Page 57 of Finders Keepers
“That look is not helpful,” I admonish.
“It’s all I’ve got,” she says with a regretful shrug. “This is an unusual situation. One I am grateful I am not in myself.”
“Thanks. Very reassuring as always.”
She sighs. “I guess the way to proceed,” she says slowly, “is to ask yourself: What do I want to happen next?”
“I don’t know.”
“Youdoknow,” she counters. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Okay, fine. I want to have sex with him. Badly. But it’s a horrible idea.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s a lot of history between us, and this whole treasure hunt, and someone from high school he might still like, and…it’s just complicated.”
“There’s no way to have a chat, try to uncomplicate some of it?”
“I mean, probably.” That was basically my plan last night, wasn’t it? Before the whole window situation escalated.
“So do that,” she urges. “Remember, the world is your oyster. You’re unconstrained. You can be anyone you want.”
“Sexy Nina,” I whisper.
Sabrina nods. “Exactly! Sexy Nina. And if Sexy Nina wants her hot neighbor to pound her into the mattress—”
“All right, I’m done. Goodbye.” I hover my finger over the button to end the call.
Sabrina laughs. “Wait. Don’t hang up! I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” I say, unable to keep the fondness from my voice.
“I’m not,” she agrees as she sits on the edge of a weight bench, a towel flung around her shoulders. “I just want you to be happy, Neen. Would hot animal sex with Quentin make you happy?”
“I don’t think you should be allowed to use words anymore.” Nomenclature aside, I’m sure sleeping with Quentin would indeed make me happy, in the immediate moment. But I’m not convinced being together that way wouldn’t unlatch my emotional storage cupboard, sending all sorts of other feelings tumbling out too. Mushy feelings, and angry, wounded feelings. Lots of things to trip and fall on when I eventually go to make my escape. “I’m worried I’ll get hurt again,” I say quietly.
Sabrina gives me a look that’s tinged with both affection and pity. “I know, love. But when was the last time you wanted something,anything, this badly?”
I’m about to cite the long-term contract at Malbyrne, or some fellowship or award or whatever. Except it hits me that this isn’tthe same feeling at all. Those were things I wanted because I was supposed to want them. Because they were the next rung on the ladder I was climbing, driven by some mixture of my own and Cole’s expectations for me (it’s hard to tell where one stopped and the other began, looking back).
I want Quentin infinitely more than I ever wanted those things, and for literally no good reason except that I do. He won’t help me get ahead in anything. In fact, having sex with him is bound to be a hugely unnecessary distraction from my efforts to get back on my feet. It feels a lot like seeing a bottle labeledHottest Hot Sauce That Ever Existedand having a soul-deep desire to chug the whole thing just to find out if I can.
The doorbell rings, and I realize that I haven’t heard my mom clanging and clomping about downstairs since I woke up. She must be out and about this morning, and Dad is undoubtedly already combing yard sales for cool stuff to repair and resell, as is his usual weekend routine.
“Gotta run! But thanks for the pep talk. Love to my Breen,” I say hastily, already charging down the stairs.
“Love to my Neen. Follow your heart and keep me updated!” She blows me a quick kiss before ending the call.
When I open the door, I’m out of breath and a bit worse for wear (the brisk movement was a bad idea; my head feels stabby again). Which is why my voice sounds breathier than I intend when I say, “Quentin.”
“Ho there, howdy, and good morning,” he says with a small smile.
I stand there stupidly, staring for way too long and saying nothing. It’s just that, framed by the doorway, wearing a light pink button-down, his hair haloed with amber as the sun manages to catch a few strands despite the overhang of the porch, hereminds me of a Mucha painting. An also slightly hungover Mucha painting, judging by the sunglasses and hint of tension in his jaw. But it’s still a sight to see.
He clears his throat and tries again, sounding less certain now. “Good…morning?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t think my parents are home.”
