by Lisa Duffy
John stayed, though. And then he went back.
It occurs to her that maybe John has lived away for so long that away finally became home.
She looks up at the clock, shadows forming in the corners of the room. She’d give anything to lie down for a couple minutes, her muscles tired and aching after Desiree’s yoga class.
But she remembers that Bent and Libby will be expecting her to go to Sully’s.
She stumbles into the shower, lets the hot water soothe her body. She takes her time getting ready, and when there’s a quick knock on her door at seven sharp, she’s finally feeling like herself again.
She opens the door to Bent and Libby arguing in hushed voices, and they straighten when they see her.
Bent clears his throat and gives her a forced smile.
“Sorry, we’re late,” he says. “My truck went missing until a minute ago.”
Libby rolls her eyes behind him, and Quinn looks at her watch.
“You’re not late. It’s just seven now.”
“See,” Libby says to Bent. “Told you.” She turns on her heels and walks out of the house, the screen door slamming behind her.
Bent sighs and looks at Quinn. “You jinxed us last week saying we get along so well.”
“I take it she took your truck and was late?”
“She said she had trouble getting it started and was stuck at her friend’s house.”
“You can’t blame her for that.”
He raises an eyebrow. “My truck always starts,” he says, and she tilts her head at him.
“Well, give her a break. She just got her license.”
“Tell that to poor Rooster. He was two hours over his dinnertime.”
She laughs at the concern on his face. “He’s definitely in danger of starving,” she jokes, and he doesn’t smile, but she sees him glance down at her, and she puts her hands on her dress.
“Am I overdressed?” she asks, even though she’s in sandals and a long cotton sundress she’d bought on a whim years ago without trying it on. It had always hung too low on her chest until now.
“No,” he says, clearing his throat. “Ready?”
They walk out to his truck and climb in, and his mood seems lighter. He looks at Libby in the rearview mirror and winks.
The windows are rolled down in the truck, the radio on, and they’re quiet on the ride over, a comfortable silence punctuated by Bent singing along with the radio.
“You’re not bad,” Quinn tells him when they pull into the parking lot and get out of the truck.
“Don’t encourage him,” Libby mutters.
“Wait till you see my dance moves,” he says, and Libby groans and walks ahead of them into Sully’s.
Quinn is almost at the door when she feels his hand on her arm.
“Wait,” Bent says. “I need to talk to you.”
She stops, looks at him.
“It’s John—”
“No—not tonight,” she interrupts, waves her hands. “Please, I can’t think about it anymore today. And about the other night—you’re loyal to him. And that’s okay. He’s a grown man, making his own decisions. You’re not responsible for making him come back to me.”
“Quinn, I—”
“Bent, please. I just want to forget and have fun tonight. Okay?”
He starts to argue with her, but there’s a shout from behind him, and Madeline and Lucy appear.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Madeline giggles, putting her hand on Bent’s shoulder and throwing her arm around Quinn.
Bent steps away from her and looks at Lucy. “I thought you were already here. You left the house an hour ago.”
“We had a pre-party and I talked her into a babysitter,” Lucy says.
“And she talked me out of the lamb lollipops. We had martinis instead,” Madeline adds, her voice relaxed and playful. She’s wearing a slinky cocktail dress and heels, as if she’s going to a nightclub instead of disco bowling.
“I don’t get out much,” she explains to Quinn, looking down at her outfit.
“You look hot,” Lucy tells her. And Quinn nods; the dress is flattering on Madeline’s straight figure. Her hair is loose instead of pulled back in the tight bun she normally wears.
“It’s all her fault.” Madeline jabs her thumb at Lucy. “She’s determined to get me laid tonight.”
“Nice.” Bent slides his eyes over to Lucy, who puts her hands up.
“I don’t think those were my exact words,” Lucy says, and Madeline covers her mouth and giggles.
“I have to pee,” she blurts, and hurries inside.
“How did you even end up at her house?” Quinn asks Lucy, confused. She thought they’d only met just this morning.
“She left her yoga mat in the backyard and came back to get it. We took the boys for lunch, and one thing turned into another,” Lucy says. “Plus, no one should be alone on their birthday.” She holds up a set of car keys. “I’m designated driver tonight, but I’m also on matchmaking duty.” She flicks her eyebrows and opens the door, disappears inside.
“You better be careful tonight.” Quinn turns to Bent and smiles, and he twists his face at her.
“What’s that mean?”
“I think my boss is on the prowl. And you’re it.” She sticks a finger out, pokes his chest.
He grabs her hand so quick and sudden she doesn’t have time to pull her finger back in.
“Well, protect me, then,” he says, looking at her in a way that makes her swallow hard.
She doesn’t move, and he opens his fingers, letting go of her, and she brings her arm back to her body, slowly, as if in a trance.
He walks around her and opens the door. She walks through, feeling his eyes on her when she passes him.
Inside, strobe lights crisscross the room, and a mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling sends shards of neon light over the lanes. A DJ is set up in the corner above a small wooden floor, and Quinn spots Madeline dancing with Lucy, a martini glass in her hand. Lucy twirls her, and she almost drops it.
