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Quinn pushed the unlock button on her fob. As the locks clicked, a wave of panic jolted through her. She’d given him her number? Was she insane? She opened the door to Brendan’s truck. Inside was her life as it should be. Alone. She climbed up and shut the world out.
Gripping the steering wheel, she worked at pushing the panic away. She hadn’t wanted to give him the wrong idea. Well, that was a surefire way to give him the wrong idea. Just type your number into his phone, Madam Q.
“Mrs. LaRue will think we’re together.” She slumped against the wheel. “And who knows what Claire will think.”
But what about her? The last hour and a half hadn’t been terrible. However now, she might have to talk to him every day, not just Mondays.
She checked her rearview mirror. His red truck wasn’t moving. Being a gentleman, he was probably waiting for her to go first. No problem there. She threw it in reverse and wasted no time getting on the road.
She wanted to escape the storm. Leave it behind her. But the black clouds followed. There was no escape.
She wanted there to be. Please, God, let there be.
She’d wanted to go to therapy for help, not more problems. Now she had everyone else’s pain to contend with and a guy wanting to spend time with her for purely platonic reasons.
A guy who now had her number.
In the rearview, she caught a glimpse of Nick heading in the opposite direction. Good. They weren’t to be travel buddies. She pulled in a deep breath. Her wiper blades cleared the rain from her windshield as her eyelids blinked back a tear.
She was being ridiculous, of course. Nick wasn’t the storm. Nick was a good guy who needed the same shelter she needed. But he was more than she wanted to deal with. And although their conversation had been nice, she wanted her nights at home alone.
Exhaustion slumped her shoulders at the thought of dinner with her parents tomorrow night. Could she cancel?
Yeah. Sure. She could hear her mother now. “Quinn, are you all right? Are you sure? Are you sure you’re sure?”
Nope, skipping dinner wasn’t an option.
Just like staying home the rest of her life wasn’t an option.
She parked in the garage and went through the laundry room to the kitchen. She flicked on the pendant lights, set the mail on the island, and plopped her bag down beside it. Her elbows on the cold granite, her chin cradled in one hand, she picked up the first envelope and tossed it away. Junk. She tossed the rest aside as well. Junk, junk, and more junk.
The last envelope was a bill from Dr. Holiday.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sending that one to my mother.”
At the bottom of the stack, the glossy cover of Builder magazine reflected the pendant lights. When would those stop coming? She both looked forward to and dreaded the day they did. Pushing away from the cabinet, she lugged down the hall. In their closet, eyes downcast from everything Brendan, she donned a tank top and flannel pants, then went to the black-framed mirror to wash her face.
Nick liked her painting. Framed it with the windows he’d designed. She’d driven by the building a hundred times to see how her painting looked tucked within the facade’s beautiful angles.
He’d created art with her art. She’d have to send him one of her thank-you cards with that painting on the front.
She paused midscrub, meeting her puffy amber eyes in the mirror. She’d wait. Too much too soon. His invitation for coffee had been too much too soon. He was lucky she hadn’t slapped his face. What would Mrs. LaRue think of that?
Then she’d taken him up on that invitation. Too much too soon?
She rinsed the cleanser off and grabbed her toothbrush, cringing over the thought. A whole new world was opening up to her—a new life, new people, new friends.
What was wrong with life as it was? No new people, no new friends.
But that was not the way to outrun the storm. And she wanted to outrun it. Even if she burned with the exertion of it. Had even taken up running in some twisted effort to do so.
Her nerves still rattled from thinking of how to cash in that rain check. If it hadn’t been for Claire’s persistence, Quinn never would’ve asked. He’d have asked again, eventually. Maybe. Best to get it out of the way and get on with this healing thing.
The evening had gone better than expected, even been halfway pleasant. She shouldn’t be concerned with giving him her number either. He was Superman after all.
