Page 33 of Quinlan

Food next. I order from the nearest sushi place, another client of mine that gives me discount prices.

While I wait for the delivery guy, I call my parents. Maybe the good news will bring a smile to their faces. My new job did that to Rex. It could do that to Mom and Dad.

I try not to get my hopes up. Except I want to hope. Dammit, I need to. I know I fucked up all those years ago. It’s my fault my parents are devastated. But—and it’s so wrong to admit it even to myself—I’m desperate for them to treat me like their kid.

I wish that every once in a while they’d sound like they’re happy I’m still here.

My fingers go to the heart-shaped tattoo beneath my eye. Blake. I remember him just as well as they do. Could never forget that horrible night even though it happened when I was five.

My baby brother.

Tears threaten to break free. I rub my eyes, forcing them back. Wallowing in these awful memories is something I promised myself I’d never do.

Rex made me stay strong for Mom and Dad. I’ve got this.

New job. Money to provide for them.

Good things are coming.

I repeat it like a mantra, then place the call to my parents.

The phone rings. It rings and rings and rings. I get up and start pacing the wood floors of my apartment. Walk by the white kitchen island and the black wrought iron stools. Trail my fingers on the exposed brick wall next to the floor-to-ceiling window. Slump down on my old brown leather couch.

By the tenth ring, I pull the device away from my ear, ready to hang up.

“Quinny?” my mother says, her voice hushed. Gravelly.

She’s been sleeping.

“Mom.” It’s pathetic, how excited I sound that she picked up the phone. “How are you? How’s Dad?”

“Good, honey. You?” Every word, even just these three, sounds like an effort.

I’ll keep this short. “I have a new job. It’s kind of a big deal.”

I don’t tell her where. Don’t mention my uncalled-for paranoia.

The men I met and confused the hell out of me? I’m definitely keeping this information to myself.

I’ve learned over the years that my parents have lost the ability to carry a long, elaborate conversation. That’s why I mince my words.

“That’s great.” A sigh. “Really great, honey.”

She’s doing her best for me. I should be happy about that. I am.

With more money rolling in, I could find a better psychiatrist for both her and Dad. They might have better meds to offer.

“I’m starting next week.” I bite my bottom lip, pacing my small kitchen. “I’m excited.”

Please be excited for me too. For us.

“You work hard. You’re a smart girl.” I don’t want to imagine happiness. I’ve been disappointed one too many times. But maybe, please? “If anyone could make it big, it’s you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Stupid tears leak out, no matter what I do to blink them away. “Is Dad there? I’d love to tell him the good news.”

“Your father’s sleeping.” Yawn. “Which reminds me. I think I should nap.”

“Of course.” Arguing that she probably just woke up will get me nowhere. Compassion will. I sure as fuck hope so. “Go. We’ll talk soon.”

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