| |
After punching a hole in the wall and staring at Quinn’s painting, Nick collapsed on his made-up bed with clothes and shoes still on. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep for years. He was tired, and his heart hurt.
After a few hours of fitful sleep, he couldn’t take staring at the ceiling and stewing any longer. Besides, there was a wall to fix.
He lingered in the shower, letting the cool water run over him, doing nothing to quell his anger. He banged his fist on the tile, remembered the hole in the wall, and took a breath to calm down. After toweling off and bandaging his knuckle, he threw on some old clothes and made a trip to the hardware store for supplies.
Had he misread her that badly? Couldn’t have. She’d seemed eager for his touch, even kissed him back for a beautiful, brief moment. But how much of that was a longing for the past?
He’d made the first move when he’d told himself he wouldn’t. And that moment had shattered the glass house they’d been building. She’d never want to be friends now. There’d been mess-ups, “awkward moments” as they liked to call them, but this, this was far beyond awkward. And far beyond repair.
The mesh patch barely fit over the dent in the wall. Pain shouted through his knuckle as he worked the putty in. He should’ve called, made sure she’d made it home okay. She wouldn’t have answered, but at least she wouldn’t have thought he was mad.
He ignored the knock at his door. Dad had a key and would use it. Nick hadn’t called in sick since Lauren, and at halfway through the lunch hour, he expected his dad to check in.
The lock clicked, and the door opened. Nick cast a glance sideways as Dad came in.
Dad cocked a brow. “You don’t look sick. Not physically.” He shut the door, set the take-out bag on the entry table, and stood beside Nick, eyeing his work. “What happened?”
“I hit the wall.”
Dad huffed. “Let me rephrase that. What happened to make you want to hit the wall?”
Typical of his dad to press for answers. Nick continued with the putty. “I kissed her.”
Dad jerked his thumb toward the wall. “By the looks of your wall, it didn’t go well.”
Not looking at him, Nick paused, then kept pressing the spackle out over the mesh.
Crossing his arms, Dad leaned against the wall next to the hole. “Then what?”
“She ran. Literally.” Nick blew out his exasperation, scooping more putty out of the container and forcing it in the hole. “She couldn’t get away fast enough.”
Dad laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Don’t let her go.”
“She made it clear she only wanted to be friends. I crossed that line.”
“That line would’ve been crossed eventually.”
An argument sprang to his lips, but one couldn’t argue with the truth. “Maybe. But it wasn’t my place to cross it. It never should’ve happened.”
“You punching the wall should never have happened.”
Nick cringed at his dad’s disappointment.
“At least you’ve learned to clean up your messes.” Dad focused behind Nick, then clamped a hand on his shoulder, and gave it a firm squeeze. “Kissing Quinn wouldn’t have happened if she wasn’t more ready than you think. Go to her.”
It was the only thing he wanted to do. And the one thing he couldn’t. His tense shoulders gave way. “I’m the last person she wants to see right now.”
“You’re the exact person she needs to see right now.” Dad shoved his hands into his pockets. “Your mother and I, we had our arguments. Some big ones. But we always came back together. What I wouldn’t give to be together now. Go after her, son.” He clapped him on the shoulder, pushed off the wall, and opened the door. “And I’ll see you in the morning. Bright and early.”
The door clicked shut. Dad still mourned Mom. No wonder he’d never remarried. But he was wrong. Quinn would never see him again. They couldn’t be “just friends,” and they couldn’t be more.
Finished with the hole, Nick scraped the extra spackle back into the container and abandoned it on the kitchen cabinet. He’d paint another day. For now, he wanted sleep. If he were unconscious, he couldn’t think, and he wouldn’t feel.
Quinn’s painting loomed over his bed. What a dumb place to hang it. But no matter how dumb, he couldn’t bring himself to take it down.
She’d painted again. For him.
And what’d he done? He’d helped her through the worst of recovery, then slammed her backward. He plopped onto the side of the bed and ran a hand through his hair. She’d be okay, right? She had Claire, her parents. Although, what kind of friend wouldn’t at least check on her? Even if she never wanted to see him again, she deserved at least that.
He slid his phone from his pocket and navigated to his favorites screen, his thumb hovered over her icon. His head became hot, and he blinked his eyes away from the screen, abandoning the idea. He tossed his phone onto the bedside table. She was probably asleep, and she needed time. His jackhammering heart told him he needed time as well.
The pressure off, he grabbed a pillow, laid his head on the foot end of the bed, and lost himself in the beautiful colors of her painting, breathing deep even breaths. Before long, his body seemed to meld into the bedspread, and his eyes succumbed to their heaviness.
His eyelids fluttered open. He sat up, threw his pillow against the headboard, and grabbed his phone, then laid back down. It said he’d slept four hours, his mind and body said he hadn’t slept at all, and his stomach said he needed to eat.
Rolling away from the windows, he tried to go back to sleep, but his eyes fixed on the large wall of his room—empty, like his heart.
His head swam as he jerked himself off the bed. When the world stopped spinning, he grabbed his gym bag, stuffed it with clean workout clothes, and headed out the door. A trip to the gym would clear his head and give him something to do.
Only it didn’t.
Nothing could make him stop thinking of how he’d hurt Quinn. Or the way her lips pressed against his or the way she’d felt in his embrace. The memory lingered like her perfume. But the hurt on her face left him more unable to breathe than the intense workout.
Out of control, his self-blame tore him apart. He coveted a quiet place to think. After a quick shower, he headed out to their spot on the river—the place of peace his soul was thirsty for.
The last of the sun’s rays sparkled on the water’s surface. A couple jogged by as Nick pulled into the plaza’s parking area. It would be dark soon, and most people had cleared out. He swung into a spot and was surprised to find he’d parked next to Quinn’s black F250.
