Chapter One - Quin
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I was happy.
Two days out of seven were perfect.
But three hundred sixty-five days have passed and all the good times are gone.
One year. Today is the one-year anniversary of Rochelle’s exit from the game.
The buzzer near the door of my condo blares. It’s Smith. I don’t need to answer it. Showing up every Monday morning has been his way of keeping track of me all year. The buzzer is just a courtesy anyway. He has a key.
At first Smith and Chella both came over. It was nice, actually. I really enjoyed them. And they were just worried about me after I stopped talking to Bric and never went back to Turning Point.
I didn’t mean to end things with Bric. I mean… I did mean to end the game with him, but not the friendship. He’s been a part of my life for so fucking long I really never considered just cutting him out completely. It just shook out that way. One day of no Bric turned into one week, turned into one month. And if things keep going, it will turn into forever.
We pretended things were OK for a few months. He even pretended like he was looking for Rochelle. But he never fooled me. Bric is never going to find Rochelle and I’m not either. If she hates me so much that leaving like that was her only option, well… that’s that.
I quit going to Turning Point. I still have a membership—because canceling my membership would involve making a decision, and I’d just rather ignore the whole thing. And then I quit talking to Bric. Stopped taking his calls. Stopped showing up for things. Stopped everything to do with him.
Smith and Chella took it upon themselves to check in on me. Like I’m on suicide watch or an old uncle who needs to be reminded to eat.
They came over together on Monday mornings at first. They’d bring coffee and some food. Pastries or McDonald’s. Whatever. But about a month into that schedule the three of us were sitting on my couch, just talking and enjoying the fantastic view I have from the top-floor of the SkyClub Building, watching the weather and having a chat.
And then… my hand wandered to Chella’s leg. It wasn’t conscious. It wasn’t. It was just… we were all sitting pretty close together. Chella in between Smith and me. And it felt so… familiar.
It was habit, I think. Pretty sure, anyway. An unconscious gesture. I wanted a little human interaction, I guess.
Everything stopped when I did that. Smith went silent. Chella, who was in the middle of telling me some silly story I have no recollection about now, went silent.
I withdrew my hand immediately. Gave Smith a sorry shrug. We all sighed. Because it was such a natural move.
I am drawn to them.
Not Chella. Not Smith.
But them.
Us.
And I think Smith knew how easy it would’ve been for the three of us to slip into something in that moment. It would’ve been so simple to just morph back into a plural arrangement. I know he likes it. I know she likes it. And I do too. I still do. You can’t play that kind of game for more than a decade and not like it.
But Chella was the one to end all those thoughts. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, stood up, and said, “I gotta get to work early today. Wanna do lunch tomorrow, Quin?”
And I said, “Sure. Sounds fun.”
She walked out and left Smith and me there. I knew he wasn’t going to say anything, and he didn’t. We talked about… I don’t know. I don’t remember. Stocks, maybe. The weather. Something benign.
So that’s how it started. Every Monday morning Smith still comes by with coffee and something to eat. He just comes alone now. And every Tuesday I have lunch with Chella. Alone.
It’s funny, I think. That Smith doesn’t trust me to be with Chella around him, but he does trust me to be with her alone.
It’s not her I want. It’s certainly not him. But another… us. I could go for another round of us.
I’m not dressed right now. Just wearing pajama pants, standing in front of the amazing fourteen-foot-high windows that start at the floor and go all the way up to the ceiling, letting the heat from a vent under my feet warm me from the bottom up.
I go to work most Mondays but I don’t show up until noon. It takes me that long to get over the ache. I don’t get it. They say time heals all things and I have known that to be true in a lot of ways in my thirty-five years of life. But it’s not true this time.
It’s getting worse, if you ask me.
I do go to work on time on Tuesdays. Show up at nine, go to lunch with Chella at one. Go home at six.
And the rest of the week I’m fine. It’s just Mondays and Tuesdays that threaten to kill me. I go out with Robert, my senior account manager down at Foster Consulting, on Friday nights after work. Just drinks at whatever local club is popular. I check out the women. Might flirt with one. But I don’t take them home. I don’t do anything with them because every woman I meet is immediately compared to Rochelle.
They have short hair. It’s too dark. They’re too serious. Not tall enough. Too tall. Too thin. Too thick. Not shapely. Wrong clothes. Bad conversation. Etc. Etc. Etc.
On Saturdays, I work out in the building gym. Three or four hours at least.
On Sundays I run. Coors Field has a running club. You join and they let you into the stadium Sunday mornings at five AM to run the steps.
And then it starts all over again.
Monday with Smith.
Tuesday with Chella.
Get through the week at work.
Friday night drinks with Robert.
Saturdays at the gym.
Run the steps on Sunday.
And pretty soon a year goes by. One year since the woman I loved left me with no explanation. One year since I was happy.
Like I said. Once upon a time, a long time ago.
I am existing and nothing more.
My front door beeps when Smith enters his key, and then he pushes the door open.
I don’t even bother turning away from the window.
