by J. Bengtsson
Why did Quinn have to be such a risky bet? If he’d been someone like ‘new’ me, someone who paid his bills and watered his plants—maybe. But he wasn’t. Quinn was destined for bigger and better things—ones that didn’t include a single mom and another man’s son.
My phone buzzed, and my eyes narrowed in on the screen.
How much is this going to cost Nick?
Why was I not surprised by Grandma Ledger’s response? Nothing in my earlier text implied I was asking for money, yet of course she would take it that way. I was, and would forever be, a gold digger in her eyes. Never mind that there was no gold to be dug. The Ledgers had money, don’t get me wrong; they’d just figured out how to keep Nick’s portion of it carefully hidden, inexplicably giving him a management-level position in his family’s company with the salary of a part-time fry cook.
That would show me. That would show his son who needed food and a roof over his head. That would show us gold diggers who lived in low-cost housing.
Noah’s in the hospital, Hilary. He’s asking for his daddy to come see him not for money
Her response. Again, I ask how much?
My lips pursed in irritation and I contemplated adding a string of multicolored middle finger emojis to my line of text, but nothing good ever came from antagonizing the maternal gatekeeper.
We have Medicaid
And then I waited. I imagined her relaying the information to Nick. That was how all our conversations went after Nick conveniently ‘lost’ his phone a couple of years ago, forcing me to go through his mother Hilary for all my gold-digging needs.
Nick’s not available.
It’s been over a year. Please ask him to reconsider—for his son’s sake.
More waiting and then the reply. That was his final answer.
His final answer? What was this—a game show?
Ah, okay. I see, I typed. Well then, could you please tell Nick to kindly fuck off. Thank you, Hilary. Have a good night.
So classy, came her reply.
I turned off my phone before our exchange turned deadly. Hilary and I had gone many rounds with each other over the years, and I’d come to the conclusion it wasn’t worth my time anymore. As much as it pained me, I couldn’t force Nick to love his son.
“Mom. Mom. Mommy. Mom. Mommy. Mommy. Mom.”
After hours of tossing and turning, I must have fallen asleep only to open my eyes to Noah hovering over me, his hands manipulating my face as he crowed grating sweet nothings into my ear. “Ma. Mom. Mommy.”
“Stop it.” I giggled, removing his hands. “That’s so annoying.”
“You’re the one that lets me watch Family Guy with you.”
“Giant parenting fail, that one,” I mumbled to myself.
“Nah. I don’t want a boring old mom. You’re fun.”
“Too fun, apparently,” I said, adjusting myself in the plastic hospital chair so Noah could position himself between my knees for a hug. He leaned in until his nose touched mine. There was never any personal space with him. My existence belonged to him.
“Why are you still sleeping?” he asked.
“Because I was up all night watching you breathe.”
“That was dumb.”
“You mean about as dumb as jumping off a shed?”
“I was flying, not jumping.”
“It’s not flying if you belly flop to the ground.”
“I’m still working on sticking the landing.”
I laughed. God, how I loved this muddy handful of a kid. He was my best friend, my confidant, and my partner in crime. And when Noah wasn’t supergluing his hands to the desk at school or jumping off sheds, he really was the perfect little companion.
Sometimes when I was putting him to bed at night, I marveled at the joy and purpose he’d brought to my life. Nick had no idea what he was missing. Noah was full of color—and not just the standard, tiresome ones like yellow or green but also the cool, obscure shades at the end of the color wheel like puce or gamboge. And he didn’t reserve his fun and fearless misadventures just for home, either. Noah was a beacon of light and universally loved at his school. Even the teachers and blacktop staff who occasionally doled out his punishments had to do so through thinly suppressed giggles.
“What are you doing out of bed?” I scolded.
“I was bored. When is my dad coming?”
I froze. This was always the worst part of ‘Nick’ discussions—trying to explain to my son the unexplainable.
“Honey?”
One word coated in compassion was all he needed to hear. Tears sprang to his eyes. “He’s not coming?”
