Next to Never

by Penelope Douglas

  But I have learned one thing tonight. Life moves fast, and the next forty years will be here before I know it. I don’t want to wake up at fifty-eight with regret.

  I take in a deep breath, exhaling a sigh. “Dad, I suck at soccer,” I say, raising my eyes to look at him. “I hate piano, and I don’t want to be a lawyer or a doctor. I don’t want everything you want for me.”

  His eyes narrow on me, and he tenses. “Quinn, if this is about Notre Dame—”

  “I want to go to Notre Dame,” I cut him off. “I think it’s exactly where I belong.”

  I see him relax a little. “Good.”

  “And I agree, taking a couple of courses here in town this summer is a good idea. Maybe I can finish my degree early.”

  He nods, still looking nervous like he’s waiting for bad news to drop. “I’m . . . glad you think so. But why do I get the feeling that you’re about to tell me you met a boy and you’re pregnant?”

  I chew on the corner of my mouth. Here goes nothing.

  “You know the property you own on High Street?” I ask. “The old bakery on the corner of Sutton?”

  “Yeah,” he replies hesitantly. “I bought it years ago. It was a prime location, so I snatched it up. Why?”

  I hold my breath, spitting out the words before I have a chance to second-guess myself. “I want you to sell it to me.”

  He rears back, looking at me like I spoke another language.

  “Just let me say something,” I blurt out, holding up my hand. “I’ve been busy in one way or another my entire life, and I understand that what you wanted for me you wanted out of love. And because I didn’t know what else I wanted to do, I went along with everything. The tutors, the extra courses, dance classes, gymnastics, swimming, summer volunteer projects in the rainforest . . .” I list each item on my outstretched fingers. “I did it, because it was better than staying still. Or so I thought. But if I had stopped, I would’ve had time to think.” I lower my voice, trying to get my point across. “I never dream, Dad. I never look forward to anything, because none of it’s a passion. Sell me the store. Give me a new summer project and see what I can do.”

  “You want to start a business?” he asks. “At seventeen?”

  “A summer business,” I clarify. “For now. And I’m almost eighteen. I promise I won’t get distracted. I realize college is important, and I’m going. But I really want this.”

  “It’s not a dollhouse, Quinn.” He laughs, sounding flustered. “It’s a building with property taxes and health and safety inspections and plumbing problems—”

  “And I can do it. I know how to research, plan, and be a problem solver. I can do this. It won’t be your problem.”

  He shakes his head, closing his eyes. “Quinn . . .”

  “Dad, please,” I implore. “I’m excited. I can’t wait to get started.” And then I lean in, joking with him. “I mean there are worse ways I could spend my time, right? If I’m buried under this project all summer, I won’t be dating, will I?”

  He rolls his eyes and sets his drink down, next to the crystal bowl of gourmet jelly beans.

  “How do plan to pay for this?” he questions. “You’ll need supplies, renovations, inventory, utilities, and even if you did get a loan to buy the property, I’m not comfortable with you having that kind of weight on your shoulders—”

  “I don’t need a loan.” I pull out the bankbook and toss it on the table.

  He stares at it before picking it up and opening it. Quickly scanning the inside, his eyebrows finally shoot up. Probably when he saw the balance.

  His eyes dart over to me, all humor gone. “This isn’t your college account. Where did this money come from?”

  I give a half-smile and stand up, grabbing a jelly bean and popping it into my mouth.

  “I think you need to go talk to Mom.”

  And then I turn and walk out the door.

  • • •

  “That’s not the ten millimeter!” I hear Jared yelling when I walk into his shop.

  “You told me to get the eight millimeter!”

  “The eight won’t fit.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that?” Madoc bellows back, and I hear tools clank as I come through the large room.

  Jared, Madoc, and Jax are all crowded around a Chevy SS, the hood popped open, no tires, and a missing windshield. Madoc is still dressed in his suit; however, the jacket and tie are gone and his shirttails are hanging out.

