by JA Huss
“OK,” Bric says. “I’ll bring something with me then. Have fun with Chella.”
I watch him walk off, pointing at people sitting at other tables as he makes his way to the front. He stops five or six times before he finally makes his way to the front podium and whispers something to Margaret. They both look at me, then Margaret nods, as Bric disappears to start work.
Margaret comes towards me, pushing my stroller. “He said you were ready to go,” she says, stopping at the table. “And to bring you the stroller.”
“Thanks,” I say, scooting out of the booth with Adley’s car seat. Margaret holds the stroller as I snap it in, then adjust Adley’s blankets.
“Chella is next door,” she says. “Bric says you were looking for her.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks. Is it literally right next door?”
“We have a connecting door,” Margaret says. “Would you like to go through that way?”
“Sure.” I follow her as she leads me into a short hallway, then through a revolving door—a smaller twin of the one in front of Turning Point Club—until we finally come to the tea room. “Thanks, Margaret,” I say. She smiles and disappears.
I bet she is so confused about why I’m back.
Hell, I’m starting to be confused about why I’m back.
“Hey,” Chella calls from across the room. She breaks away from another woman and starts walking towards me. When she’s close enough, she takes both my hands and we do cheek kisses. This is something I have always loved about Chella. She is money. Sophisticated, smart, and wise to the ways of socializing.
It’s a life not many can relate to. But I can. Three years with Bric has taught me a lot about that kind of stuff.
Chella is so put together today. She’s always wearing tailored suits that show off her long legs. And her hair is always pulled back into some sort of fashionable bun or braid.
Today she’s wearing cream-colored leggings with a pale pink fringe cape, and light suede over-the-knee boots. Her long dark hair is pulled back, except for a few curly tendrils that frame her face.
She looks like a fashion model.
I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing an old pair of denim jeans with more frayed holes than I can count, a blue Pagosa Spring t-shirt, shearling winter boots that have seen better days, and an old army jacket that is three sizes too big.
The only thing that saves me from looking homeless is the thousand-dollar stroller I’m pushing and the Prada tote I’m using as a diaper bag.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I was having breakfast with the guys and Bric told me you’re not at the gallery anymore.”
“No.” She laughs, wrapping my hands around her arm and pulling me to a table in the back where there are no workers. “I quit about six months ago, after I talked Bric and Smith into this tea room idea.”
“I heard. Pastry chef? I had no idea, Chella. None.”
“Well,” she says, beckoning me to take a seat. I do, and she does the same, sitting across from me. “You know how you think about doing things, when you’re little and stuff, but it’s so impractical?”
I laugh. “You mean like… playing guitar at street fairs and poetry bars?”
“Yes,” Chella says with a big smile. “I guess you know all about that. Well, to be honest, I was kinda jealous of you for that.”
“Me?” I ask, pointing to my chest and laughing. “How could you ever be jealous of me?”
“You always had your dream. And you just went for it. So one day Smith and I were just sitting around the house and I was watching some bake-off show on TV. And I said, ‘I could do that.’ And he said, ‘So do that.’”
I look around at the tea room. It’s not done yet. There are a dozen people here working on things. But I can tell it’s going to be fabulous. It’s got Chella written all over it. Everything is very rustic, yet modern. Not how you’d picture an old-fashioned tea room in movies and books and stuff. Her style. Her taste. Her dream. “And you did it.”
“Yeah, Bric has been great about it. He gave me the space and just said go for it.”
Bric seems to be great at everything these days.
“Do you see Quin much?” I ask.
“Oh, all the time,” Chella says. “We meet for lunch every Tuesday. We were meeting at the Club this past Tuesday when you called. That’s why everyone came over to your hotel. We were already together.”
“Oh,” I say, almost wistfully.
And it’s in that moment that I realize—I have missed this life. These people. Even Chella, who was also part of my world back then. But separate. She’s probably the closest friend I’ve had in like… ever. Which is sad because we only knew each other for six months before I disappeared.
“He called me this morning,” Chella says.
“He did?” I ask. “When? He slept at my new place last night. But then he disappeared early.”
“I know,” Chella says. “He told me.”
“What did he say? Did he talk about me?”
Chella frowns and nods. “He said you had a fight.”
“We didn’t fight,” I say, more defensively than I should. “He was just… mad at me.”
“I know. He told me that too.”
“What exactly did he tell you?” I’m kinda pissed off that Quin is shutting me out and sharing everything with Chella now. I was that girl last year. I was Chella. And now… I have no idea who I am anymore. I can’t even say, Well, you’re Adley’s mother. Because Bric and Quin are here too and it’s almost like they are taking some of that identity away from me. Before I came back I was all she had. Now she has two fathers. I feel… left behind.
“He just said he was confused. I mean, look, Rochelle, you did disappear. And have a baby, which might be his. And you never called.”
I did call. Yeah, it was six months later, but I did call. And I can’t even tell him that because stupid Bric kept it a secret. And I can’t out Bric and cause trouble between him and Quin, because let’s face it—Bric is the only one in my corner at the moment.