“No. Grandma Ledger says he’s unavailable. Maybe he’s traveling, or he might have a lot of work. She didn’t specify why.”
Noah fell into my arms, his soft cries gut-wrenching. He’d had enough, and I didn’t blame him. There was just so much rejection a person could take before it carved out a little piece of your soul. I knew the feeling. I rocked him in place, my heart breaking for his innocence.
“Come on. We’ll get you back in bed before the nurse finds out,” I said after his tears dried up. “Let’s Make a Deal is about to start.”
Listless and dejected, Noah complied without protest as I maneuvered him into the bed, mindful of the tubing attached to his body.
“How did you manage to do this by yourself without getting all caught up in the wires?” I asked, always amazed at Noah’s resourcefulness.
He shrugged, so miserable. “It was like limbo.”
“Ah,” I said, offering him my bent pinkie. Noah reluctantly hooked his into mine, and we both kissed our interlocked fingers. It was our bond and my promise. Noah might not have his dad in his life, but he had me. And that would just have to be enough for now.
We were watching the game show on the hospital television when the text came in.
Noah’s eyes widened, full of hope. “Is it my dad?”
Please be Nick, I silently prayed. Just once, Nick. Please care.
But it wasn’t Nick. It was Quinn… and the text he’d promised me last night.
“No, hon, it’s just a friend.”
Noah turned his attention to the TV, silent and stoic. I squeezed his fingers. He squeezed back.
I pulled up Quinn’s text.
Hey Jess. Hope the emergency you were called away on wasn’t too serious. I’ve got some news but I’m sure you already know. If not check my Instagram. Blue check, baby! Text me when you get a chance
Another text immediately followed.
Miss you already, Getaway Girl
I placed my hand against my wildly beating heart, trying to settle it but knowing that wouldn’t be possible. Quinn McKallister missed me. Quinn frickin’ McKallister. He’d reached out, expressed his concern, then wanted to fill me in on his day. I’d been right. Our connection was as real to him as it had been to me. My heart raced at just the thought of seeing him again. And that kiss. And that song. It had been haunting. Beautiful. From his heart.
But wait… hadn’t I already made the decision to put Noah first? Which, in turn, meant cutting Quinn loose. I glanced over at my son, a look of concentration on his face as the lady dressed like a stapler tried to determine which prize to choose.
“Door number two,” he instructed the woman on the other side of the TV screen. He was so sweet, so innocent. Bringing Quinn into his life would bring him joy; that much I wasn’t disputing. Quinn’s humor and humility were qualities I wanted to instill in Noah, and I had no doubt he’d be a good influence on my son. But given what I’d learned last night about Noah’s fixation on my former boyfriends, I couldn’t in good conscience bring a man into our lives that I knew would not stick around. Quinn’s life was about to blast off, and as much as I wanted to be on that rocket ship with him, I knew I couldn’t… because for me, the scale would always tip in Noah’s favor.
With a heavy heart, I closed my screen.
11
Quinn: I Did It for You
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��There he is! The man of the hour,” Keith exclaimed, clapping as I entered the area where my family was congregated. “You’re so cool, Quinn. I wish I could be your boyfriend.”
I smirked, flipping my brother off. So this was how it was going to play out. Avoidance and mockery. That’ll work. I’d take sarcastic ribbing any day over sentimental gushing or pinpointed accusations.
“You’d be so lucky,” I bragged.
“I’d be so lucky,” his wife Sam said, trudging into the room and giving me a hug. “Please take him, Quinn. I’m sure Keith would make a wonderful addition to your harem.”
“Yes, Quinn. Please take me. Sam has entered the ‘Cross me and you die’ gestational month of pregnancy. I’m not sure I’m going to make it to the delivery.”
“Entirely your fault, Keith. Everyone knows you don’t make comments about a woman’s hair… especially when she’s nearly seven months pregnant.”
“All I said was the only thing worse than bangs is short bangs. How is that inflammatory?”