  “It’s okay,” Jax tells him, coming up behind him and squeezing his shoulders, trying to calm him down. “Relax.”

  Madoc shakes his head, pain written all over his face. “My kid doesn’t want to live in my house anymore.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that,” Jared says. “Give him time.”

  I guess they all came here to blow off some steam after the scene at the station. Under the hood of a car is the one place they find their center.

  “Hey,” I say gently, making myself known. I’d planned on Jared being here, but I was glad I’d found all three of them.

  “How did you get here?” Jax asks, knowing I don’t have a car.

  I won’t tell him I rode my bike at midnight.

  Ignoring him, I reach into my satchel and pull out the Internet printouts I gathered at home and hand them to Jared.

  “What’s this?” He takes the papers and starts skimming them.

  “It’s a list of event coordinators. Your expo in Chicago is way too much of a time commitment, and one of them will do a much better job than I will.”

  He narrows his eyes, finally looking up at me.

  “I love you guys,” I tell them, “but I have other plans for the summer. I’ll be around, but I won’t always be available. And honestly, the expo is stressful. I’m sorry.”

  Jared gives a half-smile. “Of course it’s stressful. That’s why I push it off on you or Pasha,” he tells me. “But it’s fine. I just like having you around. I’ll make do.”

  He leaves a quick peck on my forehead and folds the papers, sticking them in his back pocket.

  Thank God. I guess I should’ve known Jared would be understanding. He’s a firm believer in people doing exactly what they want to do.

  I turn to Madoc. “And I will volunteer ten hours a week this summer, but I’m not interning, and I’m not on a schedule, okay?”

  He shrugs, looking like his mind is on a million other things. “Okay.”

  I glance at Jax. “And Hawke can coordinate the fireworks show,” I tell him. “He needs some responsibilities.”

  Jax runs his hand through his hair, looking tired but in complete agreement. Hawke is allowed to roam at his own free will. A little routine wouldn’t hurt him, and Jax knows that.

  “Are you okay?” Madoc asks.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “How long are you guys going to be here?”

  Madoc sighs, tossing down his wrench. “I’m on my way out. Fallon just texted and Hunter’s not home yet, so . . .”

  “I’ll be here until this is done,” Jared answers, gesturing to the car. “Maybe an hour, but now that Madoc is leaving, it should go faster.”

  “Blow me,” Madoc mumbles and walks over to the toolbox and grabs his jacket lying on top.

  I jerk my thumb behind me, toward the door. “I’m going to head down the street . . . check something out,” I tell Jared. “I’ll be back soon. Can you give me a ride home?”

  Yeah,” he says.

  I wait until I’m outside to dig out my new keys.

  Chapter 14

  It’s mine.

  I smile wide, unable to contain it.

  Walking as quickly as I can, I carry the little lamp from my bike in one hand, and the keys my father gave me dangle from the other as I take a right on Sutton, scurrying across the narrow brick lane and into the alley behind the old b
akery. While the main streets are well lit, I rush as quickly as possible, because back here, there’s nothing and no one. Not even a street light.

  My hand shakes as I try to work the key into the lock. My blood is racing, and I inhale a couple of deep breaths to try to calm down. Twisting the knob, I finally swing open the door and immediately paw the wall inside, searching for a light switch.

  I’m opening a shop. By next summer, I’ll have it ready.

  I flip the switch but nothing happens. Well, I guess that makes sense. This place has been shut down for years. I turn on the flashlight and close the door behind me, aiming the light into the room that I can tell already is the kitchen. Three long wooden tables sit parallel to each other while stoves, sinks, a refrigerator, and a cooler door line the walls, along with old aluminum racks holding empty trays.

  I walk in further, trying to take everything in, already inventorying in my head the appliances that would need to be inspected, possibly replaced, and all the cleaning that would probably take a whole month in itself. Lifting the toe of my shoe, I lightly shove an empty flour bag out of my way as I push through the revolving door separating the kitchen from the front of the store.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jump and suck in a breath, spinning around. “What the—” I gasp, flashing my light on Hunter, who stands in the open doorway. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He shrugs and steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I was driving around, and I saw you sneaking in the back.”

