Page 78 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“This can’t be the right place,” I tell him.

“Can you just relax?” he says. “The GPS says we’re here.”

“Room’s upstairs,” the bartender finally says. “But I’m double booked. Triple booked, actually, if you count the pair of German tourists sitting in the corner. There’s a pullout bed, though. They probably wouldn’t mind if you wanna crash.”

I give Quentin a look that tells him I will cut him if he agrees to this. The backseat of my car is sounding better and better.

“I don’t know that we’re feeling that adventurous,” he offers. “You don’t have anything else?”

“No, man. Sorry.”

“Nothing? You’re sure?” I interject. “A cot in the back room or…?”

“Ya know,” he says, softening with sympathy. “I feel bad about this. I really do. Let me pour you and your lady a drink – on the house – and make a few calls.”

From my creaky barstool, I scoff, and I’m about to announce that I am not his lady, when Quentin flashes one of his winning smiles.

“That’d be perfect, thanks.”

A few moments later he ushers me away from the bar and parks me at a high top table on the weathered patio that overlooks a narrow, sandy beach and the docks of an old marina. The humid evening breeze comes in short sighs, like an old dog’s breath, and I sweep my hair off the back of my neck in annoyance.

Quentin slides a sticky menu in front of me as if this will somehow make the situation better. I scan the list of items and try to ignore the infinite loop of Incubus playing on the speakers. I wonder which of these items is least likely to give us food poisoning. I rule out the oysters, the crab cakes, and the calamari before letting the laminated sheet fall to the scarred tabletop and dragging my gaze out across the boats bobbing along the decks at the marina.

We already checked before we landed here, and there’s officially no sign of the Virginia Marie. It set sail at some point early this morning and has no expected time of return. Maybe it’s for the best that we don’t have anywhere to stay. I’m determined enough to camp out at this table until Teddy returns. With my outdated contact lenses, I can still see well enough to inspect the boats that are coming in. Or at least, well enough to know that none of them say Virginia Marie. It’s more the length and shape of the words than anything. I’m squinting at one that might be called You Shall Not Bass when Quentin slides onto the stool across from me.

I stare at the items he’s placed between us: two plastic cups, rimmed with salt and garnished with lime, and a red basket full of something that resembles egg rolls.

“What’s this?”

“It’s on the house.”

“That… doesn’t answer my question,” I retort.

“Eat,” he says. “Drink.”

“Do we have a place to stay yet?”

“One thing at a time, PBG.”

Against my better judgment, I snag a fried morsel from the basket and take a swig of my beverage. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.

***

Three hours into said long night, my phone vibrates on the table. Against my better judgment, I answer it.

“Wait,” Meg says. “Are you on vacation??”

“It’s a work thing,” I say, plugging one ear to hear myself over the sound of the Jimmy Buffet cover band.

“It doesn’t sound like a work thing,” she offers. “Is Quentin there?”

“What does that matter?”

She giggles. “Oh my god he’s totally there. You’re on vacation. With Quentin.”

“Do not turn this into one of your harlequin romances,” I say. “We’re just… colleagues. Trying to save this case. The location is happenstance.”

“Happenstance that landed you at the beach. With a hot guy who is totally into you,” she says. “I’m so proud of you, Heidi!”

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