by Monica James
A tad over dramatic, but I don’t have time to rebuke as Quinn quickly snaps, “No, you spoiled brat, you’ve ruined your own life by being a selfish, self-centered little bitch. You talk to her like that again, and I’ll show you what a ruined life looks like.” He latches onto my arm and we leave the room.
***
“Are you okay?” I stupidly ask Quinn, who is sitting on the edge of the bed, his head cradled in his hands.
Of course he’s not okay. We just told his brother, who might be a little bit in love with me that we had sex, and that Quinn has loved me since…when? When was the exact moment he felt it? I know for me there was never a precise event or moment, as I think I have always been in love with him. But that love, it grew into…this.
Stepping forward, I run my fingers through his hair, giving his scalp a light rub. “Hmm…that feels good,” he groans, and the low sound invokes images of another time he made that exact sound.
So not the time, hormones, I scold and tell myself to focus. “Thank you for sticking up for me,” I say, continuing to rub his head.
Quinn raises his eyes, looking completely confused.
“You know, with Polly,” I explain, and his mouth forms an ‘O’ in understanding.
“No problem. She had it coming,” he replies, dropping his head so I can continue massaging him.
“I thought you liked her,” I say, trying to keep the bite of jealousy out of my tone.
Quinn sighs. “I guess she tugged on my heart strings a little.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice dripping with disgust.
“Her situation reminded me of—”
Tristan, I internally finish.
Of course he would have a soft spot for her. She is, after all, my half sibling. Just like Tristan is Quinn’s. I still can’t get my head around that, and doubt I ever will.
I can’t help but wonder when Quinn will tell Tristan the truth. But this is his decision to make, and I know it’s one he won’t make lightly.
“I should find Tristan.” Quinn sighs, lifting his head.
“Did you want me to come with you?” I ask with a small smile.
“No, I better do this alone. I should have done this a long time ago,” he confesses, chewing on his lip ring.
I nod in understanding because I know he’s referring to us being honest in the first place. But what we were doing, and who we were back then, doesn’t even skim the surface of how far we’ve come. I wish I could take away Tristan’s pain, but do I regret finally telling him the truth? No, I don’t.
“I just wish this was all over,” Quinn says, looking utterly exhausted.
His comment reminds me that I have yet to tell him about Tabitha’s text message.
“It will be,” I say with a smile, and stalk over to the dresser to fetch the phone. “Abi messaged me,” I say, fiddling with the phone, as it won’t turn on.
“She did?” Quinn pipes up, standing up and storming over to me. “Holy shit, I forgot we had this phone. We can call Chandler.”
I’m still tinkering around on the cell, but it won’t turn on. Suddenly, I know why. “Dammit, the battery is dead.” I huff.
When will our bad luck end?
Quinn reaches for the phone and tries pushing a few buttons, but he quickly confirms my fears. “Shit!” he curses. “We don’t have a charger.” Suddenly he throws the phone against the wall in frustration.
This situation is weighing heavily on us all. And now that the cat’s been let out of the bag, our freedom is even more imperative, as I have a feeling we’re a hair’s breadth away from killing each other.
“What did Abi say?” Quinn asks, still looking annoyed with our lack of communication.
“She said we’re days away from this being over. We’re nearly free,” I reply, reaching for Quinn and placing my hand on his cheek.
“Thank fuck.” He sighs, leaning into my touch. “The fact we no longer have a link to Abi is a problem, though.”
Damn, he’s right. I look at him, as we both know what needs to happen.
“I’ll go into town tonight, give Chandler and Abi a call, and hope one of them can give me some good news,” he says. I hate how fatigued he sounds.
“It’ll be over soon.” I smile, but we both know that soon can’t come soon enough.
Chapter 25
Friends
As much as I hate to let Quinn face the music on his own, he’s right. I’m probably the last person Tristan wants to see at the moment, as I’ll most likely make things worse, so I told Quinn to come find me when he’s done. That was two hours ago.
I fight the urge to go looking for him because I know this is something that can’t be rushed. However, I’m bored out of my mind and antsy as hell. There’s no way I’m going to talk to Polly, because after today she can go to hell. I’ve tried my best, but I’ve accepted the fact that we will never see eye to eye. And messing with Tristan was the last straw. I know she doesn’t like him, and Tristan deserves better than that. Jesus, I’m starting to sound like Quinn!
Kicking off the bed, I decide to take Lucky for a walk, and if I happen to stumble across Quinn in the process, then so be it. Reaching for his lead, I vaguely hear a small whimper coming from the room next door—Cynthia’s room.
I have no idea how she is after our dinner from hell, and I feel a little guilty for not thinking about her till now. So with that thought in mind, I decide to check on her.
As I reach her door, I hear the whimper again and I know she’s crying. Not knowing if I should intrude or not, I decide to knock, as she can always send me away if she doesn’t want the company. I rap lightly on the door, and the crying stops. I wait, not knowing if I should knock again or run in the opposite direction.
Before I have the chance to make a decision, the door opens and I shrink back at Cynthia’s appearance. She looks like shit, and I instantly feel awful because I seem to be the reason behind her constant sorrow.
