We ride to Giliberti House in silence. The irony that Quinn is driving Dante’s car isn’t lost on me. I can’t help but constantly feel surprised at how well they get along now, when I know that they were on rocky terms at first.
“What’s with you and Dante?” I ask as Quinn pulls into the Giliberti drive. He glances over at me.
“What do you mean?”
“You get along so well,” I point out. “I figured that since you used to have a thing for Reece that you and Dante would butt heads.”
Quinn laughs, a sound that is husky and rich in the night. Even his laugh has an American accent. I like it.
“Dante and I are fine,” he tells me. “He didn’t know what to think of me at first, but once he realized that Reece and I aren’t a thing, he was fine. He’s really easy to get along with.”
“As are you,” I tell him.
“Well, that’s what I’m told,” he tells me as he uncurls himself from behind the wheel. He comes around the car to open my door, like a gentleman. I love that, too.
He opens my door and helps me from the car and then walks me up the manicured sidewalk. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that I was skinny-dipping and that he bailed me out. He’ll never know how grateful I am. So I tell him.
He shakes his head again.
“It wasn’t a problem,” he tells me again. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
And I would have. I really would have. That makes me happy. Maybe I really am a bad-ass.
“Why did you go to the party with Elena?” I ask him suddenly, before I lose my bad-ass nerve. He looks startled.
“Because she asked me. You didn’t,” he points out. “Why did you go with Gavin?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t. I went with Reece and Dante.”
“But you went skinny dipping with Gavin,” Quinn reminds me.
“That was just me being impetuous,” I tell him.
He stares down at me, his sandy blonde hair curling up at his neck.
“Well, maybe me going to the party with Elena was impetuous, too.”
He’s still staring at me, strong and silent in the dark. We’re lingering in the doorway of the house, each of us hesitant to open the door and end this conversation. The whole mood feels like an open-ended sentence. And I want it to keep on going.
With Quinn.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to want,” I admit to him. His eyes are like liquid chocolate as he assesses me. He seems pensive.
“Well, you’re the only one who can figure that out,” he finally tells me. And I know he is right.
“I’m just so confused,” I murmur. “And I hate that.”
“Well, tiny tot, don’t stress so much about figuring it out,” Quinn says. “When you’re ready, the answer will be clear. You’ll know what you want.”
“I will?” I ask. I watch his lips as he speaks.
“You will,” he assures me. “Trust me.”
And as I picture his strong arms carrying me out of the sea while I was wrapped in his shirt, I know that I do.
I do trust him.
It’s a good feeling.
Chapter Eighteen
I see a side to my mother this morning that I wish could have stayed locked in my lost memories. She’s so furious about the pictures taken of me last night that she looks like she could just spit.
In fact, she accidentally does spit on my cheek as she hisses angry words. I wipe it away and patiently listen to her tirade.
And as she says something about me embarrassing her and my father, a memory slams into me.
You’re an embarrassment.
I inhale sharply as a few more blurred and jagged memories come rushing back. I see a few faces and images and colors and it leaves me feeling nauseous and overwhelmed in a sea of emotion.
“We fought that day,” I whisper. My knuckles are white as I fist them in my lap. My mother looks at me from my bedroom windows.
“What?” She is startled now.
“The day of the earthquake. You told me that I embarrassed you. We fought and I left. I was supposed to have been in my bedroom, but I sneaked away to go diving with Gavin.”
“You remember?” she asks, her face pale. My mom is a small woman, and she looks severe today with her dark hair pulled into a tight chignon at her neck. I nod.
“I remember. That much, anyway. But it’s something.”
“You’re right,” she sighs. “It’s something. Yes, we fought that day. You had your nose pierced. I wanted you to take it out so that you didn’t embarrass your father. You refused. Then you left.”
“And when I was in a coma, you took my nose ring out and colored my hair,” I say calmly. She nods wordlessly.
“Why?” I ask. I feel limp. Even though I know what she did. I need an answer now. Am I really such an embarrassment to my parents that they would try to change me when I wasn’t even conscious?
“Because we had to,” she answers simply. “I thought that maybe everything could change. But I see now that it’s not going to happen. You’re going back to your old ways and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“My old ways?” I raise an eyebrow and try to force my temper down. I feel my blood starting to boil and that’s not a good sign. “Just because I see life differently than you do, doesn’t make me wrong,” I tell her. “If you and dad weren’t so rigid about trying to force me into the mold of a person that I’m not, maybe you would see that.”
“We’re not trying to change you,” my mother says. “We’re just trying to change your behavior. You’ve got to realize that a mature person has to sometimes act in ways that they would rather not, simply because of their position in life. You have to act respectful and mature because of your father. It’s just the way it is.”
And all of a sudden, I see her point.
I don’t know why, but it’s like a revelation.