  My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I shake my head at him, starting to calm down.

  “Madoc’s looking for you.” I turn and push through the door again. “Where’ve you been?”

  He follows me through, into the front of the shop, but doesn’t answer. If his father’s looking for him, and Kade is home, then Hunter took the truck without permission. I’m sure he figures there’s not much more trouble he can get into after what happened tonight, though.

  We walk through, and I flip more switches, checking for power, while Hunter kicks garbage and newspapers with his feet.

  There are cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling as well as under the counter, and I can still smell the scent of warm sugar, probably from the remnants of old sprinkles and icing inside the display cases. It will be a wonder if I don’t have roaches to deal with, too.

  The wallpaper has to go, but I catch sight of the floors, and as I brush away some paper and dust under my foot, I notice that the tile is a Moroccan mosaic pattern. Lots of color and so different from anything else around Shelburne Falls, that’s for sure.

  That can stay.

  I see Hunter finally lean back, sticking his hands in his pocket and resting on a wrought iron table.

  “I’m going to buy this place,” I tell him. “I’m going to turn it into a pastry shop.”

  He just stares at me, nodding, and I narrow my eyes on him.

  “You don’t have anything to say?” I challenge. “No smart-ass remark?”

  “You’re confusing me with Kade,” he retorts. “I think the world has enough shit talkers.”

  I smile, turning my head away so he can’t see. He looks and sounds like he’s pissed, but I couldn’t appreciate the remark more. He’s absolutely correct. Enough talking and bullshit, and I’m thankful for his silence. I don’t need anyone else’s judgments, concerns, or negative feedback.

  And when Jared, Madoc, and Jax have something to say tomorrow when they find out, I’ll tell them the same thing. Mind your own business.

  Hunter leans down, picking up a chair that was overturned. “You need to make sure you have those blackberry swirl Brownies,” he says, leaning back down to collect trash and toss it into the bin in the corner. “They’re Dylan’s favorite. And the sugar cookie apple cobbler and those Samoa donuts you made with the Girl Scout cookies that time . . .” He trails off, letting out a sigh that sounds suddenly hungry. “I swear, you’ll have people lined up out the door.”

  I watch him as he starts tearing flyers off the wall and throwing them away. I love that he isn’t hassling me.

  Walking over to his side, I help tear the papers through their staples. “Were you saying good-bye to her?” I ask quietly, not looking at him. “Is that where you were at?”

  He’s silent, but he doesn’t ask who we’re talking about. We both know.

  “I’m just going to Grandpa’s,” he tells me. “I’ll get a summer job and earn some money before the school year at St. Matt’s starts. I’ll be home on weekends.”

  “No you won’t.” I glance over at him. “You’ll make friends. Find reasons to stay in Chicago. We’ll see you less and less.”

  I remember saying the same thing to Lucas nearly four years ago when he said he would be back. He was lying, and I knew it then.

  But Hunter stares up at the wall, now bare, looking like he’s thinking about more than he’s saying. “I’ll be back,” he assures. And then I catch a small smile curling his lips. “There’s Rivalry Week, after all.”

  Yeah. Rivalry Week.

  I shake my head. That’ll be fun.

  Epilogue

  The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the city, and I stare west, barely feeling the day’s warmth soak through my suit jacket.

  I hate this time of day. No meetings, no deadlines, no conference calls or site inspections . . . nowhere to rush off to. There’s too much quiet, and I don’t like quiet.

  Looking out over the rooftops of the city, I tip my beer up and take a drink as I let the view soak in. The awe-inspiring designs of the skyscrapers, the day’s light reflecting off all the glass and setting the city aglow, the Persian Gulf looming behind me, the domes of the ancient mosques, and the smell of the spices and wares drifting up from the souks . . .

