by Reid, Penny
His words were somewhat sobering. My insides congealed and my brain managed to catapult over the fog. “That’s an interesting theory.” And it was. It was an interesting theory. I saw merit in it, but I also felt it was fundamentally flawed. “And, I suppose if the relationship is between two people who are keeping score, then you are right—there will be a winner and a loser. However, if no one is keeping score, then no one loses.”
His eyes narrowed at me briefly, and then he leaned forward and rested one forearm along the table. “Just because you don’t keep score doesn’t mean one person isn’t functioning at a deficit in the relationship, taking more than giving.” He reached across the table and grabbed his abandoned whiskey glass.
“There were a lot of negatives in that sentence, ‘don’t, doesn’t, isn’t.’ Maybe that’s your problem.”
“My problem?” His eyes narrowed further.
“Yes, your problem. Maybe you’re focused too much on the negative invoices on the relationship spreadsheet.” I laughed. “My problem is that I miss the obvious; your problem is that you pay too much attention to it.”
He seemed to smile in spite of himself; a reluctant laugh passed his lips. His gaze was unguarded and appraising as he said, “You might be on to something.” He pulled at his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger distractedly, continuing his open assessment of me, his smile widening.
I basked in the warmth of his approving gaze before I poked him. “So, what led you to this pessimistic perspective? Do your parents call you all the time wanting you to babysit their cat or install gutters on their house? I helped my dad install gutters on our house when I was sixteen. It was truly awful.”
An expression that could only be described as grim melancholy cast a shadow over Quinn’s face. He swallowed with effort then said, “I don’t talk to my parents. I haven’t talked to them since my brother died.”
My own smile faded immediately, and I stared at him for a long moment. I fiddled with my napkin then set it down and clasped my hands in my lap. “Oh. Well…” I nodded, feeling like I needed to offer something in return, just in case he was keeping score on personal factoids. “I talked to my dad a few weeks ago when I lost my job. We don’t really talk much, but he’s a good guy. He forwards emails to me that he receives from others, but he never writes anything just to me. I don’t talk to either of my sisters.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Why not?”
“We don’t really have anything in common, and their career choices makes it difficult to maintain a meaningful relationship with them.”
“Both my father and my brother were police officers in Boston. They were not too happy with my choice of career.”
“What? A security guard or consultant or whatever you are?”
Quinn’s mouth hooked to the side and he paused before responding, his eyes moving over me, his expression somewhere between bemused and amused. “No, actually, when I was younger, I was something of a reverse hacker.”
“What do you mean?”
“I helped people secure their computers, systems, networks—that sort of thing.”
“Why wouldn’t your dad like that?”
“Because most of the people who hired me to do this were criminals.”
“So you created firewalls for mob bosses? As an aside, if I started a band, Mob Boss Firewall would be an excellent name.” Cringing, I mentally kicked myself for the tactless aside.
“It was nothing so poetic as that.” He glanced down at his almost empty whiskey and studied the amber liquid; his shoulders seemed to slump under the weight of something I couldn’t see. After a long minute, he said, “Actually, what I really did was keep their data from being used against them should their computers or hardware be confiscated.”
This was not something I expected to hear. Before I could catch myself, I asked, “Where did you learn to do that?”
He shrugged, not looking at me. “Mostly self-taught; I went to college in Boston for two years. My major was computer science, but I dropped out when business started to pick up.”
“Why did you stop? Why did you stop reverse-hacking for criminals?”
He lifted his eyes to mine, his expression blank. “How do you know I stopped?”
“I guess I don’t. Did you stop?”
“I did.”
“Why? If it was so profitable, then why…”
“Because…” he interjected, his eyes looking searchingly into mine and his brow pulled low as though he were trying very hard to decipher a mystery. His attention moved to my hair cascading over my shoulder. With an absentminded expression, he picked up a curl and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. His voice sounded distant and distracted when he responded. “Because I was the reason my brother died.”
I didn’t know what to say so I just watched him.
Quinn’s eyes moved back to mine; he seemed to be attempting to gauge my reaction. He smiled, but it was tinged with bitterness. “How the first program worked was that when any attempt was made to access data in the absence of an RFID transmitter, a background script would run, which wiped the hard drive clean, rendering it inoperable. Later, as my customer base grew along with the demand for larger data systems, I built a degausser. I had to add on a battery backup just in case the system was powered down. As you can imagine, the battery backup had a nasty habit of catching on fire.”
I cleared my throat and swallowed, wanting to add that the risk of fire could have been tempered by insulating and cooling the degausser. Instead, I asked, “Why do you think you were the reason your brother died?”
His mouth curved into a frown and he sighed. “Because one of the guys—one of your ‘bad guys’ who I worked for—shot my brother.”
I blinked. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”
“Months before Des, my brother, was killed, the police had a search warrant and took all of this guy’s computers, backups, everything. The program I had built for the man worked perfectly, and the police came up empty. If I hadn’t put the program on his computer, and if I hadn’t helped him keep his information safe from the police, then he would have been in jail instead of…”
I closed my hand around his not wanting him to finish the sentence. It was a horrible story. I wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault, but I felt like that statement would come across as pandering and patronizing.
