Catching Serenity (Serenity #4)

by Eden Butler

  When I don’t react the way he expects, when I push him away from my neck Quinn frowns, staring at me with more confusion than irritation.

  “Can you give me something real?”

  He waits, the grip on my thighs, the tension in his fingers tighten for a second before he relaxes. He is fighting with himself. There is something skirting around his tongue, as though there is something he wants to say but pride, ego prevents him from uttering a sound.

  The truth would cost him too much.

  Being real is too high a price.

  “This is me, love. This is as real as I ever am.”

  The truth is a blade Quinn keeps hidden. That edge is too sharp and lowering it would leave him unprotected. He is a fog to me, something that covers, something that can be easily brushed aside.

  The paint fumes linger on the wind, mix with peppermint that hits my senses when Quinn sighs. It’s an odd mix that is intoxicating, just as he is. But it’s not enough. He’s not enough. Not the partial person he wants me to see.

  “You’re a liar,” I tell him, pushing back so he will release me. “You’ll show me the real you or nothing at all, O’Malley.”

  It’s hard, so very hard, but when he doesn’t respond, merely keeps looking at me as if his stare could change my mind, I turn and walk back to my car. Part of me—the selfish part—wants him to follow, but he doesn’t. I force myself to not look around, but I listen for any indication of what he might be doing.

  The sound is faint, but clear—the spray can, the marble moving as he shakes it again and, I swear the low mutter of his cursing as he watches me walk away.

  THERE IS NOTHING worse in life than waiting for news you know is coming. Births, deaths, dreams snatched out of your future—all keep you in limbo. They keep you waiting. Like now, sitting on the crowded bench next to boxes of latex gloves and paper masks the nurses haven’t had a chance to bring to the supply room with my ear close to Rhea’s door. I can almost make out the muddle of voices. I can almost hear the news I hope will get me through the door.

  While it’s only been about twenty minutes, it feels much longer, and I have nothing to do but bite on my thumb nail and try to keep the promise I made to Rhea—that I wouldn’t look inside the sketch book she asked me to hold. The sketch book Quinn left with her for safe keeping, after he caught me snooping. It holds another clue in the great secret he doesn’t want me to know about. He doesn’t know I have it. I should maintain the higher ground, be the bigger person.

  But I suck. I betrayed my little cousin and had a look.

  Just one.

  Only one.

  What the hell is taking so long in there?

  When a chair on the other side of the door slides against the floor, I stretch out my legs, drumming my nails against the sketch book because there is nothing else I can do. My mostly black hair is braided. All the purple polish has been chipped from my nails. I have discovered there are two hundred and thirty-five tiles along the ceiling of this hallway. And still, no answer, no explanation.

  Ah hell, Rhea probably suspected I’d peek.

  There’s no need to be quiet opening the book. No one can hear me and my gaze instantly catches on the same drawing I saw before, the hasty sketch of a scene, the battle of our two heroic champions against a sinister foe.

  The book rests against my knees as I adjust my legs, then I run the tip of my index finger along the thick pencil marks Quinn made—the power behind Rhea’s kick, the strong set of Quinn’s jaw. The entire scene has me smiling, staring so that I no longer hear the noises inside that room or the footsteps that approach.

  “Jaysus, you must be the most nosey little shite I have ever come across in my bleeding life.” Quinn’s tone is low, as though he’s only pretending he’s annoyed with me. I let his insult slide, not caring if he is and close the book, fold my arms over the top of it just as he comes to stand next to me, that familiar look of disappointment on his face. “Why do you have that?”

  “Relax. Rhea knew I’d look when she asked me to hold it.” When Quinn only glares at me I nod at the space at my side, thinking he might want to hear the voices beyond the closed door too.

  Apparently not. Quinn sits across from me, arms on his knees. “Why aren’t you in there?”

