My arms folded over my body. “I read classics, by the way, not romances.”
He snorted. “Same thing.”
If there was a way to throw myself out of this thing without the side effect of death, I would have been gone. “No, classics are tragic, darker, more realistic than all of that over-the-top happy-ending BS.”
He gave me a funny look. “You don’t like happy endings?”
“I like realistic endings. They’re more relatable,” I answered, cooling myself down. A little. “They don’t set some impossible bar or an unattainable standard.”
“You’re not secretly looking for your Prince Charming?” he asked in a mock-serious voice, which made me smile. From swooning to outraged to amused. All in one Ferris wheel ride.
“If I was, what would I be doing here with you?”
That made him laugh as we lowered down another spot. “Well, you aren’t exactly the princess type, either.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He rubbed at the back of his head. “You’re full of surprises, you know that, Jade Abbott?”
“I do know that. Glad you figured that out.”
“Yeah?”
I leaned in, like I was about to let him in on a secret. “So when you discover I’m really an undercover agent trying to find the kingpin responsible for laundering money from the concession stand at the public pool, you won’t bat an eye.”
“Not one eye will bat, I swear,” he laughed, his expression taking on a serious tone. “You know, I’m full of surprises, too.”
That was one of the most obvious statements I’d heard. “Yeah, I know you are.”
When his hand found mine again, I left it there for the rest of the ride and the rest of the night. By the time he dropped me back at my place a little after midnight, my hand felt strange not having his around it. Almost like a part of him had already become a part of me.
Operation Sneaking Out was a success. My aunt was none the wiser, and I’d made it back home in one whole, unscathed piece. It wasn’t a proud moment—going behind her back—but it was an important one. I wasn’t going to spend the summer locked in a pink bedroom or stuffed inside a suffocating concession stand.
My job at the pool had become easier lately, but things with Quentin were more difficult. Keeping up with a long line of customers and trying to do five things at once was simple compared to whatever was going on between us. Our shifts usually overlapped an hour or two, but when he was at work, he was at work. In the zone and focused. When he took his breaks or covered for me so I could take mine, he morphed into the Quentin I’d gotten a glimpse of that night at the carnival. The carefree, fun Quentin whose smile could turn my insides to mush.
It was one of those overcast days that was struggling to hit seventy, which meant the pool was quiet. A few kids were chattering in the water while their moms were scattered around the perimeter bundled up in leggings and UGGs.
The concession stand was the least busy I’d ever seen, which gave me loads of free time to waste on my phone. Quentin wasn’t working until two, when my shift ended, but I was hoping to work a “surreptitious” run-in to say hi or something.
After our night at the carnival, I’d kind of expected him to follow up or swing by or, I don’t know, call, but he hadn’t. He waved across the pool at me a couple of times and he smiled when one of us showed up for a shift while the other was leaving, but that was it.
How could a guy drop an “I like you” bomb on a girl and then carry on for a whole week like nothing had happened? Was he waiting for me to call the next shot? Allowing me time to take the lead? Had he changed his mind? Did he have an identical twin I’d gone out with last week?
To distract myself, I pulled up my dad’s social media profile again, checking for any recent posts I might have missed. He posted more than kids my age did, everything from PSAs that were totally condescending to photos of him with his “bros” at whatever bar they’d just played or stumbled into.
Since yesterday afternoon, he’d already added six more posts, including a photo of him with some girl who’d been at his show last night and asked for his autograph. On her chest.
It was a really weird feeling, like I should be similar to this person, since he was my father, only I didn’t have one thing in common with him other than maybe my wide-set eyes.
Ignoring the pit that opened up in my stomach when I thought about confronting my dad, I moved on to punching in a text to Mom. It was way wordy by the time I hit send.
I missed her. And I knew she missed me, which made it that much worse. As much as I was settling into life here and enjoying getting to see the same scenery for more than a week at a time, part of me missed that life, too. Not enough to abort my summer plans and catch the first flight to wherever the Shrinking Violets were playing next, but enough to make my throat get all tight when I thought about it.
“So I’m going to put this out there, since I’ve made a habit of that when it comes to you.” I jumped, dropping my phone when Quentin seemed to appear out of nowhere. “I’ve been waiting for you to decide what comes next. I’ve been pretty obvious about how I feel, but you’ve been pretty unobvious about it all.” He leaned across the counter, putting as little space between us as he could. “Do you like me or not?”
I gave myself a moment before answering. “In what way are you defining like in this instance?”
“At this point, I’ll be happy with any form of like. Even if it’s just you liking me when I walk away.” He was in a bulky navy sweatshirt today, with big white letters spelling LIFEGUARD across the front. The whites of his eyes were a little red, and the hollows beneath were dark. Looked like more sleepless nights.
“Okay, well then, yeah, I like you.” I stuffed my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Like me how, exactly?” Half of his face pulled up.
I sighed. “I like you when you walk away.”