Instead, I said, “I understand why you blame yourself.”
He blinked at me then narrowed his gaze a fraction as though trying to see me better. This time both his eyes and his smile were sad. “Do you blame me?”
“I blame the bad guy who actually pulled the trigger and killed him. In this situation, you sound like a person who has recognized the error of his ways and made an attempt to change. If you recall, that is the difference between a good guy and a bad guy.”
He released a breath I didn’t know he was holding. His eyes were still sad, but his troubled expression seemed to clear. He gazed at me with something that felt like wonder, and with his voice lowered to a quiet rumble, he said, “I don’t think I’ll keep score with you.”
* * *
We talked. We talked, and we laughed, and we had an amazing time. Conversation flowed like a beautiful waterfall, and my senses were saturated. Food came and went. Wine was poured and appeared out of nowhere. Time passed and I had no recollection or consciousness of anyone but Quinn being in that restaurant. And at some point, the butterflies in my stomach truly ceased for Handsome McHotpants and were utterly and completely for Quinn Sullivan.
He told me stories about his family. He was the youngest and spent his youth raising hell. His sister, Shelly, was three years older and something of a reclusive free spirit who preferred to fix up classic cars and create welded metal sculptures than interact with society. His brother Desmond, Des for short, was the oldest and very responsible.
My favorite story detailed how, at the ages of thirteen and sixteen, Quinn and Shelly welded the doors shut on twenty
year-old Des’s car, all but the passenger side back seat. Des was forced to enter and exit the car via the back seat for two weeks, and none of them ever told their parents. At some point, Quinn’s father asked to use the car, and Des tried to convince their dad that the doors had rusted shut rather than rat out his siblings.
He spoke with such affection for his brother, sister, and his parents that it made me like Quinn even more. His eyes would glaze over with memory, and he would begin to laugh before he reached the punch line of his story, which made me laugh, which made him laugh.
However, every so often, he would pause and a cloud of sadness or regret, I couldn’t decipher which, would darken his features. I found myself wanting to know the specific causes for each of those episodes. I also found myself wanting to be a source of support and comfort to him.
These were not thoughts to which I was accustomed, and they would have been disconcerting if I’d spent any time allowing myself to debate them. Instead, I let the thoughts wash over me; I owned the sentiments and held them close.
And then there was the touching.
Oh. God. The. Touching.
He appeared to find any and every reason to touch me. It was maddeningly marvelous. From time to time, he would lean close and whisper something in my ear; his cheek would brush against the smooth skin of my face and neck; my toes would curl in my shoes. During most of the meal, his leg rested against mine. He touched my arm or my knee when I said something he thought was funny or interesting or just because I hadn’t tried the wine yet.
All of these simple touches seemed harmless, if not meaningless, on their own; nevertheless, the reaction they elicited from my stomach was akin to descending the steepest plunging drop of a rollercoaster.
Then, when we ate dessert, he absentmindedly licked whip cream off my finger; for several seconds afterward I forgot my name and place of birth.
My level of interest in Quinn, my wanting to be with Quinn, my wanting to touch and be touched by Quinn, my wanting to prolong our conversation and, therefore, our time together, took me by surprise. I thought about having to say goodnight at some point, and it left me feeling sad, anxious, and mournful.
I did dwell on these feeling and they were unsettling. The strength of my preference, of wanting to be with Quinn rather than maintaining solitude, was a sensation I’d never experienced. In the past, I’d generally preferred solitude to company, but I’d always recognized the importance of relationships and human contact.
When we finished dinner, I felt uninhibited. Between the cocktail before dinner and the wine during dinner, I was blanked in a buzzing warmth of cozy comfortableness. I knew it was caused by that elusive, just-right amount of alcohol, where you’ve had just a little too much in terms of pushing the limits of your inhibitions, but not enough to make you feel ill or groggy.
We fought over the bill when it came. By fought, I mean that I insisted loudly on paying half, and he responded with beleaguered silence.
Instead of discussing it or attempting to engage in my one-sided conversation, he wordlessly put his credit card in the holder. He kept it carefully out of my reach as I continued to list all the reasons we should split the check, not the least of which was that we’d agreed earlier that this was not a date; then he handed it stealthily to the waiter as he passed. I was still oblivious, still making my case, when Quinn signed the receipt.
“Wait—what are you doing?” I looked from him to the paper slip.
Silence. Scribble. Silence.
“Did you just sign that? Was that the check?” My voiced hitched up an octave, and my eyes were wide with faux outrage.
He glanced up at me with something like mock innocence lighting his features, and said, “I’m sorry. Did you want to split that?”
I scowled at him, but couldn’t hold on to my feeling of annoyance when he smiled. I had memories attached to his smile now, and all of them served to increase my warm fuzzies. I was drunk on good wine, delicious food, and fantastic conversation.
He shifted his attention to his wallet; a small, secretive smile was still dancing over his lips as he put his credit card away. My glower dissolved and I indulged myself by staring at him, unabashedly. I really looked at him.
