Page 9 of Finders Keepers
“What are you thinking?” Quentin asks softly.
I glance up at him. “I don’t even know…”
“Don’t even know what?”
If I believe it’s actually there. If I could do this again, knowing how much pain it wound up causing me. Whyyouwant to when yousaid yourself it was all a mistake.But before I can choose how to respond, Mom comes in with a precariously tall tower of pancakes, a flour sack towel draped over the plate so it looks like she’s carrying a small, slightly inebriated ghost. “Breakfast is served!” she announces with a flourish.
Quentin takes the map from the table before Mom can set the plate atop it and refolds the paper along its deep-set creases. He doesn’t look at me as he tucks it back into his pocket.
“Oh, Nina, you don’t have anything to drink.” My mother is already turned back toward the kitchen, pancakes still in hand. “Remind me how you take your coffee?”
“No, no, Mom. Sit. Eat. I’ve got it,” I say, putting my hands on her shoulders to physically guide her toward the table as I scoot past and out of the dining room, finally escaping but much too late to do me any good.
•••
I wouldn’t havebelieved it possible to be this tense while eating pancakes, but I’m certainly managing. Each bite has to practically fight its way through my clenched teeth to make it into my mouth, and I can feel my jaw working against my shoulders, which have been up by my ears since I returned to the table.
The unfairness is what’s getting to me. It’s not like I was naive enough to expect everything in my life to go swimmingly forever, but I also didn’t expect to almost drown so close to what I’ve always considered my destination. And then Ireallydidn’t expect to climb into a lifeboat only to have to share it with Quentin Fucking Bell and a goddamn makeshift treasure map.
Quentin Fucking Bell and a goddamn makeshift treasure map and that stupidsmilethat he’s flashing at me from acrossthe table even as he chews. He doesn’t look tense at all. He looks…loose. Relaxed. Annoyingly okay, considering his own recent string of misfortunes. What is his secret? Maybe it’s time. Maybe his wounds aren’t as fresh.
“So how long have you been back in town, Quentin?” I ask conversationally.
He’s in the middle of a sip of his coffee, but at the tail end he says, “Not too long. About a week and a half.”
Further confirmation that my mother is a traitor. Didn’t know he was here, my ass. The wall between our houses isn’t thin enough to hear conversations word for word (unless someone’s screaming at the top of their lungs, the way the Bells often did before they separated). But they’re certainly thin enough to know if someone’s in residence next door. The one fact about my mother that no one on earth would dispute—not even Patricia Hunnicutt herself—is that she is nosey as heck. No way she wouldn’t have figured out that 304 West Dill was once again occupied, and by exactly whom, within three hours of the first stair tread squeak.
“That’sveryinteresting,” I say more to her than to him. Mom looks away guiltily, her eyes drifting from her plate to her mug, then finally settling on the painting of what I think is supposed to be a still life of fruit hanging on the wall across from her. I don’t remember it being there before, and quality-wise I’m going to assume it’s yet another product of her recent arts and crafts spree.
Quentin takes a big bite of pancakes and watches me watching my mom, his eyebrows—slightly lighter than his hair—elevated in interest.
The door beneath the staircase swings open, and my dad surfaces from his basement workshop. Even when I was a kid, hespent a good bit of time down there. But since repairing stuff and tinkering around became his sole focus after the settlement from his accident at the quarry finally came through and allowed both my parents to retire, it feels like kind of a big deal whenever he graces us with his presence. Like actually spotting a whale on one of those whale watching tours—you hope it might happen, and there’s a greater-than-zero chance, but everyone makes it clear ahead of time that nothing’s guaranteed.
“Morning,” he says gruffly to the room at large, then: “Quentin, come on down when you’re done. I’ll show you that record player we were talking about yesterday.”
Oh my god. Et tu, Father?
Sobothof my parents have beencavortingwith Quentin for the past week and a half and for some reason kept it a secret from me? Great. Wonderful. Why not add a little extra annoying cherry to top off this nightmare sundae.
My fork clatters onto my plate, and everyone’s attention turns in my direction. “Excuse me,” I say, politely dabbing at the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “I think I need some air.”
My mother’s failed attempt at a whispered explanation for my behavior follows me through the living room as I head for the front door. “She’s had some setbacks lately. Poor baby.”
Outside, I grab the porch railing and bend forward, forcing myself to take a deep, steadying breath. The midmorning air is heavily scented with sweet honeysuckle courtesy of the gigantic bush that grows against the side of the house. It clears the now-cloying smells of maple syrup and coffee from my nose, and a tiny bit of the tension I’ve accumulated slips from my muscles. When I glance up, I notice Mr. Farina once again sitting on his steps across the street, dressed in the same too-short shorts from yesterday and an Ocean City tank top with oversize armholes.He spots me over his newspaper and holds up his smoothie in my direction, a sort of frozen fruit–based salute.
“Think those legs of his go all the way up?”
Startled, I turn too quickly and my elbow makes hard, pointy contact with Quentin’s stomach. He lets out anoofas the wind is knocked from him, then places a hand over the spot. “Jesus, Nina. I admit it was a pretty bad joke, but I’m not surethatwas necessary.”
“Sorry,” I mumble. “It was an accident. You snuck up on me.” I turn back around so he won’t see the small smile on my face, which would probably not do much to bolster my apology.
“I’ll make sure to approach loudly next time.” After he’s recovered, he moves to stand beside me at the railing. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”
My resulting scoff is weirdly screechy. “What’s wrong? What’swrong?”
“Other than the obvious, I mean.”
“Isn’t the obvious enough?” I ask, incredulous.
