ELEVEN
I have missed my friends. Autumn, of course has stayed front and center. She is my best friend. I could no more be rid of her than I could the blackness of the hair that overtakes the pink dye since there has been no time for girly maintenance. But Layla and Mollie, I have not seen in weeks. Texts and Facebook posts don’t count. So when Layla calls to ask if I’d meet her for coffee, I eagerly agreed.
I had no idea our little friend date would turn into something else entirely.
The confession came wordless, a reaction to my stupid joke and I knew what Layla had kept from us for months. “What? Finally getting hot and heavy with Donovan?” When that fear crowded around her features, my mouth fell open and I reached for her. “Oh my God. I was joking. I was… I mean, are you?”
She and Donovan were sleeping together. Really together. Gone was the Rent-a-Cop boyfriend that no one liked, (not even Layla) and in his place, had been Donovan.
Who we thought Layla hated.
Who we thought hated Layla.
And then, Walter, the aforementioned Rent-a-Cop tracked Layla down and got a bit too insistent that she take him back.
Now Donovan is playing the hero. The happy melody of “The Gypsy Rover” plays like a backtrack in my mind as Donovan pummels Layla’s ex-boyfriend, Walter. To be fair, he had threatened us both. So maybe he deserves it, but hearing that tune—one that Layla and I stopped to listen to as a small street band started up the impromptu concert happened just outside of McKinney’s—is like some sort of weird soundtrack to the pummeling, maybe our on Irish brawl where we watch and make snap judgments.
“Dude. Two guys are fighting over you.” The comment is stupid, but I can’t help myself and by Layla’s smile and quick blush, I get that she appreciates it. Still, looking at her, seeing how she watches Donovan come to her aid, how her entire face flushes, lights up with longing and pride, well. If she hadn’t inadvertently admitted that she and Donovan have been sleeping together, then one look at her would have given their little secret away.
“See that woman, Rent-a-Cop?” Walter ignored Donovan’s question, either due to blind stupidity, or his being a simpleton. When he finally relents, half-heartedly acknowledges the question, then Donovan continues, his voice sharp and damn scary. “She’s off limits to you. You see her on campus, in town, any fucking where and you so much as look in her direction, I will fucking end you. You feel me?”
Next to me, Layla makes the strangest, pleased sound, something that reminds me of cotton candy and a free turn on the Ferris wheel. She is next to Donovan the second he leaves Walter on the street. Their touches are frequent, tender, and watching one of my oldest friends and the man she’s pretended to hate for decades finally come together, finally treat each other with something other than cruelty, does something to me. They aren’t playing games anymore, not that I can see. At least, they don’t seem to be. And when Donovan touches Layla’s face, when he looks to be suffering from the scrape with the rent a cop and the urgency to touch Layla, I figure it’s time to bail out.
It’s only when I touch Layla’s back that she remembers me, but I dismiss the apologetic way she frowns and stop her excuses before they come. “Get him home, Layla, before the real cops show up.” My friend hesitates, but only for a moment, as though she’s only just remembering that I know her dirty little secret and that she’ll get zero judgment from me. A glance at Donovan’s wincing face and I shrug, kissing Layla’s cheek. “Patch him up, make sure he gets home okay.”
I could say something to her, maybe tease her for abandoning me to be the last remaining singleton in our circle, but I don’t. I’m not remotely bitter about that. My friends are growing. They are setting upon lives that will likely lead them away from Cavanagh, away from everything that we’ve ever known. It is not something that I haven’t considered over the years, but it was bound to happen. It’s not like I haven’t prepared, but as Layla and Donovan walk away, with her nestled under his arm and that worried, anxious expression on her face, the realization comes to me that no amount of preparation will ready me for the ends that are approaching. And there are many of them—Rhea, Autumn and Declan, Mollie and Vaughn— too many to list. The loneliness that settles in my chest is cold and mildly sharp, and no matter how many of the CU rugby players call after me as I walk back through town, no matter how many open, genuine smiles greet me as I head back toward my car, that loneliness will not lessen.
Maybe it’s because those players, those sweet, flirty faces, aren’t the one that’s taken root in my brain. The one I want to throttle and kiss equally.
Shit. Did I just think that?
All through town, driving, not paying much attention to my surroundings, the image of Layla and Donovan, the look between them, keeps me from focusing. I might want that one day. Maybe. When my life is less chaotic. When I’m not needed as much.
Hell, I’m the oldest of five siblings. There will likely never be a time when I’m not needed. And with Rhea…
Coming to the intersection that crosses the campus and Old Cavanagh, my gaze unfocuses as I stare blindly into the street lights, watching the wind zip CPU flags and holiday decorations against the light poles and street signs. There is a light drizzle frosting the air with the approach of Christmas and the promise of more time slipping. Without really meaning to, I think of Quinn, his touch, the severe way he handled me last week in my apartment and how much I liked it.
Because he made me forget.
Only a second, a pause between his lips and mine—in that instance there was nothing but him, the taste of his mouth and the feel of his breath.
“Clemson Drive. Some warehouse.” Autumn’s voice floats around like an echo, a nudge I know she’d never inch me toward if she realized it was there. I was three blocks from the warehouses on Clemson Drive. I was lonely. Quinn O’Malley didn’t do anything for anyone without getting something in return and I have no idea what I’d have to offer. I only know that Layla and Donovan are changing. My guess is that Autumn and Declan will likely leave. Mollie will probably end up with Vaughn in Maryville. Rhea is… slipping.