We stand, staring at one another uncomfortably, and my heart softens when I see how exhausted she is. The bags under her eyes reveal she’s had many sleepless nights, no doubt tossing and turning, thinking about our dire situation.
“Are you okay?” I ask, barely audible.
“I’m okay, Mia. I’m just…tired,” she confesses, and I think she means she’s sick and tired of dealing with my mess.
“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” I say, biting my lip, as this is difficult for me to say.
When she remains silent, I continue. “I know this has been hard on you, so I promise, once this is all over, I’ll leave you alone. I don’t expect anything from you. I mean, you told me what I wanted to hear, and I appreciate it,” I say, realizing that although my past sucks ass, I would never trade the truth for lies.
When this is finally over, all I can hope for is to move on from my past, a past which has shaped me into who I am. And no matter how cruel, or how shitty it may be, it’s my past and I’m going to own it. I won’t allow it to define me, because I’m sick of living in the past. I have a new future ahead of me now, and that future includes Quinn.
Cynthia snaps me out of my thoughts however. “Mia, I don’t want you to leave me alone, unless you want that. What I told you about your past, it’s something I’m not proud of. If I could take it all back, I would. If I could erase your pain, I would. But I can’t. The only thing I can do is hope that you will give me a second chance. God knows I don’t deserve it, but I want you to be a part of my life. I’m not naïve and I know we’ll never have a normal mother-daughter relationship. But maybe one day, we could just have a…friendship. I’d like that a lot,” she finishes, and I stand with my mouth agape, as this was not what I was expecting.
After how I’ve treated her, I thought she would be glad to see the back of me. But here she is, extending the olive branch, and fuck me, I want to accept it. I don’t know what’s changed, but I don’t want to keep fighting with her. I too, am not naïve, and I doubt I’ll ever get to the stage where I’m comfort
able enough to call her mother. But maybe one day, I could call her my…friend.
“I’d like that too,” I reply, hoping my emotions doesn’t betray me.
She nods, brushing away a stolen tear. “Did you fight with Pollyanna?” she asks, and although the subject matter is a crappy one, I’m thankful she changed the topic.
“Yeah, you could say that,” I reply, thinking which fight, as I seem to be fighting with her constantly.
“Polly is just like her father—headstrong and stubborn,” she says, but cringes when she mentions Chandler.
However, funnily enough, I don’t want to slit my wrists when I hear his name. Yes, the anger is still there, but it’s calmed somewhat. So I play off her comment as best I can.
“Quinn said he’ll call him tonight. We really need to get the hell out of here,” I say, and she nods.
“What about your friend?” she asks with a hopeful look in her eye.
“Abi?” I ask, and Cynthia nods.
“Well, I didn’t get a chance to tell you before, but the phone you lent me, Chandler’s phone, well, Abi sent me a text message on it. Sadly, the battery is now dead, so we can’t use it. But anyhow, she said we’re close. It’s only a matter of days until we’re free,” I say, unable to keep the relief from my tone.
“And what happens when you’re free?” Cynthia asks, sagging against the doorjamb.
Giving her question some thought, I answer the only way I know how. And that’s with honesty and hope.
“I start living,” I reply, and my heart weeps for that possibility to become a reality real soon.
Cynthia nods, but quickly excuses herself, as she no doubt feels the same way.
***
Sitting on the porch swing and overlooking the peacefulness in front of me is actually quite calming. The past few…forever, has been grueling, and they’ve been tough. My life hasn’t been easy, and there are some parts I wish I could forget. But there are other parts, even the shitty parts, which I look upon now and realize they’ve shaped me into the person I’ve become. My life in no way has ever been normal, but if I could have it all back, would I? If I turned out to be the spoiled little brat Polly is, or the stuck up tramp Stacey is, then I think I would take my life as is. If I never endured what I did, then I would have never ended up in South Boston, and I would have never met Hank or Tabitha or Tristan or Quinn.
I know that’s selfish because since my arrival, my past has impacted each and every one of them gravely, especially Hank. And although I wish we’d met under completely different circumstances, I’m still glad we met. They will always be my family of misfits, and no matter what happens, I’ll never take back a moment spent with them, especially Hank.
What Quinn told me about Hank just makes me love him all the more. He himself was also drawn to the misfits, as I believe he saw Quinn and myself for who we really are—two lost souls just wanting to belong. He opened up his home to Quinn and me, and I’ll be damned if I let his death be in vain.
The past couple of days have been about cleansing both my and Quinn’s pasts, and we’ve both exorcised our demons for the time being, but now, now it’s time to get serious and figure out our plan of attack. Yes, we may be closer to gaining our freedom, but I still plan on dishing out my revenge on Phil and Thomas. That fact hasn’t changed. I just need to figure out how, when and where.
So, first things first—we need to make contact with the outside world.
Chapter 26
For in That Sleep of Death, What Dreams May Come
It’s now been just over five hours and still no sight of Quinn. I’m not worried, as I know this is something that can’t be rushed. No doubt Quinn will put the entire truth out there, and allow Tristan to process it whatever way he can.
