It was like someone had yelled “I need a tampon” in a sports bar.
Scootching farther on the bench seat, I glanced from Quinn to Dan then back again.
“Hey, Dan the security man,” I said, giving him a half wave as the car pulled away from the airport.
“Hey, Janie,” he responded, a tight smile on his face, then he turned his eyes back to Quinn.
Quinn met his gaze and held it for a few moments, and something passed between them that I didn’t understand. It was some secret guy code or telepathy. At length Quinn moved his attention to the window and the landscape beyond.
The limo was basically silent during the entire ride.
At one point I said, “Boston is fairly unusual because it’s the most populated city in Massachusetts and also the state capital. Very few state capitals are also the most populated city in the state.”
Quinn glanced at me as I spoke and for a few beats afterward. Then, with no change in his expression, he returned his gaze to the window.
Dan grimaced. I thought I heard him mutter, “Fucking Boston….”
Where Quinn looked ambivalent, Dan looked uncomfortable.
I began to understand why Steven didn’t like riding in limos with Quinn. I thought back to a conversation Steven and I had had some months ago, the day I learned Quinn was The Boss.
Since I was nervous and the interior of the car was completely quiet, my mind began to wander with complete abandon. Therefore, when the limo pulled to a stop and the engine cut off, I was a little surprised that we’d arrived.
“Are you ready to do this?” Dan’s eyes were narrowed on Quinn, and I heard the faint sound of the driver’s side door shutting.
Quinn stared at his friend, and for several seconds made no outward sign that he’d heard Dan’s question, then shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”
Something like frustration or worry cast a shadow over Dan’s expression, and his eyes shifted from Quinn to me.
“Call me if….” He started, stopped, gritted his teeth. “Just call me.”
I nodded. The back door to the limo opened revealing a sidewalk, a black wrought iron gate, and cement steps leading to a blue-gray row house with white trim.
As usual, Quinn exited first. He’d changed into a new suit on the plane after I’d annihilated our bet. It was dark gray, his shirt was white, and his tie was a gradient of black to gray with a single red, diagonal stripe. I liked this tie. It was strange to think that I would have an opinion on a man’s tie, but I did.
On top of his suit, he wore a black, cashmere overcoat. He looked quite dashing.
He held out his hand. I took it then held on to it as the driver closed the door behind us. I glanced at Quinn and saw him conducting a sweep of the street, his eyes taking in every detail with his typical aloof precision.
My attention was drawn to the three-story row house in front of us, the potted plants that lined the steps, and a cluster of new tulips giving the otherwise cold, gray day hope for the approaching spring.
“Is this where you grew up?” I studied the house in front of us. It was old but well maintained. The white trim was newly painted, as was the red door.
He nodded, still glancing around the street.
I briefly wondered if he were actually still surveying our surroundings or just postponing having to face his childhood home.
Eventually, I was the one who took the first step toward the house, tugging him behind me. “Come on. It’s cold out here.”
I was nervous.
I was a tad nervous about meeting Quinn’s mom and dad in person. I worried a little that they wouldn’t like me or would think I was strange. I’d conducted a self-examination of these feelings and believed they were typical reactions to meeting one’s new in-laws. These feelings weren’t overwhelming; just present enough to be noticed.
More than that, much more than that, I was nervous for Quinn. He’d shut down every time I’d tried to talk to him about the situation with his parents. I wanted him to be okay. Actually, I wanted him to be happy. I hoped that today wouldn’t undermine that.
If it did, then I would make it up to him. Maybe we would get a puppy, or maybe a new biometric watch that recorded your heart rate, steps taken, and calories burned. Or, maybe I’d go a week without wearing underwear.
Or maybe all three.
I glanced down at my out
fit as I climbed the steps, fiddled with the large brass button of my dark navy coat and thought about the average height of steps. Step height—as well as the currently accepted depth and width—were determined in 1927. Humans have grown taller, their legs longer, and I wondered when construction norms would be re-evaluated to account for the increase in stature.