I didn’t expect him to actually start walking away.
“Quentin.” He stopped the moment I started saying his name. “Can we just let this unfold on its own? See where it goes instead of trying to put a name to it right this very moment?” My heart felt like it was about to burst from my chest, that’s how hard it was beating from having him close and talking to me after a week of silence.
He looked at me. “You’re calling the shots here.”
A streak of boldness hit me—it might have had something to do with the way I’d spent the past week of my summer either working or hanging with my aunt when I was supposed to be living it up.
“Got any plans tonight?”
His eyes flashed at me. “Maybe. But I could be persuaded into something else.”
“Nine-thirty tonight. I’ll meet you in front of your place.”
His smile formed. I was pretty much infatuated with it by now. “What’s the plan?”
I lifted a shoulder. “The not knowing’s half the fun.”
* * *
—
Night number two of sneaking from my aunt and uncle’s house had just been added to the tally. Uncle Paul was out of town for work, and Aunt Julie hadn’t thought anything about a seventeen-year-old going to bed at nine o’clock on a summer Friday night. I knew that was because she trusted me, which made me feel that much more guilty about sneaking out.
I’d considered telling her I had plans to go hang with a friend tonight, only to realize the list of questions that would inevitably follow. She wouldn’t say yes to me leaving late at night with a boy, no matter how “nice” she thought Quentin seemed. I guessed it had something to do with what had happened to my mom when she went off alone with a boy as a teenager.
Like last week, Quentin came out of his front door, this time calling a few good-byes inside before closing it behind him. Clearly his parents didn’t have a
ny issues with him leaving late-ish at night with a girl. Their family didn’t have a sore spot like Aunt Julie did for what “could” happen when a boy and girl went off alone.
“Prompt,” I greeted as he loped closer, his smile in the on position. He had no idea what I had planned for the night.
“No way I’d show up late for a date you asked me out on.”
Something fluttered in my stomach when he stopped in front of me. “This isn’t a date.”
“Then what is it?” he asked, waiting as I worked on how to answer that. When I struggled to find the right term, his smile crept higher. “This is so a date.”
I moved to slug him, but he caught my hand, his fingers winding around my wrist. “But you can go ahead and call it whatever you want and I’ll play along.”
My mouth parted, thanks to the way my breath started to speed up. That was when I noticed something in the big window facing into the yard. When I glanced in that direction, I saw a woman standing there, frowning at us with concern. She was tall and pretty, and I could see where Quentin had gotten plenty of his good looks from.
“By the way, thank you for the gift you left me on my doorstep a few days ago.” He nudged me. “And the sweet note along with it.”
I had to work really hard to keep a straight face. Dragging that huge-ass box of books back to his place had not been easy. But so very worth it.
“I keep the note on my nightstand, so I can fall asleep to your words every night.” Quentin’s hand tightened a little around my wrist. “You need these more than I do,” he said, reciting the very note I’d left him when I returned his special “gift.” “Since romance is obviously a foreign concept to you.”
“Have you been studying up?” I asked. “Plenty of good material in that giant box.”
He leaned in, his eyes staying on mine the whole time. “You’ll have to be the judge of that.”
When I shifted, clearing my throat, his expression started to move into a gloat. “Come on. I can’t be gone as late tonight,” he said, letting go of my wrist and starting for his truck.
“Curfew?” I guessed, having heard of them but never having any personal experience with one.
His head shook. “Responsibilities.”
I nodded, remembering seeing his name on the schedule for the early shift tomorrow. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
He had the passenger door of his truck open for me. “Waiting for you to get in the truck and give me directions.”
When I rolled around the bikes I’d leaned up against his tailgate, he gaped at them like they were alien objects. “And I’m waiting for you to climb onto one of these and follow me.”
“You’re not serious, right?” He motioned between his truck and the bikes like I wasn’t making sense.
I held my ground.
“Okay, remind me why we’re riding bikes when I’ve got a perfectly good truck with a full tank of gas?” he said, closing the door and trudging toward the bikes. After getting Lemon fixed up, I’d found another one in half-decent condition shoved into Uncle Paul’s storage shed.
“Because the best way to see a city is either on foot or on a bike.”
“And the best way to get from point A to point B is three hundred horsepower,” he jested. “Plus, it’s my city—I know there’s nothing here to explore.”
Sighing, I motioned to the helmet hanging off the handlebars. “Get on already.”
Quentin frowned as he shoved the helmet onto his head. “Only because you asked so nicely.”
I had to turn my head to keep from laughing at the way he was pouting. Once he threw his leg over the bike, I swung mine over Lemon and started down the sidewalk, making sure he was following.
He was. With the least enthusiastic look I’d ever seen—faking it all the way.
“Now I see why you’d want to try a summer somewhere else if this is how you’ve been spending your time.” Quentin pedaled up beside me, looking like he was in pain.