  “One of the night nurses has the flu and didn’t tell anyone. She’s new and now she’s without a job.” There is movement in the room behind me and I lean my ear against the door, squinting as I concentrate, as though that will help me hear a damn thing. A minute of silence and I lean back against the wall. “Two of the kids on the floor have tested positive for the flu.” My wool pea coat gets caught on the metal back of the seat when I scoot closer to the door trying to hear. “They want to make sure Rhea doesn’t have it either.”

  “If she does?” This time, Quinn does a poor job of hiding his worry. There is a rasp to his tone, something that tells me there is more fear than I’d expect from him at his question.

  No need in sugar coating anything for him. “There might be a quarantine, but I’m not sure.”

  “That’s bollocks,” he says, voice high and cracking. “I’m not bleeding sick.” Quinn ignores my frown, covering yet again with a glance over my face, down my body, not hiding the slow slip of his tongue along his bottom lip. “Are you fit to see her?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “That’s debatable,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall just as Doctor Allen barks at one of the nurses trailing behind him at the end of the hall.

  “The other file, Nurse Billings. Didn’t I say that twice already?” He doesn’t acknowledge either me or Quinn as the pair passes us.

  “Fecking wanker,” Quinn offers, following the doctor’s hurried walk to the last room at the end of the hall. “Rhea hates that arsehole.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I hold the sketch book up, giving it a small wave. “I see you don’t like him either.”

  He peers at me hard, before easing off and Quinn shrugs, as though explaining anything to me is somehow both funny and irritating. “I’m only drawing what she wanted.

  “Gave yourself some bulk, didn’t you?”

  “I did not!” He lifts his eyebrows when I slide across the hall to sit next to him and open the sketch book to the piece in question. Quinn doesn’t bother looking down at it. “That’s an accurate depiction.”

  “Is it?” I can’t help laughing, pointing at the sketch Quinn had done as Omnigirl and Sovereign Smash attack the villainous Death Doctor C who has the same build and shaggy hair as the curt, unfriendly oncologist down the hall.

  “I’m not slight,” Quinn says, defending his sketch. I don’t miss the way he rubs his arms, as though he needs to double check that he hasn’t gotten scrawny since arriving in Cavanagh.

  “Your jaw is not that square and perfect.”

  “Oh,” he leans close on the pretense of looking down at the sketch, but Quinn’s mouth lingers a bit too close to my ear. “But you’re saying it is somewhat perfect.”

  “I’m definitely not.”

  “You know, I think you are, in fact,” he says, knocking his shoulder next to mine, just like a normal human. Someone who isn’t all venom and anger, or put upon bravado meant to offend.

  “Well,” I begin, liking the small glimpse of what I believe is the real Quinn peeking out behind the almost smile on his mouth. “I wouldn’t say perfect at all.” That exaggerated glare he gives me doesn’t break my humor and I manage to pretend I’m not looking him over. “I mean, you’re okay to look at if you’re into that sort of thing.”

  “What? Devilishly handsome blokes? Utterly shagable men that will make you see heaven?”

  “And there’s the asshole we all know and love.”

  There’s a moment when Quinn’s expression shifts, as though he might have enjoyed me saying that. It only lasts a few small seconds and then the Irishman’s body goes rigid and the pleased, the happy set of his mouth tightening as though he can’t give in
to two friends joking, or the idea that I might have acted remotely kind to him.

  I recover as quickly as I can, shaking my head, adding an exaggerated eye roll to make him see I wasn’t serious. “Figure of speech, O’Malley.” I don’t bother looking at him when I speak, keeping my attention on the sketch book, nearly getting the page turned when the door to Rhea’s room finally opens.

  “Sayo… Quinn.” Aunt Carol emerges, followed by two nurses and a doctor I don’t recognize. I can just make out Uncle Clay’s feet as he sits next to Rhea on the bed before one of the nurses pulls the door shut. Odd that he’d be here when Carol swore he’d been called in to work and couldn’t be here when the labs came back. Quinn and I are on are feet when Carol crosses the threshold. “You’re both so sweet to wait.”

  “Well?” I ask, noticing how tired Carol looks, how the faint lines around her eyes and mouth have somehow gotten deeper in a matter of months.