Beneath the coat, I wore a light blue button down shirt, a cream pencil skirt, and cream stockings. I’d paired the outfit with navy blue and off white stilettos. They were really pretty shoes.
We reached the top of the stairs, and I pushed thoughts of construction norms from my mind, tried to focus on the present. I gave Quinn a reassuring smile even though his face was as impassive as I’d ever seen it.
I attempted a swallow, but found it a bit difficult. With a shaking hand, I reached for the doorbell and pressed the button, flinching when the chime sounded from within the house.
I stepped back, waited, then blurted to Quinn in a rushed whisper, “I’m really nervous.”
His hand squeezed mine, his lips suddenly at my ear, and he whispered in response. “Don’t be. They’re going to love you.”
I didn’t get a chance to tell him that I wasn’t nervous for me.
Part 4: Meeting the Family
CHAPTER 15
*Quinn*
I was dreading this moment.
How do you face the people whose son you murdered? How do you greet your parents when you played a large part in the death of your brother?
I didn’t hold the gun or pull the trigger, but criminals had been free to shoot my brother Des because I’d helped them walk free.
I knew Dan being in the limo when we landed was his way of showing me support. He’d been there when it all went down. I still needed to ask him about being my best man, but it would have to wait.
Telling Janie about the death of my brother hadn’t been in my plans. I hadn’t expected to tell her; when I did, I thought she’d say the same thing everyone else said: it wasn’t your fault, you can’t hold yourself responsible, you couldn’t have known.
That was all bullshit.
I knew what I was doing. I knew I was putting people in danger. Even worse, I was a smart kid who came from a good family, and I knew better.
I knew better.
What she’d said was, “I understand why you blame yourself.”
Her words were a revelation. She didn’t try to make me feel better about it. She didn’t try to feed me a line. She looked at the situation with cold logic and concluded that the blame I carried made sense.
That’s why, when I asked her if she blamed me, her response was important, because her honest answer would be meaningful.
She’d responded, “I blame the bad guy who actually pulled the trigger and killed him. In this situation, you sound like a person who has recognized the error of his ways and attempted to change. If you recall, that is the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”
And that made all the difference.
Her response was a rational analysis of the situation. She had nothing to gain, and she wasn’t the type to offer empty words meant to absolve me of my responsibility.
What I didn’t expect was that she would recognize that I needed to be held accountable.
I needed it.
I needed accountability so that I could change. I needed to make different decisions. I never would have made different decisions without taking responsibility for what I’d done.
I was responsible. I needed to be held accountable.
But none of that, no amount of restitution, would bring Des back.
That’s why meeting my father’s eyes was just as difficult as it had been on the day of my brother’s funeral.
But I did it.
The door opened and they were there. My father’s eyes found mine first. He looked older, shorter than I remembered—but that’s not to say that he was small. He was exactly my size now; when I was a kid, he’d just seemed so much larger.
My brother took after my mother, blonde hair and light brown eyes, medium build. But Shelly and I looked like my father. Janie said I reminded her of a hawk. If that was the case, then my father was an eagle—big and proud, and quiet until just before the kill.
He was also the most patient man I knew. He could out-wait a statue. Reading him had always been difficult, unless he wanted you to know what he was thinking. That’s probably why he was such an excellent police detective.
My mother was speaking to Janie, Janie had let go of my hand to accept a handshake, and still my father and I looked at each other, sharing nothing. The interaction was numbing.
I didn’t know what he was looking for—maybe remorse. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to him because it would never be enough. Nothing I would do would ever be enough.
“Quinn?”
I glanced at Janie, her upturned smiling face, her expectant amber eyes.
“Yes?” I said.
“Did you know that comity of handshaking originated in remote antiquity? At that time, human beings lived on hunting. If they happened to meet a stranger, they would throw their hunting tools aside and open their hands to show the person that they weren’t a threat.”