“What’s up, asshole?” Smith says, dropping a bag on the floor as he enters. “You going to work today?”
I listen as he rummages through whatever take-out bag he brought with him and appreciate the scent of coffee.
“You know what today is?” I ask, still staring out at the weather. It’s gonna rain today. Last year it was snowing. But it doesn’t usually snow so much in late November, so this year we’re back to normal with the rain.
“Yeah.” Smith sighs, banging a drawer closed in the open kitchen. “I know. But you’re going to work today, right?”
I should go to work. What the fuck good would it do me to stay home? “I have a meeting this afternoon. So probably.”
Smith walks up to me holding a paper coffee cup. I take it, mumble, “Thanks,” and sip the hot liquid.
“I got you the best breakfast burrito from one of the new trucks down near Cheeseman Park,” Smith says. “You gotta taste this shit.”
“Thanks,” I say again, meaning it. I walk over to the kitchen island and grab the one that says ‘Quin’ on the silver-foil wrapper. Open it up. Take the mandatory bite.
“So listen,” Smith says.
But that’s when I notice the rat peeking its head out of Smith’s… gym bag? Sitting on the floor near the couch. “What the fuck is that?”
“What? Oh, the dog.”
“That’s not a dog. It’s a rat.”
“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “So you know Chella said I could get a dog, remember? Last year she gave me that gift and part of it was a puppy?”
“Yeah, but…” I point to the rat—which is sitting inside Smith’s gym bag. Since when does he come here with a gym bag? “That’s not a puppy, Smith.”
It’s small enough to be a puppy. Tiny little thing, for sure. Rat-sized, hence my confusion. And the fur on the top of its head is gathered together with a pink bow.
It stares at me and says, “Arf.”
Really. The rat-dog says, Arf.
“So we go to the shelter last week because she’s dying for me to get a fucking puppy, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, more interested than I have a right to be.
“She’s practically pissed off that I haven’t done this already and Christmas is coming… I didn’t like her present… blah, blah, blah. So we go to the shelter and look around. And I see this amazing husky puppy, right?”
“Right,” I say, taking another bite of my burrito, wondering how he gets to this rat-thing when he starts out with a husky.
“Like this dog talks, Quin. Like this little husky puppy is chatting me up with all this woo-woo howling and shit.”
“OK,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“But then…” Smith sighs. “I hear Chella cooing a few cages down. And I melt, man. I just can’t say no. She gets the people to let her hold the puppy. And she’s talking to it like they’ve been friends forever. And… well, I just gave in, man. I couldn’t walk out of there without that puppy. So here we are. Precious is gonna hang out with me at the gym every day. They say dogs are good for troubled kids and old people, right?”
I shake my head at him. “What the fuck are you talking about? What gym? What troubled kids and old people?”
“Dude,” Smith says, as he takes a bite of his burrito. I wait for him to swallow his food as I continue to stare at the dog. “Don’t you ever listen to me? I’ve been talking about the youth project for six months. Why do I come here if you’re just gonna dwell on the past and be a moping asshole?”
Has he mentioned something about a gym? I have no clue. I know he never mentioned old people. The troubled kids… I’m not sure. That’s a maybe.
“I told you that I decided not to do the whole donation thing anymore. It’s stupid not to spend my own money, right?”
“Yeah.” I snort. “I always thought that was stupid. But whatever. I supported you and your dumb rules.”
“I know,” Smith says, sipping his coffee. “I really do appreciate that, man. For real. But I decided it was time to invest in my own projects, you know? So I bought five gyms.”
“Gyms?” I’m confused. “What kind of charity is a gym?”
“For kids. In bad neighborhoods,” he explains. “I told you all this months ago.”
“Maybe in passing,” I say, defensive.
“Anyway.” He sighs. “I have five gyms and five days of the week to fill. You know Chella quit the gallery and started her own bakery business?”
“Bakery?” What the fuck is happening?
“If you say you didn’t know about that, I’ll punch you,” Smith says. “Hard. Like… in the eye.”
“No, no,” I lie. “I remember now. Just forgot, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, Chella graduated pastry school last month. Pastry chef,” Smith says, shaking his head, eyes shining with pride. “That was always her dream.”
It was? How did I not know this?
“And we’ve been working on her new business and my gyms. And this is opening week for me, bro. I’ve got a full-on boxing ring in three of them. You know, so the little deviants can kick the shit out of each other and call it sportsmanship.”
I shake my head at him and laugh. “That’s so wrong.”
“I mean it affectionately,” he says, waving a hand at me. “Three of them are boxing gyms and two of them are just regular gyms. And it’s free, right? Like kids in these neighborhoods need a place to go hang out. Stay off the street. Eat and stuff. So I’m gonna take care of all that from now on.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Philanthropist.”
“You know it,” he says, shooting me with his finger. “Anyway, I’m gonna spend my time at each one, one day a week. And I’m bringing Precious along to make me more approachable.”
I laugh at the thought of Smith trying to be approachable. “Aren’t the little deviants supposed to be in school at this time of day?”
