Page 42 of Finders Keepers
“I, zee Moon, have been right here, of course, despite zee silence.” His normal voice returns, sounding even more tired than before. “But I, Quentin, have been on a plane for the last ten hours.”
“Oh. Where—”
“Paris.”
My nerves kick up as my brain scrambles for reasons he might have gone back to France and keeps landing onHe’s getting back with his ex. Not that it should matter to me if he is. “I didn’t realize you had a trip planned.”
“I didn’t. But Tuesday morning I woke up to an email from Charlene.” My heart and stomach drop as one, plunging into the depths of my torso. I try to muster some semblance of happiness for him so that he won’t know how disconcerted I am. WhyamI so disconcerted, anyway? He continues, “Turns out she and my former best friend are moving in together. How very wonderful for them!” I’ve never heard this biting, sarcastic tone from him before. Is it wrong that all I feel is relief that we get to continue being miserable together? “She was writing to tell me Jean-Luc doesn’t like having Faustine around. Charlene was going to give her to a neighbor unless I came to get her.”
“Who’s Faustine?”
“My daughter,” he says.
“Excuse me?” His ex was going to give his daughter to a neighbor? Wait. Quentin has adaughter?
“Hold on, I’ll send you a picture,” he says.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand and I snatch it up. On it is a photo of the most hideous cat I have ever seen. It’s one of those super wrinkly, hairless ones, mostly beige with some black splotches on its head and tail. She’s wearing a striped sweater and an expression that might actually give me nightmares. Frankly, it’s even more shocking than him having a human child.
“Jesus Christ,” I say.
“She’s sweeter than she looks,” he insists.
“She’d have to be, considering she looks like she’s possessed by Satan’s even eviler cousin.”
“Faustine is fourteen years old. Her days of torturing souls are behind her. Now she mostly sleeps and summons minor demons.”
“I can’t believe you flew to Europe to bring home an ugly, elderly cat,” I say. Except that I can absolutely believe it. After all, this is the grown-up version of the boy who tried to send an envelope filled with loose change to the World Wildlife Fund when he was seven. It was returned to sender for insufficient postage (obviously—twenty-six dollars in coins isn’t exactly light), but my mom was so touched by the gesture that she personally exchanged his nickels and quarters for a thirty-dollar check and a fresh postage stamp.
“She may be ugly and elderly, but she’s my baby and I love her,” he says defensively. “It broke my heart to leave her before, but I didn’t want to put her through the long plane ride, and I thought she’d be happy enough with Charlene.” His voice goes quieter. “I didn’t think she’d give her up so easily.”
If I’ve learned anything over the last few weeks—not to mention the last seventeen years—it’s that it’s a lot easier for most people to get rid of someone they supposedly value than one might imagine. But that is a thought I am not going to voice. “Tomorrow…” I start instead.
“Oh, right. Shit. The venue tour. I almost forgot.”
“Do you want to reschedule?” I ask.
“No, no, it’s fine. The trip was so short I didn’t even bother trying to adjust to the time difference, so I’m not jet-lagged, just exhausted. I should be fine after a good night’s sleep. Also, that reminds me,” he says. “I have something I need to give you. Can you come over in about half an hour?”
“Um. Yeah, sure.”
“Okay, cool.” There’s a moment of silence, and I’m worried he’s about to say something else vague and profound to end the conversation. But then it’s just, “Let me go shower so I can put my fig leaf on, then.”
Heat engulfs my cheeks as his window quietly slides shut.
18
Quentin, of course,does not come to the door wearing nothing but a fig leaf. But he does open it wearing gray sweatpants, which might as well be the same damn thing as far as my libido is concerned. He also has on a black Franz Ferdinand T-shirt, and I mentally cling to it like the ivy climbing up the side of Sprangbur’s westernmost turret.
“Did you listen to their collaboration with Sparks?” I ask, gesturing to his chest. Music is a much safer topic than anything else my brain currently wants to conjure. “Came out in 2015, I think.”
“Of course,” he says. He aims a rueful smile toward the floor. “You know, when I heard that album, one of my favorite bands melded with one of yours…I actually started drafting an email to talk to you about it. It felt like a sign to reach out.”
“You never sent it.” It comes out quiet, almost inaudible.
“No,” he confirms. “I didn’t.”
“Why not?” I ask before I can remind myself that’s a path littered with shards of broken glass.