As she spoke, my attention flickered to my mother who was watching Janie with rapt attention. As soon as Janie finished, my mom stepped forward and touched her elbow.
“I was just cutting carrots, but I have no other weapons on my person.” She was smiling at Janie. She was smiling at her as though she liked her.
“Oh, me neither,” Janie responded with a warm smile. “But I imagine Quinn probably has a gun. But don’t worry, he has a license for it.”
My parents’ attention turned to me, and I had no choice but to stand still under their scrutiny. An uncomfortable moment passed while Janie glanced back and forth between us. I noticed her neck had flushed red and splotchy.
I knew what would come next. Janie would try to fill the silence with more facts.
But no gushing of information arrived, because my mom stepped out of the house. She stood directly in front of me, gave me a half smile, and wrapped her arms around my waist, her cheek pressed against my chest.
Startled, I glanced from the top of her head to Janie.
Janie’s eyes were wide, and she lifted her chin to my mother. When I frowned at her, Janie mimed a hugging motion and lifted her chin more urgently, mouthing the words, Give your mother a hug!
So I did. I wrapped my arms around the woman who’d raised me, who’d loved me until she didn’t, and she responded by sniffling against my jacket and squeezing tighter.
I swallowed a building lump in my throat and, for no reason in particular, my attention turned to my father. His stone-faced expression was gone as he looked at my mother’s head tucked against my shoulder, then his eyes lifted to mine.
They were wet.
The world tilted on its axis because this was the closest I’d ever seen my father come to crying.
***
Navigating the next hour was like being on a movie set from my childhood with no script.
My mother hugged me for a long time. This only ended after Janie, unable to contain herself any longer, lunged at my father and gave him a hug too. He was so surprised he started to laugh, which made my mother laugh. Then Janie laughed and gave my dad a kiss on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“For laughing at me. I’ve never liked the sound of my laugh so much,” she said, then stepped back and apologized for being forward, and tried to explain that hugging—in some cultures—was more intimate than kissing, therefore she should have asked permission first.
My father responded by grinning at me and scooping her back into his arms. The hugging on the front porch finally culminated in a group hug between my fiancée and my parents, which I was forcefully pulled into by both Janie and my mother.
Then I was led into the house, my overcoat and suit jacket were taken, a beer was placed in my hand, and we w
ere standing in the kitchen of the house where I grew up.
I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know what to say, or how to talk to these people. Janie seemed happy to fill the silence, standing at my side with her arm around my waist and her hip against the counter.
She talked about her inability to knit, the origins of knitting, fiber as an art, the cultivation of carrots, the origins of the Easter Bunny, variations of rabbits, the reprehensible treatment of Irish immigrants in the United States during the Industrial Revolution, the largest rodents, the plague, modern viruses.
Janie was nervous. But as I glanced at my parents, this time really looking at them, I realized that she wasn’t the only one. I saw my mother looking at me as though I might disappear. When I caught her, her expression turned anxious and sad.
I tried giving her a small smile. She returned it with a larger one.
My father appeared to be absorbed in all the information Janie related. Occasionally, he’d stop her and ask a question, request clarification on a point or a fact.
When Janie had told me that she’d contacted my parents, all I’d felt was shame and a growing sense of dread. I don’t know what I was expecting when we arrived, but it wasn’t this.
Eventually, Janie separated herself from me, tied on an apron, and began helping my mother with dinner. They spoke about elementary number theory, about how Janie had been taking a free masters course online offered by Stanford University.
My attention caught on a picture held by magnets to the refrigerator and, upon recognizing it, my lungs hurt like I’d inhaled smoke from a fire. Without premeditation, I crossed to the fridge and stared at the picture.
It was of me when I was twelve. Next to it was another picture—of me, Des, and my father—taken on my first fishing trip. Another hung next to it of Shelly and me when I was six; she’d painted both of our faces with makeup.
The fridge was covered in pictures, and none of them were recent.
I felt rather than saw my father stand next to me. He didn’t speak at first, just watched my profile.