The dark clouds fomenting in her soul began to dissipate. She spit in the sink and shrugged at her reflection. Maybe Claire was right. Maybe friends could be nice. Maybe he could understand. And maybe the guilt wouldn’t torture her. What a lot of maybes.
Could she be a friend in return? It was only fair, but could she handle him calling her, leaning on her for moral support? She couldn’t even hold herself up right now. What about Beth, Barbara, and Charles? This support group was supposed to support her.
Maybe that would change. God, please let that change.
Toes buried in the fluffy white area rug, she pulled the downy duvet back and sighed. The room was decorated like an airy spring day. Blues and whites, like a sky strewn with clouds. Accents of yellow and orange, the colors of a sunset. A picture of her and Brendan at Pensacola Beach hung above the bed.
She dragged her gaze from their smiling faces and plopped down on the edge of her bed.
The day had beaten her down, given her too much to think about, and she coveted sleep. She checked the time on her phone—eleven thirty-eight. Morning would come all too soon.
Nick didn’t arrive at his apartment at eight-thirty. It was ten forty-five. Off schedule, but he didn’t have to figure out how to waste the evening. He whistled a tune as he waved his fob over the lock, then halted all forward motion. Guilt traveled through him like a wrecking ball.
He’d been happy, if only for a moment. But it hadn’t been Lauren who’d made him feel that way.
He pushed open the door, discarded his keys, and hung his blazer in the entry hall closet. Then collapsed on the deep cream-colored couch as rain streaked the glass windows fronting the south wall of his apartment.
He shouldn’t feel guilt. If he’d learned one thing in six months of counseling, he’d learned people can be happy again.
But the guilt remained. Partly for finding a glimpse of joy outside of Lauren and partly for pushing Quinn.
Why ask her out when he didn’t want a relationship? He could know her from group, be a friend there, help her there. He’d still be doing what Lauren wanted. Sort of.
Then Quinn would be no different from anyone else in group. And that was not Lauren’s intention.
Now... it seemed that wasn’t his intention either.
He ran a hand through his side-swept hair, then riffled through a stack of architectural magazines on the glass coffee table. He hadn’t thought she’d spend the evening with him, especially since he’d pounced on her. What a surprise she’d asked.
He clenched a rolled-up magazine in his fist.
He was lucky he hadn’t ended up with a slap in the face.
He was lucky he hadn’t pushed her into never seeking help again.
He was lucky she saw him as any kind of friend at all.
His head fell against the magazine. “But you said jump. And I jumped.” He whispered his blame on Lauren as he peeled himself off the couch, dropped the magazine to the table, and headed to the kitchen, raising a finger in the air as he went. “With both feet. That’s how I like to do things.”
He pulled a water bottle from the stainless-steel fridge and leaned against the marbled quartz countertop, crossed his ankles, and rubbed his temples.
She hadn’t wanted to be there. He hadn’t wanted to be there either. So how had they ended up there?
God worked in mysterious ways. Did He always have to work that way?
Bleary-eyed, he put the unopened water back in the fridge and went to brush his teeth, too tired to be angry with himself or Lauren.
Quinn needed a friend.
He wanted to be that for her.
Maybe she’d let him. Maybe she’d even find it within herself to be a friend. He wouldn’t hold his breath. And he wouldn’t hold it against her. In the beginning, he hadn’t been able to be a friend either. Everyone was different, yet there were many similarities.
As he was brushing his teeth, he kicked off his shoes. When he’d told her he was an architect, something hid in her response, surprise, familiarity? Who had her husband been? Alexander. He didn’t recognize the name.
What terrible tragedy had she suffered?
Did he want to get into that? Was he ready to be that friend? He spit in the sink, rinsed his mouth, and faced himself in the mirror. He’d asked her to be a friend. It would be unfair of him to be unwilling to be a friend himself.
All right then. When she was ready to tell him, he’d be there to listen. He left his shirt and jeans in a pile on the floor and clicked off the light.
At eleven thirty-eight, he sat on his bed, his phone a bright light in the dark room. Madam Q stared him in the face. He should have checked on her a while ago. It was too late to send a text now.