“I don’t know. I’m starting to question why I glorified the normal American teenage life. The most exciting thing I’ve done the past week is make chalk flowers on the sidewalk with my little cousins.”
“Please tell me you’re not being serious right now.”
“Why do you have such a difficult time believing me?” I asked, swerving onto the street when the sidewalk came to an end. Quentin followed right behind me.
“Because it’s seriously pathetic if that’s the most exciting thing you’ve done all week.”
“Yeah? So what’s the coolest thing you’ve done this week?” I asked.
“We’re talking about you here, not me. I’ve lived up plenty of summers already.”
“Sure, you have.” I didn’t dull the sarcasm.
“You’re only young once. Don’t waste it being old.” He came around me so I was closer to the curb than he was.
“Says the teenager talking about responsibilities and priorities in life.”
He pretended not to hear me, instead speeding ahead so I had to chase him down. It was kind of nice riding with someone. Usually I cruised around on my own; sometimes Mom would join me if she wasn’t performing, but it was fun to share all of the sights and sounds I was experiencing with someone new.
It wasn’t long before we turned down a couple of busy streets, but we weren’t far from home. Quentin stayed beside me in the bike lane, no longer complaining about our mode of transportation. Actually, he was enjoying himself.
The restaurant was right up ahead, and as I slowed I hoped he might not notice the name.
“The Veg Head? For real?” No such luck. Quentin crawled off his bike beside me, staring into the restaurant like he was expecting to find an actual train wreck or something. “First a bike and now this? Are you trying to turn me into some kind of hippie, woman?”
After securing our bikes to the racks outside, I headed for the front door. He beat me to it, holding it open. “You got to decide on our first outing, it’s only fair I get to call the shots on this one,” I fired at him.
“What? So we have some kind of unsaid agreement now? I plan a date, you plan a date?”
I stalled inside the door. “This isn’t a date. This is a nondate.”
“Well, if this is a nondate, there should definitely be some veto power built into this arrangement. You know, so one of us isn’t forced to choke down—”
“Healthy food?” I said as we moved through the restaurant. I picked one of the window tables toward the back so the pizza place across the street wouldn’t tempt him.
“Of all the places you could have taken me, of all the things we could have done…” Quentin paused beside the table, doing a slow spin as he gaped at the restaurant. He took a seat across from me. “Really?”
“I was hungry, and not for fried heart disease on a stick, thank you very much,” I argued, before he had a chance to make another dining suggestion. “And I thought this would be a nice way to just, you know, talk.” I lifted my menu to distract myself from him.
“Vegan tofu nachos?” The look on his face as he read the menu almost made me laugh. “So much wrongness right there. I can’t even…”
“You should try the grilled tofu steak with mango sauce. I heard that’s good.”
Quentin’s eyes went wider the farther down he made it on the menu. “First of all, the word steak should never, ever be next to the word tofu. Ever.” When I started to open my mouth, he continued, “Second, who did you hear it was good from? Besides nobody in the history of ever.” He leaned across the table and whispered like it was a secret. “Tofu.”
“Fine. We can go somewhere else if you’re going to act like a baby.” I was already standing up when Quentin’s hand curled around mine.
“We’re here.” His shoulders lifted in a what-the-hell kind of way. “One healthy meal w
on’t kill me.”
He kept holding my hand, which seemed to directly affect the steadiness in my knees. “No. But it might kill me if you keep whining.”
His eyes twinkled. “Tempting offer.”
The waitress appeared, but it took me a moment to regain my senses.
“I’ll have the grilled tofu steak with mango sauce,” Quentin ordered when I stayed quiet. “I hear it’s ‘good.’ ”
It wasn’t until he finally let go of my hand that I was able to articulate. “And I’ll have the namaste roll and the asparagus gazpacho.”
The server filled our water glasses before leaving. I’d downed half of mine by the time she disappeared into the kitchen.
“So this is the type of place you like? The kind you visit when you’re traveling the world?” His face gave nothing away, but his tone did. His voice suggested that I was unhinged if this was what I sought out when the planet was my playground.
“A girl’s gotta eat,” I answered. “And it isn’t exactly easy trying to cook meals with hot plates and hotel microwaves. But trying to find a place like this in Argentina, the country where they consider beef to be a God-given right, is pretty much impossible. They just felt sorry for me whenever I tried explaining that I didn’t eat meat.”
Quentin spun his glass of water around in slow circles as he listened to me. “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Traveling? Seeing the world?”
“Oh, it’s nice, I guess. It’s the only life I’ve ever known. That was the whole reason for this summer. So I could see…something else. Something everyone else gets to experience.”
Quentin huffed, shaking his head. “Trust me, globe-trotting is far more exciting than any American teenager’s life.”
I tucked my leg beneath me. “Maybe. What about you? What’s your life like?”
When he was quiet for a minute, I started to wonder if my question was somehow inappropriate.
Almost Impossible Page 9
