Page 32 of Something like Redemption

“And…I…” I falter because I don’t really know what to say.

“You got someplace better to be?”

“No.”

“C’mon then.” He stands, extending his hand down to me.

Looking at his hand, I shake my head. “Quinn, this is crazy.”

I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to distract me from falling apart.

He waves his hand, coaxing me to take it. “Red, nothing about thisisn’tcrazy. So what’s a little extra crazy gonna do?”

“But Hank,” I say solemnly as I finally accept his hand.

“Hank would want you to stop frowning and be happy,” he says, pulling me up and wrapping his arms tightly around me.

And it’s exactly what I need to feel and hear.

It should take us roughly seven hours to get to New Orleans, but with Quinn’s driving, it takes five and a half.

Quinn and I have been deep in thought the whole car ride, occasionally speaking or humming along to a tune on the radio.But overall, what’s happening back home hits us both, and we’re happy to travel in silence.

It’s about three o’clock, and Quinn’s stomach rumbles while I’m gaping at the terrain of New Orleans. I’ve heard stories about the beauty of this place, but actually seeing it before my eyes is like nothing I ever imagined.

As Quinn’s stomach gripes yet again, I tear my eyes from the magnificence before me and chuckle.

“You can’t possibly be hungry again?”

“I’m a growing boy,” he replies, returning my smile. “There is no sincerer love than the love of food. My mom always used to say that to Tristan and me when we were kids. I never really got it till I had my first bite of her infamous chocolate marble sheet cake.”

I see him flinch at the slip of his mom, something he has never done before. He doesn’t speak about his mom or dad, or his past, and I don’t push because I know how it feels to want to forget your history.

“Your mom sounds like a smart woman,” I say cautiously, hopeful not to upset him.

He only nods uncomfortably and pulls into a desolate gas station, which I’m pretty sure closed down in 1984.

“Um…” I say, looking at the building, which has half a roof. “Just a hunch, but I don’t think you’ll find any food in there…or anything at all for that matter.”

Quinn smirks, killing the engine, and reaches over his head, slipping his sweater off.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him curiously as he begins wiping down the steering wheel and dash.

“It’s time that we part ways with this eyesore. It was fun while it lasted, but I want something bigger and badder.”

“And less offensive,” I add, slipping off my sweater and mimicking Quinn. I meticulously wipe down the truck from top to bottom.

By the time we’re done, the cab is wiped clean of our fingerprints.Searching under the seats to ensure we haven’t left anything behind, I give Quinn a nod when I’ve checked the truck thoroughly.

“Where to now?” I ask, looping Lucky’s lead through my hand.

“Somewhere where there is food,” he replies as his stomach rumbles loudly in agreement.

“Lead the way,” I say with a smile, following him as we begin our trek down the highway.

Quinn shoulders both our bags and smirks. “Follow me.”

The worst thing about new shoes is blisters. And judging by the pain I’m feeling in my feet, it’s safe to say I have a few—a few dozen.

---