I am being left behind.
My blinker is on before I stop myself, my wheels turning, and I’m coasting down Clemson Drive. Then I’m pulling over and putting the gear in park. Across the street, despite the soft, dwindling drizzle and the cold, Quinn stands in front of a large brown brick building, a scatter of spray paint cans at his feet.
Reason tells me to only watch. It tells me that voyeurism is all I should allow myself. It’s all I should give Quinn. But his hands are uncovered and paint wets the back of his fingers. The leather jacket he wears isn’t zipped and the beanie on the ground should be on his head.
Without really considering it, I am out of my car and across the street within seconds. Just standing, watching, observing from the corner of the building, hidden between shadow and the dull, yellow street light. The large, beaming handheld flashlight shines onto the building’s surface and the sketchy form of what I know will be Rhea flying through space.
A quick shiver breaks across Quinn’s broad shoulders but he doesn’t move; simply steps back, lowering the paint can as he looks over the work he’s started.
“Come to give me company?” he asks, keeping his gaze on that wall, as though I don’t warrant even a single glance over his shoulder. He shakes the paint can so that the marble inside clicks against the metal, his movements easy, light. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. His attention is on the long, solid lines that will make up something I can’t see yet. It’s while he is distracted that I move, inching closer, unsure why I am here at all.
“Her top lip is fuller,” I offer coming to stand next to him, looking up at the face I’ve memorized since she was a baby. “There’s a bigger dip in her top lip. It… makes her mouth heart shaped.”
For some reason, my throat catches and just for a blink, I don’t care that Quinn hears me upset, that this depiction of my little cousin has my eyes getting misty.
If he wants to insult me, maybe yell at me for correcting his artwork, Quinn retains the smallest semblance of decorum and only nods, stretching his arms before he stops to watch my profile.
“It’s not done. Not even close.”
“Is this…” I wave at the building, the large stretch of the scene, reaching nearly the entire surface, “What is this for?”
But as always, Quinn keeps his business to himself, offering me nothing more than a turn of his head and a long, slow glance as though I’d insulted him.
“She’s my cousin, you know.” He remains silent, tossing the can on the ground next to a canvas bag holding the others. “Aunt Carol, she might not like…”
“Why are you here?” Quinn steps in front of me, keeping my gaze from the mural, from everything but the backlit highlights of his face. “You want…” he steps closer, so that I straighten forgetting for a second that he shouldn’t be touching me, that his hands don’t belong on my hip, that his fingers shouldn’t be resting on my lower back, pulling me forward. “You want me, love?” Another pull and our chests connect. “Want my mouth again? Want to feel everything I’ve got to give you, Sayo?”
That bravado is like a sheen. Something that mars the surface, something that covers whatever is real, whatever is true. It’s a shame, really. He is beautiful, has been given so much because of that beauty. And yet he uses that to distract from who he really is, from the kindness that seems hidden beneath all that attitude and innuendo.
“Can you ever stop putting on a front?”
He doesn’t seem to like my question. Quinn drops his hand and I feel the cool wind that his arms, his fingers had blocked. But he doesn’t step back. When I inch close to touch his face, Quinn grabs my wrist. “Don’t touch me.”
“Always hiding, aren’t you?” My step is quiet as my boot pops a small piece of gravel under the heel. “Still running?”
“What do you want from me?” He jerks me toward him, his hand jumping back to my hip. “Hmm? Is it not enough that I keep away from your schedule at hospital? Or is it something else?” Quinn walks forward, making me step backward. “Do you want to finish the business from last week? I have to warn you, love, you’ve no idea what you’re getting yourself into. I’m not sweet. I’m no gentle lover. I take and I give and there are no fecking apologies.” I don’t stop him when he leans us against the back building, picking me up by the hips. “It’s a bit cold here, but the building is mine. So long as you understand what I offer, we can keep ourselves warm… somehow.”
He doesn’t mean it. Quinn might want me, but he is only acting on that drive because he refuses to explain himself. He’s deflecting. He wouldn’t tell me why he drew my sketch. He won’t explain what he has planned for the mural. Most of all, I doubt he’d ever give any of us a why for any of it.
When I don’t react the way he expects, when I push him away from my neck Quinn frowns, staring at me with more confusion than irritation.
“Can you give me something real?”
He waits, the grip on my thighs, the tension in his fingers tighten for a second before he relaxes. He is fighting with himself. There is something skirting around his tongue, as though there is something he wants to say but pride, ego prevents him from uttering a sound.
The truth would cost him too much.
Being real is too high a price.
“This is me, love. This is as real as I ever am.”
The truth is a blade Quinn keeps hidden. That edge is too sharp and lowering it would leave him unprotected. He is a fog to me, something that covers, something that can be easily brushed aside.
The paint fumes linger on the wind, mix with peppermint that hits my senses when Quinn sighs. It’s an odd mix that is intoxicating, just as he is. But it’s not enough. He’s not enough. Not the partial person he wants me to see.
“You’re a liar,” I tell him, pushing back so he will release me. “You’ll show me the real you or nothing at all, O’Malley.”
It’s hard, so very hard, but when he doesn’t respond, merely keeps looking at me as if his stare could change my mind, I turn and walk back to my car. Part of me—the selfish part—wants him to follow, but he doesn’t. I force myself to not look around, but I listen for any indication of what he might be doing.
The sound is faint, but clear—the spray can, the marble moving as he shakes it again and, I swear the low mutter of his cursing as he watches me walk away.