Page 40 of Finders Keepers
“So you guys were supervillains set on taking over the world, then?”
I roll my eyes, somehow certain Quentin knows I’m doing it despite being unable to see me. “Shut up,” I say.
His softest, kindest laugh drifts through my open window. It brings with it a corresponding memory:when my popsicle slid off its stick and onto the sidewalk, so he went back into the corner store and bought me another.
“You told me it was his idea that you finish the PhD?” Quentin’s voice pulls me out of the too-sweet recollection.
“I mean, I wanted to do it too. I’d left Catoctin eager to do something big, something impressive with my life. But I only had the vaguest idea of what that could look like before he came along. He talked about becoming an academic like it was his birthright. And then he started talking about it like it was ours. He seemed socertainwe both could do it, and it made it easy to buy into what he was saying. To let him push me to do better. To think bigger. Whenever I’d start to settle in, get too comfortable, he would go and do something impressive and remindme what we were working toward. He’d apply for the same jobs and fellowships and grants, even if he didn’t really want them, to motivate me to work harder. To keep me on my toes.” I pause, making a connection I was never brave enough to make before. “It was kind of like the way you and I used to be.”
“No.”
“What?”
“We weren’t like that at all,” he says, and there’s an obvious impatience to it, almost verging on anger.
“How do you figure? You were constantly goading me into stupid little competitions. We were always competing against each other.”
“I competedwithyou, Nina. Never against you. It’s an important distinction.” His voice sounds sharp, and there’s something balancing on the knife-edge of it. “This jerk stood in your way and called it making you stronger. That’s not what support looks like. That’s not what love looks like. He wasn’t there for you the way he should have been.”
“And you were?” I ask, not bothering to hide my bitterness. How dare he judge my (admittedly shitty) dynamic with Cole when he single-handedly decided to end ours? Our clean slate is all very well and good for treasure hunting, but it seems like the stray lines leftover are more noticeable when we talk like this. When we act like friends again. “I’m trying to let it go, Quentin. I am. And I know it’s partly my own fault—”
“It isn’t. It’s not your fault.” I don’t know if he’s talking about what happened between us or between me and Cole, and I’m not sure what I’m talking about anymore either.
I’m tired of this conversation, and tired in general. Tired of sleeping in a twin-size bed with an ugly comforter. Tired of being surrounded by memories everywhere I look. Tired of notbeing able to trust the past or see a clear path toward a future. “I told my mom that you and I are going to Hanako’s bar for that fundraiser next Saturday to get out of drawing naked people with her,” I say wearily.
There’s a moment of hesitation before he asks, “Is that something we’re actually doing? Or are you just informing me of the lie in hopes I’ll keep a low profile?”
I sigh. “I prefer not to lie to my mom, but it’s your choice.”
He takes a moment—whether genuinely thinking it over or trying to add some suspense, I’m not sure. “I’ll text Hanako to let her know we’re coming. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see us.”
I wonder if what he means is that he’ll be happy to see her. The image of her throwing herself into his arms at the café reminds me that the two of them have some sort of history. My throat feels unaccountably scratchy as I speak. “Great.”
“Great,” he repeats.
“Well. Good night,” I say, and reach for the window.
“Neen, wait,” he says before it’s fully closed.
I pause, listening through the remaining crack. “What?”
He’s silent long enough that I’m not certain he’s going to actually say anything. At last he says, “Do you remember when we were seven, we were playing outside and lost my baseball in the Jankowskis’ yard?”
If it’s the same time I’m thinking of (because when were wenotlosing things in the Jankowskis’ yard?), we decided it would be fun to toss around a big rock instead. And it was fun. For about five minutes. That’s when I threw it a little wild and Quentin came at it too low and got hit right dead center in the eye. He had to go to the emergency room to make sure he didn’t scratch his cornea or break any of his facial bones. One of the few times our parents talked about punishing us formally,though they ultimately decided that Quentin’s gnarly black eye and my guilt were effective enough lessons on their own.
“Sometimes,” he says, voice soft, “not intending to hurt each other isn’t enough to keep it from happening anyway.”
Oh.
I don’t know what to say, especially because there are so many ways he could mean that. So I lower my window the remaining inch without saying anything at all.
FORM C—5
Text of Interview (Unedited)
V
I can tell you’re curious, so I shall spare you from asking.
