So damn if I haven't grown a little in maturity, because around this same time four years ago, I couldn't even get out of bed.
Hell, I'm such a grown-up, I mailed a check for eighty-two thousand dollars to my mother.
I'm such a grown-up, I had my landlord install a deadbolt on my apartment door. And I have an appointment to have an alarm installed on my Jeep next week.
Plus, my apartment is spotless. My fridge is stocked. So is my wine rack. Well, it's missing a few bottles after last night, but I'll replace them tomorrow. I have an order in for a new surfboard—not, obviously, at Sawyer's shop. It stings going to a competitor, but I know he'd prefer it.
I deleted his number from my phone. It's almost laughable, how short a time it spent in there.
I mean, not really. Nothing's really laughable right now.
But it will be.
I think, anyway.
Someday.
Like, for instance, I'm going out with Gianna tonight. I told her to bring Chase—see? More evolving—but she told him to stay home, said we'd have a girls' night. Which sounds pretty perfect. As long as there's a lot of alcohol.
Except when we've just made it into Kelly's, haven't even ordered our first rounds yet, and Gianna nudges me. "Uh, do you know her?"
She points across the bar. There's a woman walking toward us with purpose and staring straight at me.
"No?" I stare back. She's got long brown hair, freckles across her nose, and huge eyes. I've never seen her before in my life. But she certainly appears to know me. When she's within hearing distance—which is to say, close, because the DJ's playing at a glaring level—I smile, tentatively. "Hi."
She rears back and slaps me so hard the sound rings out louder than the music. And it stings like a fucking army of bees.
"God, that felt good," she says, massaging her palm with her thumb.
Something inside of me snaps.
Because, seriously, that hurt. And also? What the hell?
"Seriously. What. The. Hell?" I slap her back just as hard.
She rubs her face. I rub mine. Gianna looks like she's ready to freaking rumble and I'm inclined to feel the same way.
"Who the hell are you?" I ask, my breath heaving. "And what the hell was that for."
"Allison Daniels." She sneers at me and when I don't react, she repeats, "Daniels."
Oh. God.
"Um…" I stammer. I stammer and I come up with nothing to fill the void. Because she's Julian's wife.
"Yeah." She stares me down so hard it's a wonder I don't sink into the floor.
"I didn't know he was married. I'm sorry. I'm beyond sorry." I don't know why she's here, or how, or anything, really. But guilt is a brick slamming straight into my gut and I will never, ever forgive myself.
"Bullshit."
"I swear. And…if you want to slap me again, go ahead. I won't hit you back this time. I just…didn't know who you were." I feel like such a wuss for saying it, for standing here with my cheek out, but I slept with her husband and I'm not sure there's much worse you can do to a person.
She rears back again and I brace myself—but Gianna snakes out a hand to grab her wrist. "Try it, I dare you."
Allison keeps her hand in the air a second longer, but when Gianna holds her gaze, she slowly lets it fall. Gianna might be small, but she's got some serious spark with her snap. I'd smile under any other circumstances, but I nudge Gianna now, instead. "Chill, Gi. She's the one who's been wronged."
"I get it," she says to me, but keeps her eyes on Allison. "She's the teacher's wife, the dude you screwed?"
Hearing it makes me feel sick.
"Exactly," Allison says. "I'm the one who's been wronged."
"Look, it sucks your husband's a scumbag, okay? But he didn't tell Quinn about you. No, wait." She shakes her head when Allison starts to speak. "And maybe Quinn should've asked—maybe Quinn's partially to blame—" she glances at me, mouthing sorry, but there's no need because I agree with her "—but if you hit my friend again, while she might stand there and take it, I won't."
"Whatever. I didn't come here to cause a scene anyway. I just needed to look you in the eye," she says to me, her mouth quivering in a way that makes me want to slap my own face. "I wanted you to see the woman you made a fool of."
Then she walks away.