My heart still aches when I remember the look on Tristan’s face when I told him it was Quinn I wanted, not him. There was never going to be an easy way to do it, and I think that’s the reason why Quinn waited so long to tell him. I understand his notion of not wanting to hurt Tristan, but maybe a part of him had hoped I would just give up on him, just like everyone else had, and go for the easy option. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and I’ve never been one to take the easy option when it comes to life.
Rubbing my chest, I decide to start on my plan of attack and stop thinking about the Berkeley brothers, as they’re giving me heartburn. Looking around the room for a pen and piece of paper, I see an unused pad of white writing paper on the huge oak desk. I feel guilty soiling it with my plans to murder my dad, so I search for an alternative and see it in the form of Quinn’s sketch pad. It’s sitting innocently on his backpack, and although I shouldn’t, I want to see what’s inside. I don’t know if this is the equivalent of reading someone’s diary, but either way, it’s happening.
Reaching for it with hesitant fingers, I drop to a squat and decide to get comfy while I have a quick look inside. However, the moment I open the first page, I slam it shut, as I feel like I’m intruding on Quinn’s personal thoughts. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I slowly reopen Quinn’s haven.
The opening picture is one of the first deadbeat motels we stayed at when first on the run. Quinn’s drawings are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before as his attention to detail, and the way he captures small elements which most take for granted, takes my breath away. As I run my finger over the charcoal lines of the motel’s roof, I trace over a small bird perched on the roof’s peak. I never noticed the bird in real life, but now, now I’m sad I didn’t pay more attention, as he’s simply beautiful.
After staring at the picture for quite some time, I flip through the pages, enthralled by what I see. It’s like I’m reliving our journey thus far, as Quinn has captured almost every aspect of our travels. Cars we’ve stolen, diners we’ve eaten at, places we’ve been to and people we’ve seen.
As awful and ugly as being on the run has been, seeing it through Quinn’s eyes has made me realize that Quinn has seen the beauty in it, too. This here, this is our past, and I can’t stop a tear slipping down my cheek. Quinn and I have been through so much, but we’ve been through it together. This experience brought us together, and for that, I’m thankful.
Wiping away my tears, I turn to the next page and what I see has a fresh set of tears forming. Tracing over the executed, long lines and the expert, perfected strokes, I outline over the carbon copy of me and Hank. I know this was done from memory alone, as all these pictures were sketched after Hank’s death. But Quinn has captured his crooked smile, weathered hands, and most of all, his kind eyes like he only saw him yesterday.
A sob gets caught in my throat as I can almost feel his hand on mine, smell his unique scent, which always smelled like home, and I can also hear his kindness as he bends down to whisper something into my ear. This sketch had come to life before me, and I can clearly picture that memory as I pluck it from time. It was Thanksgiving—Hank’s last day on earth.
It seems so long ago, but looking at this awakens memories I didn’t even know I’d made.
“Merry Christmas.”
Snapping my head up quickly, I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand, but it’s useless, as more just take their place. I watch as Quinn softly closes the door behind him and walks over to where I sit with my back pressed to the wall. He takes a seat near me, his shoulder touching mine, and I know I should give back his book, but I can’t. I can’t close this page on Hank because as each day passes, I lose a piece of him, and before long, I’m afraid my memories will fade.
But I sniff back my tears and ask, “Merry Christmas?”
Quinn silently nods as he reaches over and gently rips out the page. I gasp, terrified that he has torn the drawing, but let out a sigh of relief as he lays the picture in my lap. Flipping the picture over, I see that Quinn has written something on the back.
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
All my Love,
Q
“It’s Hamlet,” Quinn explains
as I stare at his handwriting, on the verge of another breakdown.
“It’s beautiful,” I reply, my lower lip quivering as I think about its meaning, and how perfect it is.
We can only hope that in death, Hank found peace. And whatever dreams he had, I hope they’re coming true, because I have to believe that there is more out there than…this.
I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel Quinn’s gentle touch on my cheeks as he wipes away my tears.
“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he says, his soft voice betraying his regret.
Raising my eyes, I shake my head because although I’m crying, they aren’t all entirely sad tears. They are tears of the living.
Thinking back to a time when I refused to cry, it’s now a bittersweet feeling to allow myself this one reprieve, and not scold myself for that weakness. Because now I know these tears make me human. And they make me normal.
Climbing onto his lap, I straddle him, making sure to place the drawing on the desk out of harm’s way. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I rest my ear against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. A heart I love so very much.
“Thank you,” I whisper, closing my eyes, his heart a soothing balm to my blistering soul. “Best Christmas present—ever.”
Quinn chuckles, and the sound spreads goose bumps over my whole body. “It could never compare to what you gave me,” he says seriously, and I shudder at the memory of me giving myself over to him. “But I wanted to give you something from my heart, too.”
His comment breaks my already emotional, unstable mind, and I can’t stop myself as I sit up and smash my lips to his. He’s taken off guard, but catches up quick enough as he returns my frenzied kiss with enthusiasm and warmth. I’m in control however, and Quinn allows me to take from him what I need. And right now, I need him naked and soaked into every pore of my needy body.