Sam pointed to her newly shorn bangs, and the women in the room gasped.
And yet, still, Keith continued to dig his own grave. “But you didn’t cut them too short, so you’re good.”
“Ugh. Do me a favor, Keith. Just keep that mouth zipped for eight more weeks. Do you think you can do that for me?”
“I… I honestly don’t think I can.”
“Then you die,” Sam said matter of factly.
I busted out a laugh. Sam was a favorite of mine, and when she wasn’t actively growing a human inside, she was my go-to surf buddy.
My oldest brother Mitch—he was a half brother, actually, but no one talked about that—stepped into the fray. “If Keith’s life depends on him keeping his mouth shut, we might as well all say our goodbyes now.”
While the debate heated up on Keith’s chances of survival, my still-throbbing head searched for a place to land. Eyeing Emma sitting alone in her oversized chair, I crossed the room.
“Scoot,” I said, waving her over.
“Ah… not so fast.” She held up a hand. “What’s the magic word?”
“I’m not going to tell you the magic word because you’re only asking it to shame me,” I said, pushing her to one side and trying to squeeze in. Emma flung her legs up, nailing me in the thigh.
“The magic word first,” she insisted, batting her lashes.
This whole ritual went back to the time when Emma had been my primary caretaker. One day, long ago, I’d opened my hands in prayer, begging Emma to let me have a full-on cookie lunch, and to my surprise, she was all for it—if I gave her the magic word. I didn’t realize the magic word was please, so I gave her the only magic word I knew—the one she was now expecting of me.
“Abracadabra.”
“There you go,” she said, removing her legs and allowing me to slide into place beside her. Emma placed her arm through mine and used the other to check my forehead temperature with the back of her hand. “Uh-oh, Quinn. You look like a crusty little animal.”
“Thanks… I guess.”
“Seriously,” she said, eyeing me. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. “Nothing a round of vomiting won’t fix.”
“Well, I don’t think I need to remind you to keep your chunks well away from me or you’ll be joining Keith in the dead man’s pile.”
“I’m well aware of your rules, Emma. Some nights before I go to bed, I still unconsciously recite them in my head.”
“As you should.” She grinned before switching gears on me. “That was quite a show you put on last night.”
“Did you like it?” I asked, adding fake excitement for her benefit. “What was your absolute favorite part?”
“My favorite, you ask?” Emma matched my enthusiasm. “Wow, Quinn, I’d be hard-pressed to choose just one thing.”
“In that case, let’s not talk about any of them. How about that?”
“I suppose. For now.” She nodded. “But only because I don’t want to risk pissing you off after not seeing you in what seems like forever. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. Have you heard from Grace lately?”
“We text all the time. She’s in love.”
My head shot up. “No, she’s not.”
Emma cocked her head, blinking at me in surprise. “Yes, she is.”
“I think I’d know if my baby sister was in love. She tells me everything.”
“Oh, really? Ever heard of a guy named Elliott?”
I blinked. “No.”
“Then she doesn’t tell you everything.”
My mouth dropped open. “That sneaky little… why wouldn’t she tell me that?”
“Probably because you’re a one-man wrecking crew when it comes to her boyfriends. She doesn’t want you to ruin it for her.”
I resented the accusation that I was out for boyfriend blood. “Like I would do that. I don’t even know this guy.”
“One word, Quinn—Rory.”
Rory? No way was I going to apologize for that. Rory had dug his own grave. I’d just covered it over with dirt. As far as I was concerned, I’d done Grace a favor with that one.
“Just keep your grubby hands away from Elliott. She really likes him.”
“Please. I’m an angel.”
She laughed. “A fallen one, maybe.”
The conversation with Emma halted the minute my father entered the room with a ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ party hat on his head, a plate of food in one hand, and a brightly colored drink sporting an umbrella in the other. Heading straight for his favorite armchair, he lined himself up and prepared for touchdown. It was a disaster waiting to happen, and everyone knew it… except for, apparently, the man himself. With no hands to guide his entry, Dad was going in butt first and blind. Even if he stuck the landing, there was no guarantee he’d escape the backsplash that would surely launch from his drink when gravity deposited him deep into the old recliner’s manmade sinkhole.