I tell Gianna to wait for me, and I go after Allison, because I can't stand it. I can't stand that I did so much damage.
"Hold on." I grab the door before it swings shut in my face.
She doesn't turn around, but it suddenly doesn't matter as much because Julian is standing outside waiting for her and I'm frozen in place.
"I'll be in the car," she tells him. "You have thirty seconds to join me or I'm leaving without you."
"Allison," I say. She glances over a shoulder, not bothering to face me fully. "I know I already said it, but I am really sorry, and I wish there was something I could say to make it better. For what it's worth…when he told me about you, he cried because he thought he'd lose you."
A tear escapes and trails down her cheek before she looks away. I loathe myself.
Almost as much as I loathe Julian.
I study him, all prim and structured, and I'm so fucking angry I could spit. What the hell did I ever see in this guy? Yeah, he's got a hot face, all angles and jaunty, but God, look at him. He's standing as straight as if someone shoved a ruler up his ass—and it's not just because he's uncomfortable. He's always stood this way.
"You brought your wife here?" I cross my arms over my chest to keep from slapping him, too. "What is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry." He pleads with the most pathetic look on his face. "I confessed everything. I couldn't stand the guilt. And she wanted to see you."
Incredulous is not a strong enough word for what I feel. "And you said what? Sure, babe. Let's take a little road trip to the Outer Banks and stalk the student I fucked all year without mentioning I was married?"
"Something like that." He doesn't drop his gaze. At least he has the balls to face me head-on.
"How did you know where I was?"
"We went to your apartment first, but you were getting in your Jeep when I drove up. She made me follow you."
"How'd you get my address?" My mother's address is listed on school records… "Wait—have you been stealing my shit all summer?"
"What?" The confusion on his face seems genuine, but I know what a snake this guy is. "I would never steal from you."
"Would she?" I honestly don't blame her if so. I think actually I might feel better if it's been Allison.
"Quinn," he says my name with such familiarity I want to gag, "we've been in Raleigh all summer. She didn't know about you until last night."
Well, shit.
"This must be the douche," Gianna says, coming to stand beside me.
I nod. "This is definitely the douche."
Julian has the grace to look chastised.
"I think your thirty seconds are up," I tell him, just as Allison lays on the horn from a few cars away. "I hope it works out for you guys… But if it doesn't? I hope she finds someone a million times better than you."
"I'm sorry," he says, standing there lamely.
"God. Doesn't anyone ever get sick of apologizing?" I'm sick of it. I'm sick of him. I'm sick of everyone. Well. Everyone except Gianna. I turn to her, saying, "I'm going home. I'd apologize for leaving you here, but…"
"You're sick of apologizing." She gets me, and I give her a grateful smile.
And I head toward my car across the lot. She says something to Julian as I walk away, but I don't hear what it is. I don't care, anyway. Let her tear him to bits if she wants.
The problem ends up being that as I'm heading toward my Jeep, Danny Simmons is in my path, heading toward the bar. I fully plan to ignore him, but it's like he knows how fantastic my night's been so far, and he jogs to me to make it even better.
"Hey, princess." He slurs the greeting, clearly drunk.
"If
you're here to tell me how tired I look again, it's because I am tired." I cut to the chase. Because I just don't feel like dealing with him.
And then…I think about how he stressed the word tired the last time.
And how, coincidentally, one of the things I'm missing is a tire.
And whatever snapped inside of me when Allison slapped me roars back full force. I shove him so hard he stumbles into a parked car, slamming his elbow into it. "You've been stealing shit from my Jeep."
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
QUINN
"YOU HAVE NOTHING I want," Danny says, rubbing his elbow and running his eyes over my body. "Why are you acting like such a psycho?"
"Please," I snarl. "You've been messing with me all summer and I'm sick of it."
Add Danny to the list of things I'm sick of. Put him right up there at the very top.
He laughs. "Man, what crawled up your ass?"