Bent tilts his head to the right, and she follows him to the crowded bar. He says hello to a group of guys, who slap his shoulder or shake his hand.
The bar is packed, and someone steps in front of her, and she loses sight of Bent. Then he’s there, reaching for her and guiding her in front of him, his arms creating a circle around her. She shuffles forward, and he leans over her shoulder, points to the far end of the bar, where Desiree looks up from wiping the counter and waves.
Libby is sitting in the corner and she stands up when they walk over, takes her purse off the seat next to her.
“I’m leaving,” she shouts over the music. “I was just waiting so you guys can have seats.”
“You just got here,” Bent yells back.
“It’s all old people,” she says, frowning.
Bent looks around, points to the other side of the bar.
“I work with all those guys. They’re my age!”
Libby raises her eyebrows. “Exactly.”
Quinn laughs, and Bent gives her a look.
“You’re not taking my truck,” he warns, and she holds up a set of keys.
“Desiree’s. She’s getting a ride home from Sully.”
Bent leans over the bar and calls Desiree’s name, an annoyed look on his face. She glances at Libby holding her keys and mouths back that she can’t hear him and disappears to the other side of the bar.
“Where are you going?” Bent yells.
“Out with friends,” she shouts back.
“Boys?” he asks, and Libby sighs, holds her hands to her ears like it’s too loud. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek and waves to Quinn, and she’s gone, weaving her way through the crowd.
They sit down, and the song ends, and he turns to her.
“She’s a good kid, but I worry about her. You know. Hormones.” He shrugs.
“And she’s beautiful,” Quinn replies.
“Yeah. And she doesn’t know
it. Double trouble.”
“I don’t think so. She’s more like brains and beauty.”
“Sort of like someone else I know,” he says, and looks at her, and Quinn doesn’t know what to say.
He snorts, presses his face against his palms and groans. “Jesus, I’m sorry.” He gives her an embarrassed look. “I shouldn’t have said that. I have no idea why I just said that. It just . . . popped out.”
She feels her cheeks burn.
“Can we start again?” he asks, and she nods.
Desiree puts a beer in front of Bent and a tall glass in front of Quinn.
“On the house,” she says to Quinn and winks. Quinn takes a sip through the straw, and the taste of Shirley Temple fills her mouth.
“You’re probably used to having guys say dumb stuff like that,” Bent says. “How many dates have you ended with jerks like me?” He grins and then looks at her, his eyes suddenly wide. “Not that this is a date. I’m not saying that.”
She smiles, thinks about his question. “Actually, I’ve never been on a date.”
“What?” He gives her a look. “What do you mean . . . never?”
“I mean never.”
“Quinn, you were married. I mean, are. You are married.” He rolls his eyes. “So obviously, you went on a date. Maybe it was just one, but . . . that’s still a date.”
She shakes her head. “We never dated. I don’t even know how we ended up together. I mean, we hung out with the same people in high school. And I think we kissed at some party. And then again. And then, we were just . . . a couple. It’s not like he ever called me up and asked me on a date.”
When she finishes talking, she looks up and he’s staring at her. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs his hand on his jaw, takes a sip of his beer.
The music starts again, a Motown song that Quinn recognizes, and she looks down at the dance floor filling up with people now.
She looks over at Bent, elbows him.
“You want to dance?” she shouts, and he leans over, looks past her at the dance floor.
He tilts his head back, drains his beer, puts it on the bar and stands up. She looks over at him, surprised, and he holds out his hand.
When they reach the dance floor, she hesitates, self-conscious for a moment, but Bent pulls her out into the middle, twirls her in a circle. The DJ puts on an old Marvin Gaye song that reminds her of her mother, and the music fills her thoughts.
Bent drops her hand, and they dance across from each other, and she watches him move, impressed that he’s not just shuffling from foot to foot like John used to do the handful of times he actually let her drag him up to the dance floor.
Quinn hears a screech, and Madeline appears next to her, her shoes gone and a half-empty martini in her hand. She prances seductively over to Bent and drapes her arm around him, pressing her hip against his.
Quinn backs up, ready to blend into the crowd, not wanting to see any part of Madeline make a pass at Bent, but he untangles himself expertly from her grasp and manages to move just far enough away that Madeline can’t reach him.
Lucy joins them for the next song, weaving between them, twisting in circles as though there’s not an actual beat to the music, her arms raised in the air.
The song ends, and Madeline slides her eyes over to Bent and points to her glass, empty now. He pulls a twenty out of his pocket and stuffs it into Lucy’s palm, pointing them both to the bar. Madeline sticks her lip out, pouting, and waves for him to come, but he grabs Quinn and they disappear behind a group of people, and another song begins, slow and pulsing.
Bent turns to her, wraps his arm around her waist, pulls her close.
He knows how to do this, she thinks, remembering the awkward, halting way John slow danced with her. She follows his lead, her body relaxing in his grip, and they move together without talking, his chin inches from her lips.
She feels drunk, even though she hasn’t had any alcohol. His body close to hers, his T-shirt damp against his muscled back, the fabric hot under her hand. She feels herself dissolving into the moment, everything and everyone around them fading into the background.
