Page 33 of Finders Keepers
And maybe I didn’t.
“Anyway. Guess it didn’t work out exactly as I planned.”
Quentin nudges my arm very gently with his. “I’m sorry about your job.”
“It’s fine. I’ll find something new eventually, I’m sure. It’ll all work out for the best.” If I say it often enough, maybe I’ll really start to believe it. Right now, my best idea is to reach out to a bunch of different history department chairs across New England and hope they’re all in desperate need of an adjunct. Even if they all came through, though, I’m pretty sure it would cost me more to commute to each university than I would be making.
At least I’m not the only one here with career problems. “What about you? Hear anything back from that firm in Chicago?” I ask.
“Yeah. They want me to do an in-person interview next week.”
“Oh. Congrats. That’s great.”
“Eh,” he says, tilting his head to the side.
“Eh?”
“I think I’m going to withdraw my application. I’m not sure I’m interested.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t think I want to do international business law anymore. I didn’t really mean to land there in the first place. It was just easiest to get into when I graduated, the area where I’d inadvertently made the most connections. And I’m not going to lie and say the money wasn’t a factor. I know my dad made peanuts working for the government.” He stretches his arms behind him as he rocks his chair back again. “Maybe it’s because I’m in my thirties now, and my priorities have shifted, but helping shitty rich people be shittier and get richer doesn’t feel like a good use of my time on earth anymore, you know?” He brings his chair back down with a thud, and it makes him bite his tongue. “Ow.”
“Actions have consequences,” I sing softly, mimicking what Quentin’s mom used to say whenever he hurt himself doing something stupid. I’m surprised how quickly and easily it finds its way out of my mouth after all this time.
Quentin shoots me a look before deciding to ignore this taunt. “Besides, the partner I was talking to on the video call looked like a foot and it creeped me out.”
“He…looked like a foot? How?”
“I don’t know. His hair was all—” He gestures with his fingers upward, presumably to represent something toe-like. “It was something about the shape of his head.”
“I don’t think you should turn down a job opportunity just because a guy looks like a foot. I doubt he can help it.”
“Well, he also made a joke about a paralegal’s legs that made me feel pretty uncomfortable.”
“What the hell, Quentin. Why didn’t you lead with that? That’s a way more legit reason than ‘he looks like a foot.’ ” I nudge the toe of his sneaker with mine beneath the table. We’re being inappropriately loud, but when I glance over at Mrs. MacDonald she’s once again staring into the distance. Is she sleeping with her eyes open? Unnerving.
I thumb through the box and retrieve several envelopes filled with black-and-white photographs. “Well, if not Chicago with the creepy foot guy, wherewouldyou like to land next?” I ask.
“Good question,” he says, looking down at the pile of photos I place in front of him. “One I don’t have an answer for yet. I’m hoping that while I’m working on getting the house together it will magically come to me.”
Considering how lost I feel without Ambitious Nina at the helm, not knowing the exact steps ahead, it’s difficult for me to understand how he can choose to be so casual about his future, but I say, “As good a strategy as any, I guess.”
We fall into a mostly comfortable silence as we review the old pictures of Sprangbur. These shots were taken for a feature inLifein the mid-1930s, and Fountain requested copies for his own personal collection. They date to a few years before his death, so if we can find the portrait in one of these, that may be where it was located when his will was read. If we don’t find Whale’s painting in any of the photos, then…Well, I don’t know what we do.
“What’s next if this doesn’t turn up anything?” I ask.
I fight off a smile as I notice Quentin sucking at the corner of his bottom lip, deep in concentration. He seems to notice he’s doing it at the same time he comprehends my question andstretches his neck instead. “I can’t believe you’re losing hope already.”
“What makes you think I had any to begin with? You know I doubt this thing even exists.”
“Don’t lie to me, Hunnicutt,” he says, finding his smile. “I saw the way your eyes lit up when Sharon said the artist’s name was Whale.” He leans in, close enough that his breath ruffles a few loose strands of hair by my ear, making me shiver. “I know you want this just as much as I do.”
“What I want is to be done with this,” I manage, only stumbling on two of the nine words in the sentence. Which isn’t bad considering the distracting heat pooled between my legs.Coping mechanism, I remind myself.
I wish someone would inform my body that this is all in my head, though, because right now it sure feels pretty much indistinguishable from being genuinely attracted to him. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to alleviate the incessant ache.
“Right.” The word—or rather, the way he says it—sounds off, but I can’t quite figure out how. It’s strangely clipped, tight. I turn my head to catch his expression, but find him staring back down at the dwindling stack of photos in front of him, once again sucking his lip.
