Page 64 of Finders Keepers
And, fuck, put that simply, I think it might. Especially if Quentin were the one waiting for me at home each evening, kissing me hard when I walk through the door, even if I were covered in dust and cobwebs.
Where didthatthought come from?
“Why is everyone always asking what will make me happy all of a sudden?” I say too loudly, my voice breaking.
“Nina.” Quentin’s hand comes to rest on my knee. Soothing. Supportive.
I move to lie down beside him with a heavy sigh. “I don’t really know what will make me happy because I don’t even know who Iamanymore,” I whisper. “I’ve been a certain version of myself for so long. Ambitious Nina. But she was all wrapped up in my old life, in Cole and in academia. I don’t think I’m going to get to be her again, or that I want to be, but I’m not sure who to be instead.”
“Why can’t you just be you?” he asks, running his fingers lightly up and down my arm. “Why do you need a modifier? What’s wrong with just Nina?”
“Because…just Nina isn’t enough. She’s never been enough.” His fingers pause where they are, and that line forms between his eyebrows. “She wasn’t enough for you to want to stay friends, and she wasn’t enough to keep my dad safe, or to know how to help when we almost lost our house and—”
The tears come all at once, a deluge. They feel alien againstmy cheeks. Probably because they aren’t current tears, but very, very old ones that I’ve held back for seventeen years. Quentin takes me in his arms and holds me tight as I sob and sob.
“Ambitious Nina is who I had to be after you left,” I murmur into his chest when I can catch my breath. “She let me feel like I had some semblance of control again. And people liked her. My parents were proud of her. She was the best daughter, their high achiever who could take care of herself and, one day, hopefully, them. It felt good to lessen their burden, even if it was only that they didn’t have to spend their limited energy and resources worrying about me.”
I sniffle and Quentin rubs his hand in slow circles over my back. I’ve never felt this combination of safe and emotionally raw and slightly turned on before. I continue talking, trying to explain everything I’m only now understanding myself. “She served me so well, for so long, that I started thinking that’s who I actually was. That her goals were my goals, and I don’t know, maybe they were, because I did enjoy a lot of what I accomplished. But happiness wasn’t…that was never part of the equation. It seemed like something to keep striving toward, something I’d get eventually. A one-day sort of thing I had to earn. Something I dangled in front of myself so that I would keep going instead of…instead of stopping. Instead of risking having to feel all those horrible things again that I felt that fall.”
“Nina,” he whispers. “Neen, look at me.” I lean back and look into his eyes, blinking away the moisture still clinging to my eyelashes. The hand that was on my back comes up to cradle my face. “I’m so sorry. I am so sorry that I made you feel like you weren’t enough.”
“It wasn’t just you—” I start.
“Hush,” he says, pressing his thumb against my lips. “Thesilence between us, that was not your fault. It was mine. Do you hear me? It was because ofmyfailings. The Nina I grew up with was enough. And the Nina you are now—the one who still can’t say no to a competition and who loves her family and who stands topless in front of windows—she’s enough too. More than enough. She’s everything.”
With that he leans in and presses his mouth to mine, so sweetly and gently it feels like a dream. He slowly ends the kiss, and we simply stare at each other for a moment.
“You’re a lot better at this than my therapist back in Boston,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“At kissing? I don’t think you’re supposed to be doing that with your therapist.”
I give him a small shove until he’s flat on his back. This is dangerous, us in his bed, me still feeling vulnerable, and him looking like…well, like he always does, which is really hot. “We need to figure out what to write to Emily Aaron,” I say, sitting up.
Quentin shakes his head subtly, as if resetting himself, then reaches for my laptop. “You talk, I’ll type,” he says as he enters our names into the contact form along with his email address. I dictate the message, and he dutifully transcribes it:
Hello Emily,
We hope this message finds you well, and that it isn’t a problem we’re contacting you through your business site. We’re doing research on Julius Fountain, the turn-of-the-century industrialist, and have been relying heavily upon your great-grandfather Albert’s oral history interviews with him. There’s a part of the interview we don’t fully understand and were hoping you (or any otherrelatives you might have on that side of the family) would be open to chatting with us. We’re happy to do so virtually, by phone, or in person—whichever is most convenient.
Thank you for your consideration,
Nina Hunnicutt, PhD, & Quentin Bell, Esq.
“Hey, wait,” Quentin says as he finishes typing. “Why does your name get to be first?”
“Because I’m the one who figured this out. And my doctorate makes us sound more legitimate. Which is probably helpful since we’re just two randos contacting this woman out of the blue about her family history. That’s also why I think we should include our honorifics, even though it looks a little douchey.”
“Good points all around,” he says. “All right. Send.” He presses the button, then stretches his arms as a confirmation page appears.
I suppose our treasure-hunting business is over, and it’s best if I leave. Before I can announce my intention to head out, he says casually, “You could stay for a while. If you want. We could get takeout and watch a movie.”
I’m about to turn him down for the same reason I’ve turned him down most of the other times he’s tried to get me to hang out outside the scope of our agreement—it’s too dangerous for my heart. But I think that ship has sailed. Whether it was that tender kiss a moment ago that hoisted the anchor or something long before now, all I know is that I’m waving to it from the shore. All I can do is hope the journey is smooth from here. “Sure,” I say. “That would be nice.”
29
Iwake up atseven in the morning, fully dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday and…Where am I? Oh. Right. This is…I’m still at Quentin’s. In his bed. Okay. The last thing I remember is the “Galaxy Song” inMonty Python’s Meaning of Life, then I must’ve fallen asleep. We spent a large chunk of the evening daring each other to eat progressively spicier Thai food and then moaning in pain on the living room floor, so it was pretty late when we finally started watching. And Quentin ate more of the khua kling, so the movie was his pick, and he took forever to choose. I turn over and let out a small squeak of terror, because instead of Quentin’s head on the pillow beside mine, I find the tightly wrinkled forehead and threatening-even-while-sleeping expression of Faustine, curled up in a tight, somehow angry donut. “Uh, good morning,” I say, and give her a tentative pat on the haunch. Between the thin skin and the wrinkles, it feels a bit like touching a disconcertingly warm raw turkey. One eye cracks open, just barely, and stares at me without any other sign of her waking.
“Glad you two have finally met,” Quentin says from the doorway.