She lifts her eyes up to his, and he’s watching her with that look, and she shifts unconsciously, her body reacting, her hips moving into him. She slips her leg in between his, pressing against him, and his eyes flicker to her face, his jaw suddenly tight, and a heat creeps up her neck.
The song ends, and he drops her hands, steps away from her. They don’t speak, and she can’t read the expression on his face.
Lucy walks over to them, keys in her hand.
“Well, it’s lights-out for the birthday girl,” she says. “She’s in the parking lot, puking in the trash barrel, so I think it’s time to go.”
“I think I should go home. Can you drop me?” Quinn blurts. “If you don’t mind? I just got really tired.”
“Of course,” Lucy says, and nods for her to follow.
Bent is staring at her, looking at her in a way that makes her want to get on her knees, press her head to the floor, beg for mercy.
“I’m sorry. I have to go,” she says, and he doesn’t answer her, doesn’t move.
She half walks, half runs to the door, rips it open, and jogs to the car, the night slamming into her lungs.
Madeline is already in the car, and Lucy is buckling her seat belt for her. She puts down Madeline’s window.
“If you’re going to be sick, raise your hand—I’ll pull over,” she tells her, but Madeline’s eyes are already closed, and Quinn wonders if she’s asleep or passed out.
“I’ll drop you first,” Lucy says, and launches into a story that Quinn can barely follow, her mind racing.
She’s thankful Lucy is driving fast, probably not wanting Madeline to wake up and get sick in her car, and it’s less than five minutes before they pull up in front of the house, and Quinn says a quick thank-you and jumps out.
She rushes inside. The glow of the streetlight shines into the house, and she doesn’t turn on the lamp. Her heart is racing, and she’s out of breath, but she can’t sit down, so she paces, trying to calm down.
But all she can think about is Bent, and the smell of his skin and the look on his face when she pressed her leg into him.
Outside, headlights flash through the window, and an engine turns off. A door shuts in the quiet night, and heavy footsteps pound up the porch stairs. She stops breathing and walks to the dark hallway, stares at the door.
A shadow fills the foyer and there’s a noise, what sounds like the flat part of a hand landing on her door.
She reaches out and turns the knob, pulls the door open. Bent is leaning against the frame, his head down, his hands on either side of the door, as though it’s holding him up.
She steps closer, so close she can feel his breath on her face.
“We can’t,” he whispers.
“I know,” she says, but he’s already in the house, his arms around her, his mouth on hers, his foot kicking the door shut behind him.
17
Libby
I never even showed Jimmy the picture. Flynn had shown up and then Jimmy had asked me that question . . . Are we?
And I’d looked right at him and said, Let’s find out, in a voice that wasn’t even mine. I almost turned around to see who said it, that’s how strange it sounded coming out of my mouth.
Well, all right, then, he said, and climbed in the passenger seat of Bent’s truck, Rooster looking out the back window at me, his head cocked, as though he didn’t recognize me.
And why would he? I didn’t recognize me for the next few hours.
They passed in a blur—a trip to the state park, me with one hand on the steering wheel, like I’d been driving my whole life, and Jimmy relaxed, his arm out the window, trusting that I knew where I was going, even though I told him I was bad with directions, that everyone always said I was bad with directions.
“I can’t imagine you’re bad at anything,” he said, the words pressing my foot
to the gas pedal, the engine purring inside the car.
We took the trail down to the beach, talking about nothing and everything, Rooster prancing beside us, forgetting to be lazy somehow, the air by the water making him stick his nose into the wind, his ears flapping behind him.
We climbed on the rocks, and I stopped to fill a smooth dent on the surface of a boulder with water from the bottle we’d grabbed from the truck. Rooster sat in front of it, lapping at it, and Jimmy sat down and pulled me down beside him.
The afternoon slowed down. And sped up. Hours diminished into seconds and moved in slow motion at the same time, as though the laws of time and space didn’t exist within the small circle where we sat. Or I didn’t care if they did, at least.
And then Jimmy put his fingers on my watch, tapped the face.
“What time do you need to be back?” he asked, the hands showing it was past six.
We rushed back to his house, and he took my phone, put his number in it before I dropped him off, the engine still running and Jimmy yelling Drive safely! as I squealed away from the curb.
Bent was waiting at the door, glaring at me, asking why I hadn’t answered my phone. I made some excuse about how the phone was acting weird lately and waited until I was in my bedroom before I looked at the screen, saw the texts and calls from him.
But there was only one text I was looking for.
Jimmy’s. With three words.
Come back soon
Later, after I left the bowling alley as soon as I could—Desiree agreeing to lend me her car by some miracle—I sat in the parking lot, texted him back.
soon . . . as in . . . tonight?
Less than a minute later, his text dropped in.
sure . . . back porch . . .
Now I’m parked outside his house, taking a breath in what seems like the first time since this morning, trying to wipe off whatever expression Desiree said I had when I asked if I could borrow her car.
“What’s wrong with your face?” she’d asked, and I’d leaned over, looked in the mirror hanging above the waitress station.
“No . . . the goofy grin,” she said, eyeing me. “Where are you going?”
