Chapter Thirteen - Quin
It’s déjà vu all over again as I enter the apartment on the sixth floor of Turning Point.
Until it’s not.
Until the fact that this is not Rochelle’s apartment anymore hits me in the chest like a fucking brick. Gone are all her quirky pieces of furniture. Gone are the long, heavy drapes. Gone are the pictures of the four of us on the fridge. Gone is her exotic scent. Gone are her vases filled with fresh flowers and the never-ending throw pillows.
Everything about her is gone.
Except the memories.
Chella is sitting on the new couch. Some modern piece-of-shit thing that Smith probably picked out. It’s leather, and white. In fact, everything is black and white up here. Just like it is downstairs.
She stares at me as I toss the keys onto a new foyer table and they go sliding off and onto the dark, hardwood floor, because gone is the little green glass dish that used to catch them.
“I didn’t think you were coming tonight,” she says. She’s wearing a white nightie that ends at her hip bones and a matching pair of panties. She makes no move to get up and greet me like Rochelle would’ve. She keeps her long legs tucked under her slim body and stares at the bags of food in my hand.
“I wasn’t coming. But Smith called me forty-five minutes ago and said he didn’t have the apartment stocked with food and never told you about the room service. So…” I hold up the bags. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I figured this is as good a place to start as any.”
She continues to stare at me, or maybe it’s the food, as I walk past her and place it all on the dining table. It’s just a small four-seater table. Just enough room for all the players to eat together. As if that would ever happen up here.
“I got McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Taco Bell, and Chick-Fil-A.”
She smiles, but then tries to hide it as she gets to her feet and walks over to me. “I’m impressed, Quin. For a while there I thought you’d be mean to me. But fast food at one AM? You really know how to treat a girl. You must love me already.”
She’s joking. She’s insulting me. And she’s doing a good job at all of it because every word comes out sweet and innocent. I actually feel bad about the fast food. “If you want to go somewhere nice tomorrow, we can.”
“I want what you want, Quin.” She peeks into the McDonald’s bag and smiles. “And even though you probably chose the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them, I love the fish sandwich, so you lose and I win.”
I did pick the Filet-O-Fish because no one likes them. Bitch.
She sits on the table next to the bags of cheap food and starts eating a French fry. Her long legs cross and scissor together, like she’s stimulating herself.
“So,” I say.
“So,” she says, unwrapping her fish sandwich and taking a bite. “What’s your rule?” she asks, her mouth full as she chews. “I hope it’s to fuck me sideways, because I’m horny.”
I smile at her. Then laugh. “That’s not my rule.”
“Goddammit.”
“My rule is to learn something about you. And tell you something about me.”
“Who makes these rules?” she asks. “Who enters a plural relationship with stupid rules like no fucking and more talking?”
I laugh again. Maybe she’s not half bad after all. At the very least, I might enjoy her company.
“Which one do you like?” Chella asks, pointing to the bags of food. “If you tell me that, we can knock your stupid rule off our to-do list and spend the rest of our time having sex.”
Yeah. I could like her. I point to the Wendy’s bag. “I got me a triple hamburger.”
“Oh, I’m going to like you a lot, Quin. We’re gonna get along just fine. I know it.”
I sigh, sit at the table so she’s across from me, and take out my burger. “Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been a dick to you and you don’t deserve it.”
“I do deserve it,” she says, eyes downcast. But she looks up at me for the next part. “I tricked you and I’m sorry too. I know I already told you that, but I mean it. It wasn’t nice and you got hurt. I’m not here to hurt you. I swear.”
I know I shouldn’t ask. I can hear Smith’s words in my head, warning me to leave it alone. But I have to. I have to hear it from her. I need closure. “Why are you here, Marcella?”
She finishes chewing her food, gets up to get us two glasses of water from the kitchen, and then takes a long drink before answering. “Smith said not to encourage you, but I don’t care. I’m going to tell you how it happened. OK?”
“Do you know where she is?” I ask. Praying, praying, praying.
“No.”
I hate my life. “Do you know why she left?”
“No,” she says again. “I promise. I don’t know either of those things. And if I did, I’d tell you. But I’ve been thinking about this for a week now and I have some idea of why she chose me.”
I nod and frown. I shouldn’t let her tell me. I should drop it, wish Rochelle good luck in my head, and then leave her behind like the baggage she is.
But I can’t. I just can’t.
“I think she set me up.”
I stop my pity party and look at her. “What do you mean? How?”
She tells me a story about a book in a used bookstore down on the 16th Street Mall and I start to feel sick. She tells me about how she bought it, how much she paid for it, and what it means to her.
I slump in my chair feeling defeated and alone.
She tells me about how they became friends. And how Chella used to go watch her play in small venues every Sunday night. And then she tells me about the offer. About what Rochelle told her about me.
“She said she loved you and that it was never going to work out.”
“She said that?” I ask. “She said love?”
Chella nods. “Love, Quin. But she told me that you couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say it back. That you guys had no future and she needed to leave or Bric would find out and he’d make her leave. She wanted to end it on her own terms.”
I knew it. I knew it was because of that time she broke the cardinal rule. “Did you tell this story to Smith?” I ask.
“No,” Chella says. “Smith doesn’t want to talk about her at all. He won’t say her name anymore. But before we go on… that’s what she told me, Quin. Not what I think really happened.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I think that was her lie to me. You know? To get me to think… I don’t know.” She stops talking and resumes eating.
“No,” I say. “Keep going. Finish that thought.”
She chews her food. Swallows. “I think something else was happening that she didn’t want to tell me. I have always thought that, since we first started talking about it. But I didn’t want to ruin my chances at… the game, right? So I just pretended I believed her.”
“What do you think was happening?” I ask. “Even if you don’t know for sure, just tell me what you think.”
“Something… big,” she says. “Something very stressful and life-altering. Maybe someone died?” she offers. “Big like that.”
“Who would’ve died?” I mumble, talking to myself.
“I don’t know. But she was sad. I will say that. She was very sad. On the inside. She never said anything and she always had a smile. But I recognized it.” Chella stops for a moment, looking out the window for a few seconds. “I know sadness. So I recognized it.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Any of it. Both Rochelle’s sadness and Chella’s. So I change the subject. “Do you still have the book?” I ask. “I wrote something in there for her. I’d like it back, if you have it. I’ll pay you for it.”
Chella gets up and goes into her new bedroom. Comes back with a box and places it on the table in front of me. She opens the box and unwraps the book from vintage linens that remind me so strongly of Rochelle, my throat begins to ache.
“It’s yours,” she says. “It’s a gift. I don’t need the money.”
I want to touch that book so bad. I want to pick it up and hold it to my heart and hug it the way I wish I could hug Rochelle right now. But I close the box back up and push it away with one finger. Like it’s poison. Because it is poison. If I take this book—if I allow myself to keep it—then I will write the end of this new story before we even get past the beginning. I will doom the new game of Taking Turns to failure. And maybe I don’t care all that much for Chella, but Bric likes her. Smith likes her. And they both gave me what I wanted by continuing the game with Rochelle. They gave me three years of happiness with her.
I owe them a fair chance, at least. I owe them this much.
“No,” I say, trying to hide the deep sadness coursing through my body. “I don’t want it.”
I expect Chella to ask more questions. I expect some persuasion from her. Urging me to keep it. Hide it away if I don’t want to look at it. I hope for this conversation because I hope she will talk me into staying in the past. Give me the excuse I’m looking for.
But she doesn’t. Chella nods, picks up the box, and takes it back to her new room.
I close my eyes and breathe through the pain, and the loss, and the regrets.
I fucked up. All of this is my fault because I fucked up.