Page 97 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

He grins at me. “What? I meant it.”

***

We make our way to the marina, and though I can’t see well enough to make out any of the boat names, I can hear Quentin cough out a chuckle beside me.

“I’ll be damned,” he muses. “Our wayward sailor has returned to port.”

As relieved as I am to hear this, I’m clutching Quentin for dear life as we step onto the boat. I can feel the current gently rocking beneath our feet.

“Of all the fishing boats…” Teddy says. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Quentin replies. “Listen, man, I’m sorry.”

“Teddy, we need to talk,” I begin.

At the same time, he announces, “I’ve done some thinking.”

We all go quiet. Teddy’s blurry figure shifts in front of me, holding what I’m fairly sure is Farkas, wearing a little red life vest. I squint as if this will help bring anything into focus.

“You first,” he says.

I can’t tell exactly who he’s pointing to, but Quentin sighs.

“It was a stupid tactic, Teddy,” he offers. “Gigi said a lot of things that made me question if I wanted to work with you on this case. I’ve known men who threaten and belittle their partners, and I know they’re more likely to talk if they think you’re one of them. I’m sorry. I’m not one of them, and I don’t think you are either.”

“Is this true?” Teddy asks. I assume, this time, that his attention is directed at me.

“Yes. All of it,” I say. “Tell us straight up, Teddy. What happened between you and Gigi?”

I hear him swell with a breath. I hear him let out a long, slow sigh. He invites us to sit down. He offers us whiskey. Then, with the sun warming our faces, he says, “How long have you got?”

***

Quentin is behind the wheel of my car as we cross the state line into Alabama. My self-preservation instincts won out, and I allowed him to drive. After some debate, I even let him adjust the seat so that his long arms and legs weren’t scrunched up around the steering wheel. I retained control of the stereo, at least, so there’s that. We’ve been listening to a new episode of my favorite true crime podcast for the past hour. Actually, we’ve been halfway listening to it, halfway arguing about if this is the reason for my latent paranoia. Eventually the episode ends, and I switch over to the latest Steve Aoiki pop remix I’m obsessed with. Quentin does not yet have any idea how many times I’m likely to replay this before we make it home. I do him a favor and turn this one to a conversational volume.

“So,” I say. “About what you told me the other night.” We stay steady in our lane, but I can sense the way his knuckles tighten on the wheel, can hear the uncertain pause in his breath. “I may know someone who can help your, um… Help Melissa.”

He processes this for a long beat. “Yeah?”

“There’s a licensed family counselor I used to refer clients to – until the board basically gave me a cease and desist for driving away potential business. She’s good. The best, in my opinion. She doesn’t sugarcoat things, but she’s compassionate. She’ll be able to lay out all the options. Sometimes that’s all people need. Options. Opportunity.”

“That sounds great. But… unless she’s giving out services for free, I’m not sure how much it will help,” he says. “Financial freedom was one of the first things to go, but Melissa’s weird about taking money from anyone. I guess I get it. Money from a Maxwell usually has strings.”

I note the loaded quality of his tone.

“My friend’s well-connected. Even if she can’t help, she’ll know someone who can.”

He nods. “Are you sure you want to get involved in this? If the wrong person finds out…”

“No one is going to find out,” I say.

My words hang between us, gently shapeshifting in meaning. Nobody is going to find out about Melissa. And maybe, nobody is going to find out about us. We’ve proven we can trust each other. We can keep each other’s secrets. As we close the distance between us and home, I’m laced with newfound certainty.

“Thank you, sensei.”

I incline my head to him graciously. “Cowabunga, dude.”

When the song ends, I hit repeat. He doesn’t protest. It’s a few more minutes before he says, “So. About last night.”

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