“He does a lot of these triathlon thingys.” Quinn’s voice was muffled thanks to the pizza she was chewing on. After a Sunday’s worth of digging up intel, a large supreme from Gianni’s was in order.
“What’s a triathlon?” I asked, glancing up from my laptop as I did my own research.
“It’s one of those events where you swim, bike, and run.”
My nose curled. “Why would anyone want to do that? It sounds like a form of torture.”
“Not only does he do them, he’s even done the long ones.”
“What’s a long one?” I asked, separating a fresh slice of pizza from the box.
Quinn’s eyes narrowed at her own laptop screen. “Try a couple mile swim, over a hundred-mile bike ride, and then just top it all off, a marathon.”
My mouth fell open. “That’s an actual event that people choose to participate in?”
“Against all reason, yes.”
My head shook. “Well that explains a lot. Anyone who volunteers for something like that has to be void of any and all joy.”
Quinn reached for her bottle of water. “And from the places he’s come in at these joyless people’s sport, he’s pretty damn good too.”
“Of course he is. Brooks North is positively the most joyless person on the planet. It gives him an edge in the sport of masochists.”
I clicked around his dad’s architectural firm’s website, based out in Arizona. From what I’d gathered, it was a successful corporation that employed hundreds of people with offices around the nation. Being the only child of Xander North, Brooks would have had an easy in with the millionaires’ club if he’d followed in his dad’s footsteps.
Yet instead, Brook’s had gone to one of the top universities in the nation to major in journalism, a far cry from architecture. Going into freelance work straight out of school, he had to have known lean months. God knew I had, even as a staff writer straight out of school. Those last couple of days before paydays, I’d sustained on tap water and cup o’ noodles.
“I bet he’s a trust fund kid,” I stated, scanning Xander’s bio and portrait. There was a serious resemblance between him and his son. “His paychecks are probably less than he spends at the country club pro shop before tee time on Sundays.”
Quinn shot me a look above her laptop. “I don’t think so. From what I’ve been reading, his dad didn’t make it big until Brooks was in high school, after the divorce. Brooks lived with his mom until he left for college, and I can’t seem to dig up any photos of him and his dad following the divorce.”
I wiped my greasy fingers on my napkin. “Falling out?”
“Looking that way. Especially when you see a picture of the new Mrs. North and discover they married less than six months after the divorce was final.” Quinn spun her laptop around. A large picture took up most of the screen.
I blinked a few times. “He married someone the same age as his son pretty much.” I scanned the photo of Mrs. Brooks—former name Heather Divine, according to the caption below the photo. “Who looks like she could have been the leading lady in a mess of adult films.” Because really, who needed an augmented chest that large if it wasn’t porn related?
“Correction.” Quinn lifted her finger. “She did star in a handful of adult films.”
“Of course she did.” I blew out a breath.
“Okay, so here’s a guy whose parents divorced when he was fifteen after Mom supported the family while Dad was going to school and building his career. Months after the divorce, Dad finally makes it big and marries a semi-retired porn star who was ‘twenty-one.’” Quinn flipped the screen around and clicked to something else. “No wonder the guy’s a little cynical when it comes to love.”
“Cynical? He wrote an article titled ‘Love is Dead. Get Over it Already.’”
Quinn bobbed her head from side to side. “I don’t know a more extreme version of cynical. Sorry.”
“I do,” I muttered. “Brooks North.”
“Oh no.” Quinn set down her water. “I just found an obituary for Janice North.” Her eyes scanned the screen. “His mom died two years ago. Of cancer.”
That little ache in my chest was not supposed to be felt where Brooks was concerned.
“He doesn’t have any siblings, doesn’t seem to have a relationship with his dad anymore, and has never been married.” Quinn frowned. “Talk about a lonely life.”
“I’m sure he’s not that lonely.”
Quinn exhaled sharply. “Why? Just because he hooked up with you means he’s hooking up with everyone else?”
“Pretty much.”
Her shoulders fell. “Maybe he assumes the exact same thing about you.”
“That was my first time ever doing something like that,” I said, tossing an uneaten scrap of pizza crust at her.
I didn’t come anywhere close to hitting her.
“And what if that was his first time doing something like that too? And here you are, making assumptions that he’s scoring more than Shaq during his golden era.”
I got back to my “research.” “Who’s Shaq?”
Quinn threw her head back. “I can’t even.”
“Come on, Quinn. Let’s jump on the expressway back to reality. Brooks North is about as selective and monogamous as a bonobo. You’ve read his articles. He believes in the total opposite of what we do.”
“Of what you do,” she muttered, fingers clacking against her keyboard.
My expression flattened as I wondered if I’d heard her right. Sliding my laptop aside, I directed a pointed look at the person I thought I knew inside and out. “What I do?” I said slowly, not missing her unwillingness to make eye contact. “But not what you do?”
She pretended to be enthralled by whatever was on her laptop screen. “Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that maybe relationships aren’t so cut and dry. You have some valid points . . . and so does he.” With that, Quinn looked like she was bracing for me to toss a carton of eggs at her.
“He basically believes love is the byproduct of two individuals’ needs to satisfy an innate sexual demand, as well as humanity’s desire for companionship. Which translates to two people being drawn together because they want to hump and don’t want to be alone.” Just saying that put a bitter taste in my mouth.
Instead of looking like she was about to take back what she’d said, Quinn lifted her hands. “What’s so wrong with that? I don’t want to be alone forever. I want to have sex.”
“But not with any random schmuck who puts the offer on the table,” I argued, feeling the teensiest bit betrayed. “I mean, Brooks is the guy who penned a full two-thousand-word article about the scientific reasons men gravitate toward an hourglass figure.”
Quinn raised her hand at me. “And when you look at it from an evolutionary perspective, that article made sense.”
Yet again, she’d managed to render me speechless.
“I can’t believe this. My best friend. Taking that Neanderthal’s side.”
“I’m not taking his side. All I’m saying is that I think you both have valid points . . . and not-so-valid ones.” Quinn blew a chunk of hair out of her face. “What’s so wrong with finding some middle ground and, I don’t know, compromising?”
“What’s wrong with that, friend, is that you can’t compromise with a man who believes that marriage is a death sentence.”