“You can’t rush progress, Quin. Of course I want them in school, but I never went to school. So I figure I’d hire some tutors and run some GED classes during the day. Get them all up to speed on that in between kicking the shit out of each other. Chella wants to do scholarships too. For the ones who show interest and commitment. So you know, I’m changing the world one kid at a time.”
I stare at him, amazed at how much being with Chella has changed him for the better. Smith has always been generous with his fortune. I would never say a bad word about him to anyone other than Bric or Chella. Or Rochelle. And that’s just friendship talking, you know? I’m allowed to be annoyed with him sometimes because we’re friends and we care about each other.
But it’s nice to see him like this. All settled with a woman and excited about his plans. He used to just let Bric handle all his charity work. Now he’s invested.
What a difference a year makes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Smith asks.
I was the happy one last year and he was the broody asshole.
“What?” he prods. “Why are you staring at me?”
“You’re just so damn… satisfied.”
“Hell, yeah, I’m satisfied. My life has never been more on track than it is right now. And,” he says, lowering his voice and looking around like someone might hear us. Which is stupid. We’re in my condo. “We might be getting pregnant soon.”
“Shit,” I say, running my fingers through my messy bed hair. “Really?”
“I’m not getting any younger, Quin. My biological clock is ticking like a goddamned time bomb. If I want five kids, we need to start pronto.”
I try to picture Smith Baldwin with five kids and can’t get past the image of him changing diapers. “Chella wants five kids?” I ask, trying to decide if she’s into spending the rest of her thirties barefoot and pregnant.
Smith almost spits out his burrito when he laughs. “She thinks I’m nuts. But she’ll come around. I have a plan that will change her mind.” He taps his head with his foil-covered food. “And it all starts with that dog.” He points to Precious, who is still sitting demurely inside his gym bag, her pink-ribbon-adorned head the only thing visible.
“Yeah,” I say, just staring at the dog. “Well, I’m happy for you guys. Really. It’s amazing what you’ve done this past year.”
“Which is what we need to talk about,” Smith says, setting his food and coffee down. “You need to stop, man. You need to let her go. Rochelle is gone, Quin. She’s never coming back. She’s moved on. Lives a whole other life now.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “We never found her. Not even Bric found her. And I know he’s been looking. He leaves me messages once a month to update me.”
“Which is nice of him, by the way. Since you refuse to talk to him or answer his calls.”
I sigh. “It’s not like I made a conscious decision.”
“I know, you say this every time I bring it up. But conscious or not, you fucked up, Quin. He’s a good guy. He didn’t realize she’d take him so literally, you know?”
“My problem is… he should’ve known that. She depended on him for advice. That was always his role in the game. The girls have problems, they go to Bric. He talks to them in that stupid reasonable voice of his, and gives them good advice. He told her—”
“He gave her the options, Quin. That’s it. He never told her to get an abortion. He’s a man. He thinks like a man. He had no idea she’d walk out like that.”
I huff out a long breath of air. We’ve been over this a million times. I get it. Bric made a mistake. Probably an innocent mistake. But it had a very dramatic effect on my life. I can’t let it go.
“You need to let it go,” Smith says, like he’s reading my mind. “It’s time, Quin. One year has passed. If she wanted to contact us, she would’ve done it by now.”
“I know,” I say, some of the sadness creeping back in. One year is a long time. Enough time to get past something that hurt and try to patch things up. But she’s still gone. And no one can find her. She wants to be gone. She wants to stay gone. Otherwise she’d leave a trail. She wouldn’t be so careful about not opening credit cards or whatever people refuse to do when trying to hide themselves. She’d be in the open. And she’s not.
“And you need to make things right with Bric. He’s unhappy too, you know. Both of you are so fucking pathetic right now, I’m about to lose my mind. Just go over there and talk to him.”
“Not today,” I say. And I say it firmly. With enough conviction that Smith doesn’t press. Not today of all days. I can’t do it.
“Not today,” Smith agrees. “Fine. But soon. You’d both be much happier if you’d fix this part, at least. So Rochelle’s gone. I get it. But Bric is still here. I’m still here. Chella is still here. You’re OK, Quin. I promise. You are.”
I think about that for a few seconds.
Smith waits, then says, “Well, I gotta go. So much to do today. Make sure you go to work this afternoon. And Chella says she wants to have lunch at the Club tomorrow.”
“No,” I say. “Fuck that.”
“Fine with me,” Smith says, shrugging as he walks over to his gym bag and hikes it over his shoulder. He pets the dog, who pants excitedly at his attention. “But she told me to tell you she’d be in the White Room waiting for you tomorrow at one. So if you want to stand her up, be my guest. Just don’t expect her to show up for lunch the week after.”
He walks out without another word and leaves me to my thoughts.
If Chella wants to pull this either-or shit, she can. But I don’t like ultimatums. I might not be as rigid as Smith or as dominating as Bric, but I know how to hold a fucking grudge.
I won’t be showing up at the Club tomorrow.
No way. Fuck that.