Adrenaline washed through his veins, and his muscles tensed as he scanned the area. On their sage-green park bench overlooking the river, the small figure he’d come to love sat alone, her legs drawn up under her arms, chin resting on her knees. The setting sun a glistening halo in her hair.
His heart shot electricity through his limbs, and his head grew hot despite the air-conditioning. What was she doing here? Perhaps she needed the same peace. Because of him. She wouldn’t want to see him. And he wasn’t sure he was ready to see her. He threw his truck into reverse.
His foot never made it off the brake.
What are the chances they’d both be here, drawn to this spot at this time?
He glanced at the back seat where he kept a jacket, back to Quinn, and shifted his truck into park. Stepping out, he pushed his door closed with a quiet click, made sure to push the lock button on his fob only once so the horn wouldn’t honk, and deposited his keys in his pocket. Jacket hung over his arm, he stood by the back bumper and worked up his courage. What would he say?
He’d start with “hello” and see where that led. One foot first, then the other, he made his way down the sidewalk, his tennis shoes silent.
He considered turning back twice, not remembering the path being so long. But he couldn’t make his feet go any direction but forward. He couldn’t duck and run. She meant too much, and he was going to talk to her.
Not wanting to scare her—he’d done enough of that already—he stopped several paces back. “Quinn?”
Her feet slammed to the ground as she jerked around. Her lips parted, and she jumped up, rubbing her hands across her red cheeks and drying them on her jeans, then shoving them in her pockets. “What are you doing here?”
Of course, she was crying. Jerk. “I needed a place to think.”
“Oh.” She glanced out across the water. “It’s a great place for that.”
Silent seconds passed. He’d worked hard to diminish the sadness in her eyes. Then he’d put it back. Moron.
He pointed his thumb back to the truck. “If I’m disturbing you, I can go.”
She raised a hand. “No. It seems Someone thinks we should talk.”
One corner of his mouth went up in a half smile. “God doesn’t like to be called Someone.”
“No, He does not.” Her tiny smile faded as she noticed the bandage on his right hand. “You hurt your hand.”
He popped off before he could stop himself. “You should see the wall.”
Just great. Way to make it worse. He cringed at her guilt-ridden look.
“You hit the wall.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I know a guy who can fix it.”
She almost smiled, then gestured to the bench. “Maybe I can invite him to sit with me?”
Sit? At least she hadn’t thrown rocks, but he hadn’t expected this. He swallowed hard and joined her, his nerves like sparking wires. Scared of what she might say. Scared of what he might say.
Quinn stepped aside so Nick could sit beside her. Stiff and unsure, he sat with his hands clasped in his lap, his focus across the water. She perched on the edge of the bench, leaving an empty space between them. Somehow, she needed to say something to fill it.
Her teeth were chattering, only half from the evening’s chill. The extra jacket he kept in his truck lay across his knee. Even after what she’d done, he was still thinking of her. It was a good sign.
“I’d give you five bucks for that jacket right about now.”
He exhaled a laugh, looking at the jacket as if he’d forgotten it was there. “You’re in luck. There’s a sale on jackets today. It’s free.”
Instead of wrapping it around her, as he often did, he handed it over. A bad sign. She’d opened a gulf between them. Feeling its depth, she suspected he was as afraid to jump across it as she was. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and allowed it to engulf her. Then slid back in her seat and watched the sunset develop.
The sun burned the sky with beautiful hues, carrying on its duty of ending the day. She prayed the fading light was indicative of nothing.
“I went to see Kaitlyn this afternoon.”
“How is she?”
“She’s doing well.”
“And Claire?”
“On top of the world.” Brutal small talk, nothing intimate. Quinn swallowed. “I know you’re mad at me for leaving.”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m not mad.” He shifted to her, resting his hand on the back of the bench. “Not at you. I misread you, saw what I wanted to see. I only want what’s best for you, and what I did—I betrayed you.” His gaze dropped. “You made the boundary clear, and I didn’t honor it. I’m sorry.”
His words twisted her insides. The guilt was hers, and he thought the fault was his.
He stared at his fidgeting hand in his lap. “I understand if you don’t want to be around me anymore.”
“Stop.”
His head jerked up, his brow pinched.
“You didn’t misread me. Everything you did was right.” She faced the sunset, seeking bravery. “Last night, I was going to ask if you were up for that date. But I couldn’t. I have this fear that, if I dare to care...” Tears thickened her voice and obstructed her vision. She swiveled toward him and laid her hand over his. “I wanted to be on that balcony with you. But when we... All I could see was pain and loss.”
He frowned at their hands with—what? Longing? Confusion? Then he slipped his out from under hers and eyed the parking lot like he wished he could run.
Fear struck her heart. Not the same fear that had debilitated her since Brendan’s death. But a fear like falling and having no one there to catch her.
“We’re all broken, Quinn. We just have to find a way to pick up the pieces.”
“I want to.”
“That’s good.” He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “But do you want to pick up your pieces and put them together with mine?”
She wanted to reach out to him, to put her hands on his shoulders and make him look at her, to tell him she was sure. Because she was—she really was.
But she hesitated.
His eyes, wet with unshed tears, found hers again before he ducked his head with a quick smile. “Maybe we just need time to think.” His hand went to her cheek, and he pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Then he was gone, leaving her gasping for air.
She watched until he was in his truck and driving away, not believing this was happening. He didn’t look back. He’d left her alone. The world that had grown warm was cold. The familiar numbness of loss spread across her skin like frost crawling across glass.
She shivered despite his warm jacket as the final color drained from the sky and turned to ash.