I realize Chella is still talking. “And he asked if Smith and I wanted to go to dinner with him tonight.”
“Hmm,” I say, instantly angry. That jerk. “Bric and I invited him to eat with us tonight, but he said he was working.”
“Oh,” Chella says. “I didn’t realize it was a secret. Well”—she waves her hand—“Smith won’t go to dinner. So it will just be Quin and me. Smith doesn’t like to have the three of us together too much. He thinks Quin wants…” She blushes. Shakes her head.
“Quin wants… what?” I prod.
“You know. Smith thinks Quin misses me.”
“You?” I ask. What the fuck is happening?
“Not me. Us, I guess.” She blushes again. “You know. The whole quad thing. But without Bric. Tuesday was the first time they talked in… hell, months.”
I feel like I’m having a stroke. Like I’m hearing her words and they make no sense.
“It’s weird too,” Chella continues. “Quin’s never like that when it’s just him and I together. He doesn’t want me, Rochelle. It’s like he wants…”
“The us,” I say, filling in the blank.
“Yeah.” She nods. “I think he misses that. The us.”
So there you go. That’s where I’m at.
The us.
I can have Bric, or Bric and Quin, but not Quin alone.
These are the new rules, I guess.
It’s just another game to them.
That’s all it’s ever been—a game.
“I have something for you,” Chella says, bringing me out of my horrible realization. “If you let me drop you off at home, I can swing by my house and get it on the way.”
“Sure,” I say. I wait patiently as she does a little business, then we get in her car and drive over to the Little Raven house. Adley fell asleep in her seat, so I wait in her car. A few minutes later she comes back with a box I know very well.
“Here,” Chella says, handing it to me as she gets back in the car. “I can’t keep it. Not after reading what Quin wrote to you in there.”
I take the lid off the box and unwrap the book. It feels heavy in my hands. It feels right. Perfect. I open it up and read the inscription.
Dear Rochelle,
Mistakes are measured in wasted time
Falling to your knees, asking for another chance
Longing’s just an aching mind
Giving in to circumstance
The future is closer than your past
And loving you is not a crime
So if you don’t want to turn back
We can handle the aftermath.
Love,
Quin
The book is filled with inscriptions, but not all of them are from Quin. It’s like this book has been passed around between lovers for decades. And each time it changed hands, the person giving it away wrote something about their longing.
Quin wrote in this book a lot over the time we spent together. Every now and then he’d see it in my closet, or on my shelf, or my bedside table because I was reading it. But I’ve never seen this poem before.
“Thank you,” I say as Chella smiles at me. But God, my heart hurts for him. He must have written this while I was gone. I hold it to my chest and sigh.
“I know it means a lot to you, so I need to give it back. And don’t try to pay me for it. I don’t need the money.”
“Thank you so much,” I repeat. “I just wanted to sell it. It was a way to start the process of leaving, you know? And you’re right. Those words Quin wrote to me…” I close my eyes. Feeling heavy with dissatisfaction. “I knew there was no way out of the game if I didn’t leave. And if I kept these words, held on to them, well, I’d never have the nerve to leave him behind. It made me feel desperate back then. Desperate to cling to what little we had. And selling this book gave me strength. Getting rid of it got rid of my longing, you know? Or so I thought.” I sigh, looking down at my book. “It’s not gone though, Chella. My longing is as strong as ever. It scares me,” I say. “I don’t trust people easily. I trust you because you don’t need anything from me. But—
“But you think Bric and Quin need you for the game.”
“Yes,” I say. I take a deep breath and let it out. “I’m gonna get hurt. I’m falling for it again, Chella, and it’s not good.”
“Hey,” she says, placing a hand on my arm. “It’s going to work out, Rochelle. I know it is.”
But I’m not so sure about that. Bric isn’t the man I thought he was. He can’t be that selfish asshole and be so sweet to my daughter at the same time. Unless he’s only doing it because he thinks she’s really his?
And Quin isn’t making any move to leave the game.
I’m not winning this time. Because I want to trust them. I want them to be real and I know they’re not.
I’m so off my game. The rules have changed and no one bothered to tell me.
I’m an amateur. All my moves are clumsy, all my motivations jumbled.
I learned a long time ago that you can’t trust people. I have lived with too many lies and disappointments to count. I have learned the ways of the world through the lens of dishonesty. Deceit. Cheating and backstabbing. I have wounds from those lessons. I have deep scars.
I’m gonna lose, I realize. I’m gonna lose this game. Because I desperately want to trust these men and I know it’s a bad idea. I want them to heal me, but they have long claws and sharp teeth.
Bric is trying to claim my heart by going through my daughter. And it’s working. I like him so much more now than I ever did before.
And Quin has always had my heart. But now I don’t have his.
No. There is no win in my future.
Chapter Twelve - Bric
“Is everything OK?” I ask Rochelle as we eat dinner. I stopped by this new restaurant a block away from the Club and picked up the most amazing sea bass tacos. Plus a little side of candied sweet potatoes that they whipped up special for the pumpkin. Almost none of it made it to her mouth because she’s got it all over her chubby face and fingers.
