Page 4 of Finders Keepers
“You mean you’ve actually lived in France and your accent still sounds like Pierre Escargot fromAll That?”
“Just because I speak perfect French doesn’t mean the Moon is equally fluent in English. Duh.” I can hear the smile in his voice, but when I picture it on his face, my mental image is of a scrawny fifteen-year-old with freckles scattered over his cheeks. Strange to think that cute-but-dweeby kid has transformed intoa man who wears ties and drives an Audi. “I’d ask what you’re doing here, but your mom mentioned you were coming to visit, so I assume you’re, uh, visiting.”
Dammit. Iknewshe knew.
“How long you gonna be around?” he asks.
It isn’t an unreasonable question, but it’s also not one I want to dwell on at the moment. I’ve never done well with uncertainty, or things that are out of my control. I stumble over my words as I say, “Oh, just until I…Till my…I’m already looking for…”
This one time, when we were in first grade, Quentin proposed we race up the big metal climbing dome on our elementary school’s playground. I generally never went higher than two or three feet off the ground, too worried I’d fall through one of the triangular openings to go all the way to the top. But as soon as he issued the challenge it was like my fear disappeared, replaced by such a strong urge to win that I attacked that dome with bold determination—and wound up missing a rung and smashing my nose into one of the diagonal steel bars. And that’s kind of how I feel now, grasping for a next move that should be within easy reach but isn’t. As if I’m slipping, falling forward, about to meet with a fate I could have avoided if I’d simply paid more attention. “It’s rather up in the air at the moment,” I conclude, swallowing back the tears threatening to rise for the millionth time today.
There’s a pause, and then, “Neen.”
Quentin’s use of the shortened version of my name, especially in that soft, warm tone, makes my edges feel wiggly. “Hm?”
“I, uh, really…” There’s a brief hesitation, as if he’s carefully weighing what he’s about to say. But then finally: “Urgent memojust came through the fax. The boss wants to see us both right away.”
A choked, surprised laugh spills out of me. This is a more obscure throwback. When we were around eleven or twelve we thought it was hilarious to pretend we worked for a huge corporation. Doing our homework became “putting in overtime on the big Thompson file.” Walking to get ice cream from the corner store was “attending the quarterly revenue meeting.” Neither of us knew anything about huge corporations, of course, so it was a bunch of jargon we cobbled together from TV shows and movies. We dropped the bit at some point, and I haven’t thought about it in years. But Quentin picking it back up again now feels kind of like deciding to rewatch a movie I loved as a teenager but haven’t seen since—delightful nostalgia mixed with the worry that the passing of time might have made the things I enjoyed most about it fall flat.
“The big boss?” I respond anyway. Because I figure it’s at least worth seeing if it holds up.
“The biggest. The head honcho himself,” Quentin confirms. “Front porch. Two minutes, sharp, or Debbie says it’ll be our asses.”
“Debbie in accounting?”
“No, that’sDaphnein accounting. Debbie is the big boss’s assistant. She took over for Matthew in January, remember?”
“Oh. Right,” I say. “I miss Matthew. He always used to bring in donuts on Fridays.”
“One minute, thirty seconds, Hunnicutt. Time is money. Ticktock.”
“Fine, fine, I’m coming!”
Quentin’s window closes with a suction-y thud that tells methat, unlike mine, it’s been replaced sometime over the years. I imagine him sprinting down the staircase in the mirror-image house beside mine, maybe even sliding down the wooden banister like he used to. (And Dr. Bell isn’t even here to yell at him about it.)
I take a moment to blow my nose, wipe my eyes, clean my glasses, and redo my messy bun. My reflection reminds me that it’s been a rougher few days than a quick hair adjustment can possibly remedy, but there’s not much I can do about that right now. Hopefully the porch lights aren’t on and I can rely on that soft, forgiving moonglow. Maybe if I look presentable enough now I can trick Quentin into thinking that when he saw me earlier, crouched behind my car with my unruly curls half out of their elastic and pretzel salt still clinging to my hoodie, it was an optical illusion. I was actually very put-together and not acting weird at all.
Mom clangs around in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher as an audiobook blasts at full volume, and I manage to tiptoe through the dining and living rooms without her noticing me. It’s all muscle memory, slipping outside onto the porch, holding the knob of the storm door until it shuts completely so it doesn’t slam. Not that the sneaking is strictly necessary, but it feels proper to do this how I would have back when Quentin and I were teenagers, meeting on the porch past our bedtime to continue plotting and chatting late into the night.
He stands on the other side of the cream-painted wooden divider railing, where I first spotted him earlier. As my eyes adjust to the darkness (thank god the lights are off), I make out the outline of him bowing his head as he studies his wrist.
“Three minutes, forty-five seconds,” he says, clucking histongue. “Punctuality is very important in this business, Hunnicutt. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.”
And even though my termination from Malbyrne had nothing to do with my being on time, that’s apparently all it takes to release the floodgates and get me bawling again.
3
“Shit, Nina.” Contritelaughter. Now that one is new. I find myself adding it to the catalog as I watch him start to hoist himself over the divider before realizing he can simply step over it now. “Hey, come here.”
I move into his open arms, which wrap around my waist, bringing me against his warm, strong chest. It strikes me that this may be the first time we’ve ever embraced like this. Cooties were a concern during the earlier years of our friendship, and later there was the possibility that a hug would give Quentin a prime opportunity to slap aCall Me Buttheadsign on my back, or that it would provide me with the perfect angle to slip ice cubes down the back of his shorts.
Of course, there was that last summer, when we had a tentative ceasefire and everything felt strangely charged between us. I would remember if he’d held me like this then, though, because I would’ve immediately exploded into a million tiny ribbons of hormonal confetti.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he whispers into the hair piled atop my head.
I inhale deeply and find that he smells like soap and laundry detergent—an enticing and clean smell that, coupled with the heat of his body against mine, reminds me of snuggling into a freshly made bed, sheets still warm from the dryer. I pull away, thoroughly abashed by both his pity and my wandering thoughts.
Once there’s distance between us, I clear my throat. “It’s fine. Seriously. Nothing to be sorry about.” I dab at my face with my sleeve, wondering if I might be able to somehow at least pass off the crying as bad allergies. Considering how Quentin’s looking at me as if he’s afraid I might break like a cold glass dunked into boiling water, I doubt it. Besides, who knows how much my mother already told him about my situation. “I’m just…I’m kind of going through a rough patch right now,” I confess.