He typed in the words anyway, then kept his gaze trained on the screen, his heart pounding.
He rubbed a hand down his face. “I can’t promise anything more than friends.”
Lauren in his peripheral vision, he hit send.
Phone back on the charger, he swung his legs up and pulled the covers to his waist. She wouldn’t answer, was probably asleep. It was a fool thing to have sent anyway.
She’d find it in the morning and cringe. It might ruin her morning. He glanced at his phone’s dark screen wishing he could take it back. But his parents always taught him to be a gentleman, and what was done was done.
He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes.
Quinn’s phone lit up with a new message before she could set it on the nightstand.
“That was fast.” She hadn’t created a contact for him, but his emoji smiled at her above his new message.
“Thank you for coffee. Home okay?”
Well, he was quite the gentleman. She debated how to reply. Why was she so nervous? Then she blew out a breath. It’s not rocket science, Quinn. Still, she read it over several times before hitting send. “Home fine. Coffee was nice. Thank you.”
The conversation over, she put her phone on the table and pulled the covers up to her chin. Her screen lit up again. This could be bad. She rolled to pick up her phone and squinted at the bright light.
“Good. Now go to bed.”
Her tight lips relaxed, and her thumbs flew over the keyboard. “I would if a certain someone would stop blowing up my phone.”
Then silence. She stared at her phone, waiting for another cocky comeback. Her grin faded. Disgusted with herself for anticipating another text, she set her phone facedown. What did she care if he replied or not?
Her world slammed to a halt. She’d let someone into the dark pit of her life. She couldn’t climb out by herself, but wasn’t the group supposed to be helping her? Not an individual and certainly not a guy.
She turned over and touched Brendan’s pillow. Guilt welled up as heat in her face as she whispered into the dark. “He’s just a friend. I swear he is.”
Maybe he would be, but nothing else would come of it. Ever. She didn’t have it in her to love again. Not when everything she’d ever loved had died. Not when the pain of losing was so great.
She could go on, heal even. She could be okay. But love was not for her. That’s not what Nick wanted anyway. Hadn’t he said as much?
She grasped Brendan’s pillow, holding it tighter than she ever had, trying her hardest to feel his arms around her. When she drifted off, the nightmares resumed, but they didn’t last the night.
Maybe there was hope for her yet.
Within her abyss, a bright light had met her in the dark. Now, she just had to let it lead her.
Nick started awake when his phone vibrated against the bedside table. He scrambled to get it not realizing he’d been asleep. She was home. A sarcastic reply and one back from her. He started typing another remark. Then his thumbs froze over the keyboard.
That was enough. He’d better leave her alone.
She was home and safe, and that’s all he’d wanted to know. If he bothered her too much, she’d regret giving him her number. Probably already did. This wasn’t high school, but a real-life serious situation. He discarded his phone, locked his hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling.
The night was quiet. His mind was not, and sleep was intermittent.
At six-thirty the next morning, he dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the coffeepot by the light of his phone. The sun hadn’t quite begun to light the sky, but the rain had stopped. Beads of leftover raindrops clung to the glass.
He stood there, letting them blur his view of the river, as he sucked down his first cup of brain juice. He stopped to refill his cup on his way to the shower.
Once the coffee kicked in, it was a better day. Better than he’d had in a while. He met Josh for a game of racquetball after work and made plans to spend his Sunday with friends watching the game at a local sports bar.
Somehow, no guilt accompanied spending time with the guys like it did just thinking of Quinn. His intention was to be a friend, and he could do that. But Lauren’s intention was for friendship to develop into something more. That he wasn’t quite sure he could do.
One simple act of kindness, which he tried and failed to regret, had opened his world to someone new. And even in all her turmoil, he liked Quinn.
But if being a friend was all he could do—if it was all he was allowed—he could accept that. No stress, no upsets. Be her friend. See her on Mondays.
And swallow the guilt of enjoying it.
