Page 4 of Parker

“Screw you, Quinn.” I snort. “This is hell.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Can’t we just—”

“You know? I don’t get you,” I say, turning to glare at him. “We can’t stand each other. I hate you. You hate me. For as long as I can remember, that’s how it’s been. So, why would youchooseto sit here? It’s insane.”

He flinches, but I almost miss it because a split second later, he cackles with glee. “Because bugging you is one of my favorite hobbies.”

I blow out a frustrated breath, looking to my left. The teenage girl sitting by the window has headphones on and appears to be sleeping. No salvation there, but she inspires me to do the same. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m going to sleep.”

He stares at me for a second, like he has something to say, and I stare right back at him, at his swamp-green eyes under bushy black eyebrows…and have a sharp and sudden sense ofdéjà vu.

At the end of fifth grade, Quinn gave a presentation about how his family was of Irish descent and said that their name, Morgan, was an anglicized version of the Celtic surname,Ó Muireagáin. Standing in front of his teacher, family, friends, and other students, he’d set up an easel with a large map of Ireland. Pointing to a county in the center of the map, he’d claimed to be descended from a clan of great lords who ruled over Teffia, in present-day county Longford, during the medieval ages.

At the end of his presentation, he’d bowed to applause, then looked directly at me, grinning with pride, winsome dimples denting his freckled cheeks. And for once, for just a split second, my heart had softened toward Quinn Morgan. I hadn’t seen him as a pest or nuisance in that instant. For just a second,I’d gotten a glimpse of—something different, something more—what a someday version of Quinn Morgan could look like: tall and confident, smart and cheerful, black Irish and handsome, like the actor who played Captain Hook inOnce Upon a Time,my then-TV obsession.

Fueled by the romance of this notion, I’d imagined for a moment that his green eyes looked more emerald than swamp, that his chubbiness would stretch to tall and buff once he hit a growth spurt, and that his non-stop teasing and pranking was,perhaps, just maybe, a clumsy means of seeking my attention, not my scorn.

These revelations were short-lived and quickly overturned.

Later that day, Quinn and Sawyer had conspired to put a garter snake down the back of my T-shirt as I sat sunbathing by the Taiya River. After dispatching the snake and watching it slither away, I’d chased my brother and his friend back to the lodge. As I’d stood there on the porch cussing them out, with tears streaking down my cheeks, I’d noted that Quinn’s eyes were just as dull and swampy as they’d ever been.

He was no Captain Hook. No swashbuckling tease. No future hottie of the high seas. No. He was just dumb, old Quinn Morgan, Sawyer’s best buddy, world-class troublemaker, and as aggravating as ever.

“Fine,” he says with a little huff. “Go to sleep then.”

“I don’t need your permission, Quinn.”

“Whatever,” he mutters, reaching for a brown bag holding a muffin and stuffing his stupid face with it.

I pluck my earbuds from the side pocket of my backpack, pop them in my ears, and close my eyes to sleep.

***

Quinn

Here is something Parker Stewart has never understood about me:

Not once—never ever for a single second in the entire span of my life—have I ever hated her.

Exactly the opposite, in fact.

Despite my behavior, my feelings for Parker have never been vague…

I’ve loved her for as long as I can remember.

The way I behave around her—the way I treat her—is a direct reflection of howshefeels aboutme. First and always, she’s seen me as her little brother’s annoying friend. And some of that reputation has been earned, yes. But the fact of the matter is, when you’ve known someone as long as Parker’s known me, when you’ve literally grown up beside them, you wear a lot of hats, and some of them, especially the early ones, aren’t that flattering.

I was the fat, little kindergartener who she caught picking his nose on the school bus.

(She teased me relentlessly about that.)

I was a lonely, only child third grader who wrangled an invitation to sleep over at Sawyer’s place anytime I could.

(And honestly, every weekend didn’t feel like too much to me, although in retrospect I can understand how it might have felt excessive to her.)

I was the mischievous fifth grader, desperate for her attention, who put a snake down the back of her shirt.

(I regret that particular prank…but one, it was Sawyer’s idea, and two, it was just a harmless garter snake. It wasn’t poisonous or anything.)

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