NINE
Dear God, Declan Fraser was a ridiculous drunk.
This entire night would have been more enjoyable had we been watching a real rugby match and not just the local feed for regional semi-pro squads playing the Rugby Sevens.
“Ridiculous fecks.” That’s what Declan decides is the appropriate insult to sling at the two squads in the last match he actually watched. This, according to the Irishman, was nothing like “real” Sevens competition. “Not even playing in the right bleeding month, for feck’s sake!” The Sevens were usually held later in the year for the international squads, two teams pitted against each other for quick fourteen-minute matches. It’s the roughest, quickest matches you can watch and is a true display of real athleticism and teamwork.
The squad from Jefferson County and the pathetic redneck squad from Mississippi weren’t performing up to Declan’s liking and so the cable access feed got muted in exchange for beer pong. Joe’s house had been taken over by the CPU rugby squad and it was well past eleven when the squad’s captain, Declan, decided he needed several shots to erase the piss poor playing he’d just watched.
“Tequila?” Donovan asks, fighting both Declan and Vaughn for the bottle—it seems like the entire squad had ended up in the kitchen, where the entire center island was covered with bottles and plastic cups.
“Who’s up then?” Declan asks, tilting it toward Mollie and Autumn.
I bypass the offered shot glass, handing it over to my best friend. Seeing his girlfriend down the drink then quickly suck on the lime, Declan forgets he is hosting his squad in the eager hurry to have a go at Autumn’s neck.
“Fecking hell, love, you’re sexy.”
And… that little praise and the Irishman’s mouth descending on Autumn’s neck is enough to make Joe retreat to his bedroom and the entire squad to leave the kitchen.
Mollie crinkled her nose and the way Vaughn tugs her out of the room, tells me I’ll likely not be seeing them the rest of the night, not if the Marine’s groping hands are a clue to his plans.
Across the kitchen island, Donovan glances at me, rolling his eyes at how Declan and Autumn carry on before he snags the tequila. “Later, Sayo. I’m going to crash in the den.”
And then I’m alone with the happy couple, itching to be rid of them as well. I have plans for that spare bedroom that won’t stay empty all night.
“Um, guys?” I say, looking away from the couple as they block my exit from the kitchen. Declan fondles Autumn, hands firmly on her ass and she returns the attention, shoving her hand under his shirt, raking her nails across his chest before she uses her free hand to flirt her fingers against his waist. She is at his zipper before I can clear my throat.
“Autumn!” I shout, breaking their contact with my sharp yell.
“Oh, Sayo, sweetie, I’m sorry,” she says, doing a poor job of getting Declan’s lips from her neck. “Do you… you want something to…”
“Ugh, Autumn, take it to his room. The crowd is thinning and you guys are blocking my escape.”
“Autumn my love, is it sometime yet?” Declan whispers against Autumn’s skin and I roll my eyes, pushing them aside when Autumn giggles at him.
I wait for Declan’s bedroom door to close, and move purposefully towards Quinn’s empty bedroom, only to find a couple making out in the hallway. I tap the guy on his massive shoulder. It’s Sona Pulu, a new Wing recruit from Samoa who is sweet if not a little thick, especially when it comes to girls. He’s not yet cottoned on to the notion of rugby groupies and is currently tangled up with Lizzie Hamilton, a sophomore Cockie, (Cavanagh Cocks groupie), who spent all of last semester trying to get into Donovan’s bed.
“Sorry Sona, party’s over,” I tell him, shrugging when Lizzie frowns at me.
“We can’t just borrow…” Lizzie nods toward Quinn’s room and I laugh.
“Not unless you want a very grumpy Irishman kicking you out when he gets home. I nod toward the door and Sona smiles as Lizzie pulls him out of the house.
Not including Donovan, only two players are left from the party, both passed out in the den. Joe slips back into the kitchen, but only to retrieve a bottle of bourbon that he tucks under his arm. I watch him from the dining room entrance and wait to hear his bedroom door shut before I beeline toward Quinn’s bedroom.
It takes more effort than I’d like to admit, but I manage not to wonder why his date is going on so long. I feel like a hypocrite. I know damn well Quinn’s date isn’t my business, but neither is anything in his room. The guilt is a small burn against my conscience, one that I try to ignore right along with the assumptions of what Quinn is doing on his date as I slip into his room, a little surprised that it was tidier than it had been the first time I snuck in here. There is still a mound of dirty clothes near the window, but the bed is made and there aren’t any half-eaten meals or empty bottles of beer with floating cigarette butts next to the bed.
A few errant pieces of clothing litter the floor, near the closet. I open the closet door and suddenly discover where all the previous mess has gone. Bypassing the clutter that falls from the open closet door, I reach up, feeling for the box on the top shelf I know holds his sketch book. When I find nothing but empty boxes again and a small, empty duffle bag, I step away, standing on the balls of my feet to see if anything else has been stuffed in the back of that shelf. But it is empty and a quick inspection of the floor under the bed and Quinn’s bedside table provides no sketchbook. I think about leaving. It is a risk snooping in here when he can return at any second, when Joe can walk in at any time, but I want to see what he is hiding. I need to see the sketches he’s kept from me. I have no real reason, nothing that makes any sense other than blind curiosity, but I suspect my motivations are twisted, a little unsettled from that kiss.
Just the thought of that kiss makes my bottom lip throb and I shake myself, squashing the memory before it can rise up properly and stuff the rubbish and clutter back into the closet before I start for the door. One look at the dresser, though, and the open bottom drawer on the left side stops my exit.
Listening for any noise down the hallway, I kneel in front of the dresser, pulling open the drawer and there it is, the sketch book, looking just as it had the day before. But it holds so much more than the first time I found it. Now it holds all those sketches he’s been creating for Rhea, and I waste no time flipping open the pages, smiling when I spot the picture I glimpsed yesterday—my beautiful baby cousin looking fierce, strong. The glint of health, of power in her eyes is enough to blur my vision with unshed tears and I push them back, sniffling as I turn the page. There are more variations of the same sketch, Rhea soaring through the night, her zipping among the stars, past clusters of galaxies, then more of Rhea, as she is now, only without the pale skin and bags under her eyes.
This is Quinn’s version of my cousin—strong, beautiful, timeless. The image is so detailed, so real that I find myself touching it, absently believing that I will get some sort of spark from one graze of my fingers on the page.
But it is the next page that staggers me, leaves me unable to do anything other than stare unblinking.
Quinn has never struck me as anything other than crass and unaffected. He has never looked at me with anything similar to longing or respect. He’s only ever made me feel anger, rage, like I am someone to toy with, not anyone he’d love.
Yet the face staring back at me was drawn with emotion. It’s right there, me, through a mirror distorted, altered by whatever filled Quinn’s mind when he drew it. It’s a picture that is both totally me and not me at all. That face is beautiful, if not a little sad. There is strength behind those eyes and vulnerability in that expression.