Page 67 of Finders Keepers
Fear? Oh, I don’t believe in that. I used to, of course. Before I visited Edlo and saw how the Edlosians live. I would say they are fearless, but how do you live without a thing that doesn’t exist in the first place? It implies a defiance. Like godlessness. What’s the point of being godless if there’s no god to defy? That’s how they are with fear there, Mr. Aaron.
I see that you’re skeptical. You’re wondering: How can fear not exist when I felt it only a few moments ago? And, oh, you did jump quite high when you entered this room and saw me here in my chair. Hahaha. One of the best reactions I’ve had thus far. Your face! You should have seen it. How I will treasure the memory until the day I die.
What was I saying? Oh, yes. Fear does not exist in Edlo, and I believe that is true here as well. Fear is just love, Mr. Aaron, wrapped up in a bow that isn’t particularly pretty. Kind of like that tie of yours.
30
Ispend the nextThursday with my mother, who finally convinces me to go to lunch with her and her friends. “They haven’t seen you since you were small,” she says.
“And they need proof that I’m bigger now?”
“Don’t be churlish, Nina.”
After an hour and a half of getting questioned by five retired women about my life choices and when I expect I’ll be able to make better ones while a server comes by periodically to refill my Diet Coke and give me a sympathetic look, I’m dragged to the craft store beside the restaurant, where Mom loads up my arms with soft, beautiful skeins of yarn. She’s perusing a wall of buttons when I get a text from Quentin.
Have any plans tomorrow night, cookiepuss?
I roll my eyes at the absurd term of endearment but can’t help but smile anyway, remembering the affection that flashes over his face whenever he says it.
Tomorrow is July Fourth, and we’ve stocked up on various things to barbecue, but my parents aren’t big on celebrations.My mom is suddenly really invested in grilling corn, I respond.But otherwise no. Why?
He quickly sends:It’s a surprise. And I respond:A good one?
It takes much longer for him to reply this time, but eventually I get:Maybe.
He’s going to tell me he’s found a new job, that he’s leaving. That’s where my mind immediately jumps, and it sticks the landing so skillfully that my entire self holds up a card pronouncing it a ten out of ten mental maneuver. And that isnotgood news. No maybe about it.
I can’t quite figure out why it hits me so hard. It isn’t like I expected anything different. I knew Quentin would be leaving at some point. Hell, I probably will be too. I’m still mulling over the idea of taking the special collections job (if the library would even hire me; I definitely would need something more formal than Mrs. MacDonald pronouncing me heir to her archival throne to consider this seriously), but for some reason all of my thoughts about it have centered on the presupposition of Quentin still being around. Of him and me and more mornings like yesterday, with coffee in bed and attempting to pet Faustine without getting weirded out and him making fun of my snoring. Why I assumed that was something we could do, that he would be up for…
I guess I got ahead of myself. Let the concept of decisions based on maximum immediate happiness sweep away the logical part of my brain that always knew this summer was a temporary stopover, not the final destination.
Now there’s that intense nausea again, the creeping hint of dread that tells me not to get too comfortable because something bad is coming.
Maybe it’s because my only experience with Quentin is here. Historically, him leaving has not been conducive to our continued friendship. And this isn’t just friendship anymore. It’s…it’s…I don’t really know what to call it, how to label it, but it’s something I’m not quite ready to give up exploring.
Best-case scenario: His surprise is that he did get a job offer, but it also happens to be in Boston, where he’s happy to share his new apartment with me so I can work on reestablishing my career there, where I have the most connections. Worst-case: He’s moving somewhere very far away, somewhere that would be difficult to visit even if we wanted to see if there was something more between us. Somewhere back in Europe, probably. There’s pretty much no job for which I’m qualified that will pay enough for me to afford frequent transatlantic flights. Most likely: He got a job in, like, New York City, and we can try to figure it out. They do have those train ticket packages for frequent travelers and—
“Nina?”
“Hm?”
My mom stares at me, then down at my arms where I am holding several skeins of yarn like they are my babies, then at the checkout counter where a woman is waiting patiently for me to complete this transaction by providing the goods we would like to purchase.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say. “Deep in thought about…crafts.”
Quentin texts me around eight the next night, asking if I’m ready to go. I almost chicken out and tell him I’m not feeling well. Which, between the ever-present nausea of my current anxiety spike and all of the berry icebox cake I ate, isn’t a complete lie, but is most likely to result in him coming over here totry to take care of me. And the last thing I need is him breaking the news of his imminent departure while rubbing my back and handing me some ginger ale to wash down my Pepto-Bismol. That would be so much worse, to have him actively caring for me while telling me he doesn’t careenough. So I tell him I’ll meet him out front and head down to the porch.
He’s already standing on the sidewalk beside the Audi. “Hop in,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
I figure it out as soon as he turns right onto Carmichael Chapel Road. We’re going to Sprangbur. Which closes, officially, at sundown.
“Ugh,” I whine. “If I wind up spending the night in a jail cell, my parents are going to—”
“I promise that will not happen.”