  “She doesn’t have it, fortunately. But since the wing was exposed, I… well…” Carol dismisses the head shake one of the nurses gives her as she passes, then lifts her chin, looking determined, confident. “Look, I realize it may seem a bit of an overreaction, but I still want her quarantined. Clay is staying with her for a little while and then I want everyone else to clear out for at least five days.”

  “Five days?” Quinn clears his throat, looking sheepish that he’d lost his composure again. “Well what’s to be done until then?”

  “Nothing. I…” My aunt eyes me, looking for sympathy she know I’ll give her.

  “This happened before, when Rhea was younger. One of the kids got sick and the staff weren’t that concerned.” I push my hair behind my ear, lowering my voice as one of the doctors passes by us. “Well, it took Rhea a month to get over the flu that time.”

  “I won’t have that happen again..” Carol rubs her neck, groaning when it pops.

  Next to me Quinn opens his mouth and I can see by the way one vein on his neck pops that he’s gearing up for an argument. One that Carol doesn’t need. Before he opens his mouth, I jab him in the ribs, hoping he will keep silent.

  “Won’t she be lonely?” Quinn offers, not bothering to look at me.

  “The nurses will read to her. They’ll make sure she isn’t on her own too much.”

  My aunt looks behind her to the closed door and between that worried, anxious expression and Quinn’s brewing anger, I offer a suggestion that I hope will alleviate the issue of Rhea being on her own.

  “What about her laptop or iPad?”

  “I don’t want anything from home in there. The contamination…”

  “For feck’s sake,” Quinn says, voice a little loud.

  “It’s not her fault, asshole,” I tell him, lifting a finger to shut him up when he looks as though he wants to argue with me. “What about a new iPad? We can at least chat with her, read to her and Quinn can do…” Quinn’s grunt is low, but I ignore it with another hand wave, “whatever drawing things he does with her.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. At least she’ll have a way to pass the time.”

  Carol reaches into her purse, pulls out her wallet, but Quinn shakes his head, stopping her. “Leave it to me.” And he is down the hall and away from us before Carol can stop him.

  We pass the time like this: Rhea looking more like herself, but somehow stronger, happier via the small screen on my laptop. She seemed so much stronger that I went back part time to the library. Aunt Carol even decided to pick up a few massage therapy clients while Rhea was quarantined. Between my work at the library and Aunt Carol getting back into the swing of a light work week, we had time to organize the final details of the fundraiser with Autumn’s help. Uncle Clay too seemed to be keeping more work hours which seemed to annoy Carol but when I asked her about it, she changed the subject.

  Quinn and I keep to our schedule, me in the morning chatting with and reading to my little cousin from my library office and Quinn in the afternoons drawing at Rhea’s direction from his phone wherever it is he spends his day. This Rhea relates to me, though she’s still very vague about what it is exactly Quinn draws for her. I do not speak to him or see him but every afternoon when I pass the warehouse on Clemson Drive, that mural gets larger, more detailed.

  Then, around the end of the second week in December, Rhea tells me that Quinn’s attitude had surfaced again, this time in front of her.

  “Did you and Quinn have a fight, Sayo?”

  “I’d have to see or speak to him for that to happen, kiddo.” I move closer to the laptop screen, worried when Rhea’s mouth stretches into a purse. “Why? What happened?”

  I don’t buy the shrug or way my cousin exhales like she’s worn out. “I don’t know. He got all funny when I told him they’re letting me come home for Christmas since my quarantine will be over. He just, I don’t know, got really quiet and didn’t talk too much.” She leans in, tilting her head. “Why would that make him mad?”

  “I’m sure it didn’t, sweetie. Maybe he’s just a little bummed he can’t see you for the holidays.”

  “But he can. I’ll ask Mama.”

  I couldn’t tell her that Quinn wouldn’t likely be welcomed. Aunt Carol was particular about Christmas Day. She and my mother had always kept to their husbands and kids the day of Christmas and reserved the day before or the day after for dinner with the rest of the family. I couldn’t see Carol changing that tradition just for O’Malley. Besides, my aunt and uncle knew how precious Rhea’s time was. I suspect they’d want to keep her to themselves for that day at least.