“Fine,” Rochelle says. She ate her food, so I’m going to assume that was an honest answer. When she goes off her food, that’s when I know to worry. That was, after all, the only weird thing I noticed about her behavior right before she took off last year. “But he’s late.”
“Only five minutes,” I say, glancing down at my watch.
“He used to be early. And whenever we had breakfast in the White Room booth, he used to sit across from me. He told me he liked it better than sitting next to me because he wanted to stare at my face.”
Hmmm. Is she overreacting? I’m not sure. “Well, look, Rochelle, you need to give the guy some time. He’s processing.”
She sighs and gets up. Disappears into Adley’s bedroom and comes back with a little pink washcloth to clean her messy face.
Adley balks. Squirms. And when Rochelle is persistent, she cries.
“You’re a good mother, Rochelle.”
She stops cleaning up Adley to smile at me. “Thanks.”
“I mean it too. You did good. And all by yourself. Don’t let this thing with Quin derail you. Don’t let it upset you or rob you of all the great things happening in your life right now.”
“I know,” she says, releasing Adley from the chair and picking her up. “You’ve been pretty great.” I shrug, going for a sheepish response. Rochelle doesn’t fall for it. Sheepish isn’t a word anyone would use to describe me. “We both know you’re going out of your way to help me right now. I’m just not sure what you’re getting out of this, Elias.”
“I’m getting you.”
“Typical, typical answer,” she says.
“And the pumpkin.” I smile big at the new addition to my typical response. “I like her. A lot.” I get a sad smile from Rochelle. And I know her well enough to read her mind. So I add something else to the new addition. “But don’t worry. If you and Quin work out and want me to back away, I will.”
Rochelle stares at me for a moment, unsure if she should take that promise at face value.
Even I’m not sure she should take that promise at face value. So I don’t make another addendum.
“I’m gonna give her a bath and get her ready for bed. Be done in thirty.”
“Sure,” I say, standing up. “I’ll be here.”
I gather up all the dinner trash and hit the elevator button to take it down to the dumpster in the garage. When the doors open, I practically slam into Quin.
“Shit,” he laughs. “You almost knocked me down.” He’s still wearing his work suit, but he’s holding dry-cleaning bags.
“So you showed,” I say, some of Rochelle’s irritation rubbing off on me.
“Why wouldn’t I come?” Quin asks.
“Rochelle told me what you did last night.”
“What’d I do?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No,” he says. “I’m not. What did she tell you?”
“Revenge fuck? Hate fuck? Those are two ways she described what happened last night.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She said you fucked her and then told her that’s exactly how you fucked Chella when she ambushed us.”
“So? Did I miss the memo where everyone is supposed to lie and spare Rochelle’s feelings?”
“Are you gonna be a dick about this? She said you left this morning without saying goodbye.”
“I needed to go home and change, Bric.” And then he shakes his dry-cleaning. “Which is why I brought a fucking suit this time.”
Oh. Yeah, that kinda makes sense.
“And she was with the baby. I thought she went back to sleep.”
Hmm. All this adds up. “She said you didn’t sit across from her today at breakfast.”
Quin laughs. “Why the fuck would I sit across from her when I can sit next to her? What the hell is going on?” h
e asks. “Why is she back if all she’s gonna do is complain about everything I do?”
“I don’t think she’s complaining, Quin. She feels like you’re not invested in her.”
“I’m here,” he says. “With a suit to wear to work tomorrow because we’re gonna sleep together tonight. What the fuck do you guys want from me? A goddamned contract? Am I the game, Bric?”
“Of course not,” I say, walking over to the compactor door and throwing the bag of trash in.
“Hey,” he says as I come back. “If you don’t want me here, just let me know. We can get that DNA test out of the way and just take it from there.”
“Quin,” I say, softening my stance. “We discussed this. We’re not getting the test. She’s ours.”
“She’s mine,” Quin says. “Just so you understand that. But I’m willing to share.”
For a second I’m not sure if he’s talking about the baby or Rochelle. Or both. I’m actually speechless.
“Are we going upstairs or what?” he finally adds.
I punch the keypad to call the elevator and when the doors open, we both step in. “Did you eat with Chella?” I ask, trying to find a way to break the awkwardness.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Chella told Rochelle. They hung out today.”
Quin shrugs off getting caught in that lie. “We met my mother for dinner.”
“Your mother?” Jesus Christ, I feel like I’m talking to a stranger.
“Yeah, we have dinner with her about once a month.”
“Really?” I ask dryly. I try to picture how Quin introduced Chella to his mother. Hey, Mom, this is my friend, Marcella Walcott. Why, yes, she is the senator’s daughter. Or does he say, Hey, this is Chella, Smith Baldwin’s girlfriend? Maybe he says, Hey, Mom, this is the girl Bric and Smith and I all fucked together last year? What? What does he say?
I know his mom pretty well. Kitty Foster is every kid’s mom. I bet when Quin was living at home they had the hang-out house. The place where you just went. Probably didn’t even have to knock. Just let yourself in, grab one of those homemade cookies off the kitchen counter, and head to the garage, or the basement. Wherever.