  Dubai has been a place for me to sink myself into these past three years. It’s been an inspiration, giving me the drive and knowledge to push further and further into new territory of design. There’s been so much for me to learn and live up to, and I’ve been grateful for the noise and distraction. How could I ever go home after living in a place like this?

  I set my beer down on the ledge of the balcony and reach into my breast pocket and pull out the compass Quinn gave to me before I left Shelburne Falls four years ago.

  I look down at the antique brass heirloom, smiling at the thought of her. She was so innocent and curious, so angry and sad to see me go.

  Making her mad at me wasn’t something I enjoyed—especially when I couldn’t explain to her why I needed to leave—but I had to admit, she was the only one who made me second-guess leaving. The only one who made me feel like I needed to stay. It had kind of felt good to know I’d be missed.

  I can’t help wondering what she’d be like now. She’d be almost eighteen. Nearly an adult.

  And here I am, nearly thirty, and still alone, burying myself in my work.

  I haven’t changed at all.

  Flipping open the top of the compass, I watch the disk under the glass wobble on its axis and the dial slowly find its position just slightly past the W. Turning my body a hair to the right, I pause and wait, watching as the needle moves again, coming to rest at the exact point between north and west.

  And then I look up, fixing my eyes dead ahead, out to the horizon.

  “Mr. Morrow?”

  I blink and snap the compass shut. Sliding it back inside my breast pocket, I pick up my beer again and turn my head to see Tahra, the housekeeper, standing in the doorway between the balcony and the apartment. An immigrant from India, she comes several times a week to clean up, grocery shop, and cook supper, earning a little extra money in addition to what her husband brings home from the oil rigs.

  “Yes, Tahra?”

  She smiles, speaking softly. “Your dinner is staying warm in the oven, sir. I’ll head home now.”


  “Thank you,” I tell her. “Good night.”

  I turn back, catching the sun just as it disappears beneath the horizon. The dry air burns my nostrils as I breathe in, but I’m not ready to go inside yet.

  “Are you all right?” I hear her ask tentatively.

  I twist my head around again, regarding her. “Yes, why?”

  She studies me for a moment and then gestures to me with the dish towel in her hand. “You’ve started standing in the same spot every night, facing the same direction.”

  I hesitate before responding. “Have I?”

  I haven’t been keeping track, but I guess she’s right. I thought I’d been more restless lately, but if she was starting to notice, then I guess it is pretty obvious.

  “If you wish to pray, Mecca is that way.”

  And I look back up in time to see her gesture to the southwest with a knowing smile.

  I grin, shaking my head. “You don’t stop trying, do you?” And then I look back out on the last light of the sun shimmering on the city, and I think about what’s beyond the skyscrapers and the bazaars and the desert. Beyond Mecca, the Red Sea, Africa, and the Atlantic . . .

  “Actually, my home is that way,” I finally say, pointing with my bottle and gesturing northwest. “My home is 7,308 miles from this spot.”

  “That’s a long way.”

  I nod, lost in thought. “Yeah.” I pause and then continue, “And even still, nothing is different. She was right.”

  “Who?”

  Happiness is a direction, not a place. Yeah, she was certainly right. The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile, thinking about how smart that kid always was.

  Even a young girl, fourteen years old, knew that anger and unhappiness had not one fucking thing to do with where you lived, whom you loved, or what you did with your life. It was all in our heads.

  And no matter how much you run, you can’t run from yourself, can you?

  Amusement fills my chest, and I’m suddenly wondering what she’s doing now. What they’re all doing. Madoc and his barbecues and picnics and pool parties, making everyone laugh and love him despite themselves. Jared with the sound of his engine filling the neighborhood and Tate and how she always wanted to play in the rain, even as an adult. Fallon and her smart mouth, who always got everyone we worked with to do things exactly her way; and Juliet with her sexy, free spirit. And then there’s Jax, with one eye always on the ball and one eye always on his wife.