  “You do that and I’ll be sure to ask him why he’s mad tomorrow at the fundraiser.”

  “Okay, Sayo. Tell him not be so fussy next time. He’s never like that and it sort of hurt my feelings.”

  A smile is all I manage to give her. Hurt like hell biting my tongue, but Rhea didn’t need to know that the sweet, funny man drawing for her is not the same person he is to everyone else in the world. She’d never seen the asshole Quinn O’Malley generally is and if I had my way, she never would.

  NOTHING IN CAVANAGH was subtle. Not our rugby matches, not our St. Paddy’s Day celebrations and definitely not fundraising, especially for an eight-year-old cancer patient. Autumn, with some help, has utterly out done herself.

  The main courtyard on campus has become something of a winter wonderland. Cobbled sidewalks and pathways have been transformed with faux snow and the glittering brilliance of fairy lights, streamers and Christmas trees of every conceivable size and color on each corner of the two block area. There are swags of white lights streaming from four large temporary poles and draped in several rows to the crown of a large tent covering a carousel in the center of the court yard. Carnival rides and games, Santa Claus taking pictures with kids, raffles and live bands all make up the cacophony of sound and chaos as I walk through the court yard unable to keep my gaze from all the lights and activity.

  “My God,” I say to myself, mesmerized by the magnitude of the miracle Autumn has conjured for my little cousin. I knew she’d taken care to facilitate her charm, garnering the support of nearly every shop and business in the downtown district. I knew there had been donations of cash and necessities required to pull this off. I just had no idea of how capable Autumn actually was.

  The weather has turned and I huddle against my leather jacket, tucking my scarf beneath the collar as I nod greetings and smiles at people I know in the crowd, some that know me. The air fills with the smell of ozone burning off all the white lights and the deep fried scent of funnel cakes and donuts, while kids run all over the place, cotton candy and lollipops in hand, stuffed elves and reindeers dragging behind them as they make a beeline for the carrousel in the center of the courtyard.

  It is remarkable.

  I only wish Rhea could see it, that the doctors had been convinced the danger of her getting sick has passed. But I understand why they are overcautious. Stage four cancer, for anyone, is no joke. It’s especially not something to take for granted w
ith an eight-year-old.

  Overhead a streamer catches my attention, swaying against the breeze that ruffles my hair. Glitter from its the oversized lettering cascades around me, showering me in gold and silver. For just a second, I revert to who I once was, to who I believe Rhea would have been had her childhood been happier, freer of worry and fear. With the wind brushing around me and glitter dusting my face, I close my eyes, wanting to keep myself in the wonderland around me. For a moment I am a kid again. I have no fears, no worries that weigh me down. There is no illness, no need for fundraising because everyone I love is happy, healthy. Everyone is free. My heart fills, expands and I breathe in the scents around me, overcome by the generosity of my hometown, But in the next moment I realize that I would trade a million wonderful moments for one great one, one impossible one. That one I’d gladly hand over to Rhea.

  It’s her face I think of, that beautiful smile, the hope in her eyes, the laugh that I don’t hear often enough. But then, as I open my eyes and am thrown back into reality, what do I see across the court yard but, Quinn’s focused gaze staring directly at me.

  But I quickly forget about him and his brooding looks when I spot Aunt Carol standing next to Autumn, wiping her face dry.

  “What is it?” I say, running toward her, my stomach twisting like a spring. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, dear.” Carol pats my hand, smooths her fingers over my face as I reach for her. “Autumn and your friends, oh Sayo, they’re just too much.” And then Carol can no longer speak, too taken by her tears and the emotion behind them.

  “What is going on?” I ask Autumn when she steps next to my side. “What the hell happened?”

  “The fundraiser,” my best friend says, shrugging like all the magic she worked had been simple and hardly a bother at all. “Carol’s just very pleased.”