Dad claimed to love this chair; he even had a list somewhere that highlighted its selling points. Things like superior squish factor, foam that ‘remembered’ the shape of his ass, and the recliner’s otherworldly ability to smother the smell of his farts all ranked high on the list. But we all knew it was a lie. My father was no martyr. Like any other middle-aged man in America, he’d prefer a brand-new state-of-the-art remote-controlled recliner with advanced massage settings, a built-in power station, and the ability to cure cancer. Yet the man stuck to his fourteen-year-old chair for one incredibly selfish reason—he didn’t want to share.
See, as of now, no one wanted to sit in his chair for the exact reasons he’d outlined as bonuses on his list. But where his chair was situated in the room was also the most coveted spot: the perfect angle and length from the big screen TV. A new chair meant fierce competition, which my father’s dad bod could not withstand.
Dad started the descent slowly, but inevitably, gravity took over, pulling him down at a rate of speed not approved for his advancing age. The whole thing was like a cringeworthy sitcom, and none of us could look away.
“Ah shit,” he swore, as a splash of red splattered onto his white shirt and a pile of chips transferred onto his shorts. Undeterred, the man forged on, flicking the folding side table out with his elbow and setting his drink on it before surveying the damage. All in all, not a bad performance. I’d seen worse. Much worse.
“You all right there, Dad?” I asked.
He looked up, surprised to see me. “Oh, good. You’re home. Your mom was worried.”
“Like I was the only one,” she replied.
“Well, you were the loudest.”
It was only when my father had transferred everything onto his TV tray that he sat back and I saw what was written in large bold lettering on his shirt. “Ask me about my colonoscopy.”
“You really can’t get enough attention, can you?” I laughed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What
ever you do, do not ask him about his colonoscopy,” Jake warned.
“It’s a trap,” Kenzie seconded the warning.
“Anything he says cannot be unheard,” Sam added.
“Relax, ingrates.” Dad smiled, relishing the horror his existence invoked in his children. “This is a different story.”
Keith scratched his temple. “How can one person have two colonoscopy stories?”
“I have benign polyps, Keith, that’s how,” Dad scoffed.
“All right, fine.” I bit down on the line. “Tell me about your colonoscopy.”
“Nooo,” the others groaned in unison.
“Oh, stop. This new story has no excrement involved. Anyway, after my last colonoscopy, my doctor came to check in on me and I said, ‘Wow, Doc, now I know what it feels like to be a Muppet.’”
Mom’s eyes rounded in horror. “Oh god, Scott. Please tell me he laughed at that.”
“What do you think, Michelle? The man’s a gastroenterologist. He specializes in diarrhea. Of course, he laughed.”
She shielded her eyes with her hand. “And that’s precisely why I no longer go to his appointments with him.”
“I just hope this funnyman gastroenterologist of yours doesn’t know you’re my father,” Jake said. “But that’s probably wishful thinking, isn’t it?”
“Well, I did wear a shirt once that read, ‘Ask me about my son, Jake McKallister,’ so it’s possible he deduced from there.”
Jake covered his head with a pillow. “I’m never taking you anywhere, ever again.”
“Speaking of being a shitty son…” Dad smirked. “Jake, do you care to explain why you’re not wearing the white clothes I specifically requested for Mother’s Day pictures?”
“Sure, Dad. Because one, you’re my father. And two, I have a reputation to uphold. To be perfectly honest with you, I never even considered your request.”
“Ah, I see.” Dad smoothed his fingers over his jawline. “Interesting, since it’s, you know, Mother’s Day and all. But okay. Quinn? What about you? I also noticed your blatant disregard for the sanctity of the day I convinced your mother to have sex with me… in order to have you.”