"I'm not sorry I told Gianna about you. Never will be. So get. The fuck. Over it. I know you have my spare tire—which, considering you drive a Civic, is just stupid—and I want my surfboard back. Now."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says. "But you do look tense. I'd be happy to help you relax, honey…"
He calls me honey and I think of Sawyer and I want to cry.
"Your mom must be sorry she had you." It's the meanest thing I can think to say. And, somehow, it works.
His mouth snaps shut and when he opens it again, he speaks low and forceful. "You know nothing about my mom, Quinn. Don't you ever mention her again."
He storms off and I think maybe there's a deeper story there, and maybe I even feel a little bad, but only a little. Mostly I'm just glad he's leaving me alone. And even more than that, I'm pissed he didn't immediately give me my stupid surfboard.
Then he turns, flips me the bird with both hands and tells me to go fuck myself.
I don't feel bad anymore.
And I do what I probably should've done weeks ago. I report all my missing things at the police station.
"So, to be clear, you're filing a report for missing sunscreen?" Officer Santiago—the nice cop who drove Chase and me back to Chase's car at the beginning of the summer—asks, smiling.
"Yep." I smile back. "Okay, no, but it was the first thing I noticed missing. No—wait, it was my cell phone charger."
"And it escalated in types of things until now it's your surfboard?"
I nod.
"And you think you know who it is?"
I nod again.
"But you don't want to give me the name?"
It's tempting. So tempting. "I'm not fully certain and I…"
"I get it. But you have to understand, Quinn, there's not much to go on. Nine times out of ten, nothing's recovered in cases like this."
"I know, but…I just needed to do something." Though now it feels kind of silly.
"Well, I'll make note of it and if anything comes of your report, I'll let you know, okay?"
"Does it help to know I always lock my Jeep?" I ask. "So whoever's doing this might have a criminal background if they can bust into locked cars—and without breaking windows or anything?"
"Not really. But it's in the report, okay?"
I feel a little like a jackass walking out of the station. But my surfboard was expensive. And I needed to do something to expel some of the rage boiling through me. Because it was either this or lose control completely and sleep outside Sawyer's shop and beg him to reconsider as soon as he shows up for work in the morning.
Because at the base of everything else I'm feeling, I just miss him.
Officer Vincent passes me on my way out, smirking, but I ignore him.
"What was that all about?" I hear him ask, all annoyingly smug, as the door shuts. I don't care. Let Officer Santiago tell him everything. If it puts Vincent on the case—and, in turn, on Danny's ass—all the better.
On the case. That's a weird phrase when applied to anything in my life. So official. It's weird, someone's stealing stuff from me. It's weird I haven't been very weirded out before this. My life in general feels weird right now. My ex-boyfriend's current wife slapped me across the face. The boy I love lives in my town and he loves me back and we can't be together. My parents also live in my town, and I want nothing to do with them anymore. Actually, screw the word weird. It's all shitty. Really shitty.
I hear the downward spiral in my thoughts, I do. I'm getting weird. But it's all a bit much to take in and I think my soul's turning out to be a fragile flower, not strong enough to withstand so many different things going on at once. I want to sleep for a month straight.
When I get home, I find another frame, this time on my porch. This one's made from a rose gold-tinted metal and it's hexagonal rather than rectangular and boxed out a little bit with space for dried, still-full flowers rather than pressed and I want so, so badly for it to be from Sawyer, but I know it isn't.
I glance around to make sure I'm alone, just in case this is actually from the thief… But Danny wouldn't ever do something like this and…this doesn't feel creepy. It doesn't feel connected to my random missing things. The frame is beautiful and I want to keep it. So I take it inside and I set it next to the other one. And then I go to bed, reliving that slap from Allison over and over and over again.
When my cell phone wakes me in the morning, I answer saying Sawyer's name. I must've been dreaming of him. But it's my mother whose voice reaches me. Like a cold shower. "I've decided if you want to see that boy, I won't do anything about it. Now, your father and I would like you to come to brunch at ten, like usual."