He wasn’t actually physically perfect, but he came close. He had a scar cutting through the center of his right eyebrow; I made a mental note to ask him about the story behind that. One ear was slightly larger than the other, and his nose was bent, just a whisper, to the left. His hairline wasn’t even, and his hair was too thick; it needed to be cut and thinned. His bottom teeth were slightly crooked, but I didn’t notice or see them unless he smiled his full-on one-thousand-watt smile.
I loved that when I looked at him, I didn’t see the blinding McHotpants façade of perfection any more. I saw a frustratingly bossy, hilariously funny, irritatingly teasing, captivatingly intelligent, seriously sexy good guy.
“What’s that smile for?”
I blinked at him and shook my head just slightly to clear it. His voice seemed to come at me from a distance as it pulled me from my musings. I realized that I’d been staring, but in my cozy, comfortable, uninhibited state, I didn’t feel particularly embarrassed. I responded, “I was just thinking about my first impressions of you and how you’re actually a real person.”
“As opposed to…?” He lifted his eyebrows.
“As opposed to a handsome robot.”
He dipped his chin and narrowed his eyes at me. “You think I’m handsome?”
“Come on. You know you’re handsome.” I rolled my eyes and poked him in his rib, behaving uncharacteristically touchy-feely.
“I’m just surprised that you do. When we went to Giavanni’s, I thought you were going to make me put a paper bag over my head.”
“What? Why? What are you talking about?” I sputtered, poking him again.
“When Viki asked if we were there together, you—”
“That’s because she looked at me like I was the love child of Cerberus and a cyclops when you said I was there with you.” I went to poke him a third time but he grabbed my wrist and laced his fingers through mine. Our hands settled on his knee.
He shrugged and glanced at our hands, frowning a little. “I suppose she was surprised.”
I asked my next question uncertain if I wanted an answer. “Because I’m not your type?”
His eyes abruptly lifted to mine; his features lost some of their earlier unguarded ease. “You could say that.”
I couldn’t help my own frown or stop the sinking feeling in my chest. In that moment, I felt like a real girl; like a girl who wants to hear that she is beautiful from the boy she likes. It felt adolescent and bizarrely painful and exasperating because I knew it was adolescent. “So, what is your type? Beautiful? Blonde hair? Model thin?”
His mouth hooked to the side. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Well… what did you mean?”
His expression hardened slightly. “Shelly and I go to Giavani’s almost every Saturday. Viki isn’t used to seeing me with anyone else.”
“You mean she isn’t used to seeing you with a girl other than your sister, a date?”
“I don’t date.” His expression slipped into the mask of guarded detachment I’d grown somewhat used to over the last week. He then added, “I should clarify that; I haven’t dated.”
He’s a Wendell.
Elizabeth’s words from that morning were parading through my head. I tried to cover the disappointed flop of my stomach falling to my feet with a brave smile, and pushed him on the subject, asking another question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to. “So why don’t you date?”
“It’s not a big mystery. I haven’t needed to.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“What does that mean—you haven’t needed to?” It seemed as if each time he spoke he was reluctantly giving me a puzzle piece; the finished image was looking more and more like a Wendell. Reluctantly, I was starting to accept that Elizabeth’s assessment of him
had been correct.
“You know what it means.” His voice was hesitant, as if he weren’t convinced of the statement.
I shook my head and watched him with wide eyes. “No. I really don’t. You’re going to have to spell it out for me.”
He seemed to consider me for a moment, his gaze hawkish and searching. He then asked, “What about you? Why’d you and Jon break up?”
“First I want to know what ‘I haven’t needed to’ means. Are you—” I searched for an explanation that was a Wendell alternate and could only come up with one thing, glad for my wine-fueled audacity. “Are you celibate?”
“No.” A rueful smile passed over his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine—it means I never needed to date someone in order to have a good time. I have…” He cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck, and glanced to the side as though to avoid my gaze. “I had a few girls who I partied with from time to time, but we weren’t exclusive.”
I blinked, absorbing this information. “You mean…you mean you have certain girls that you call just to have sex with them—you mean slamps?”
Even under the intimately dim candlelight, I could see that his neck and cheeks were red-tinged. He didn’t respond, but he did sigh. He let go of my hand, stood up, and grabbed my coat; he held it up and waited for me to shrug into it. I eyeballed him, taking his silence as confirmation. Wordlessly, he placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me toward the door.
I thought the sinking feeling would stop at some point. It didn’t. Quinn was a Wendell. Even worse, he was a multiple-slamp Wendell man-whore. I felt sad but resigned and, strangely, a little angry with Elizabeth for being right.
When we stepped outside, the chilly Chicago air felt good as it whipped past me; it helped me clear my head. I glanced over at Quinn and allowed myself to dwell on the ridiculousness of my situation. I was with a really great guy who, according to Elizabeth, wanted to give me mind-blowing sex, but only mind-blowing sex, which I would be turning down as, among other reasons, he was already giving the same sex to other girls. Before I could stop myself, I stepped away and I asked, “Is it all at the same time or one at a time?”