I hang up.
And then, on second thought, I sit up, kicking off my covers because at some point the AC turned off last night and I'm sweating, and I call her back. Because who cares that she's so graciously changed her mind about Sawyer when it's too late now, anyway. And she still really sucks and she still needs to hear it.
"Did we get disconnected?" she asks when she answers.
"I hung up."
"Well, really. Was that necessary?"
"Yes, but then I realized I have something to say to you."
"If it's about brunch, I'd like to hear it. If it's about that other thing, I think we've said all we need to say to each other."
"That other thing?" I take a deep breath. "The thing where you lied straight to my face for years? That thing where you allowed your daughter to feel the worst pain of her life?"
Silence.
"Do you know how old Sawyer's little brother is now?"
More silence.
"Come on, Mom. I even mentioned it the other day."
A sigh.
"Sixteen," I say. "He's sixteen and he's a wreck because you forced his family to move out of town. I just need to make sure you really understand what you did. That's all I wanted to say. You destroyed more than just my relationship with Sawyer. You took away a stable childhood, and I don't know how you live with yourself."
A long pause, and then, "I wanted to tell you I ripped up the check you sent us. Not that the bank would've accepted such a large amount like that anyway."
I want to scream at the phone. "Are you listening to me at all?"
"Are you coming to brunch?"
I roll my eyes and hang up again. Then I turn my phone off and roll back over, deciding to go back to sleep until I have to leave for work.
But I wake up much sooner than that because, suddenly, I realize I've been so consumed with my own devastation, I haven't been thinking clearly.
I do need to speak with Jess.
He's so angry with me. He's so angry with the world.
I have to apologize.
Not to try to soothe him into forgiving me so I can be with Sawyer. I couldn't see it clearly before, how I could speak to him without any sort of ulterior motive, but I can now. Because he's Jess. And he's hurting. And I owe him an apology for not keeping my promise to him, an explanation for why I haven't been there for him when he's needed me.
And i
f I hadn't been such a chickenshit about my history with Sawyer, I would've done this the first day I saw Jess. I should've. No wonder he hates me so much.
I don't bother with a shower, just throw my guard stuff on and head out the door to find him.
Except when I get to the parking lot, my Jeep isn't where I left it.
It's gone.
Stolen.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
QUINN
"WELL, ON THE plus side, this will move up the priority of your case," Officer Santiago tells me.
I kind of want to hang up on him. The plus side? There is no plus side. My Jeep was stolen. I feel sick. Gross. Dirty, somehow.
Gianna offers to chauffeur me to work and I tell her to pick me up early. Because I have a feeling I know where my car is and if I'm right, I'm going to sit right there and call the cops and wait for them to show up and arrest Danny's stupid ass. But when we arrive at his neighborhood, there are only two cars parked in his driveway. His Civic and a silver SUV.
"That doesn't mean he didn't stash it somewhere," Gianna says, parking along the street. "Plus, I want to know whose SUV that is."
She doesn't have to convince me. I don't care about the SUV, but I want to watch his face for signs of weakness when I ask him where my Jeep is.
"If some slag opens his door, I'm going to be so pissed," she says, walking up the sidewalk.
I elbow her as we walk in stride onto his doorstep. "I thought you were happy with Chase?"
"I am," she says, ringing the bell. Aggressively, three times. "But that doesn't mean I want Danny to be happy. Or getting laid."
"Okay." I get it. Kind of.
The person who answers the door, though, is definitely not some girl Danny's banging. She's way too old for one thing, with more gray than brown in her hair. And the entire right side of her face is mottled with a bruise.
"Mrs. Simmons?" Gianna's sounds as horrified as I feel.
Danny's mom throws a hand to her face. "Gianna. I thought… I was expecting my sister."
"Are you okay?" Gianna asks. "What happened to your face?"
"Gi." I elbow her again.
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