Page 26 of Finders Keepers

I must have actually fallen asleep, because my room is darker when I open my eyes again.

There’s also that gross post-nap whole-body grogginess that makes me feel coated internally with a wispy layer of cobwebs.

As I attempt to move around enough to clear some of it away, the scent of Swedish meatballs and mashed potatoes finds my nose and sends my stomach growling.

A little after eight o’clock, my phone says.

I missed dinner. Knowing my mom, she came up to find out why I wasn’t responding to her shouts that it was ready, saw me asleep, and decided not to wake me (though I wish she would have, since I’m going to be up all night now).

She’ll have a plate saved for me in the fridge, covered with a shower cap she swiped from a hotel five years ago, the way she does for my dad whenever he can’t be pulled away from whatever he’s working on. I’ll head downstairs in a second and—

The quiet yet unmistakable slide of Quentin’s window opening makes me freeze mid-stretch and mid-thought.

I could ignore it. Could simply get up and leave this room, refusing to engage any further today.

Yet the same part of me that was pissed off at Cole a few hours ago now feels…

hollow. Noticeably numb. It’s a sensation too reminiscent of a bout of depression for my liking.

The thing about Quentin Bell, though, is that, for better or worse, he’s never once failed to make me feel something .

So I move to the floor and lift my own window’s sash, wincing in anticipation of the screeching before it even happens.

“Bonjour, Nina,” he says, almost as if he was waiting for me.

“Hello, Moon.” I sigh heavily.

“What iz zee matter?”

“Nothing. Just…Men are the worst.”

There’s a slight pause before the answer comes. “Aw haw, oui, indeed zey are.”

“Oh. A little surprised to hear you agree. Figured you’d side with them, because, you know, the man in the moon.”

“Aw, haw, gender is a, how do you say, social construct. And I am zee Moon, which belongs to no one society.”

“That’s a good point.”

“Regardless, zee men…zey often disappoint. Tell me, what have zey done zis time to…” Quentin seems to struggle here to keep up the horrible accent as he settles on, “irk you?”

How do I even explain it in a way that doesn’t make me sound whiny?

Poor me, my ex wasn’t friendly when he requested I do a necessary administrative task.

But that’s not really the issue, is it? It’s that once I send Cole that form, everything becomes officially over between us.

Even if I can see now that we weren’t good together, even if I have no desire to reconcile and try again, there’s something painful in the finality of it all.

Something that Cole’s message doesn’t give its proper due.

“My ex-boyfriend and I were together for six years,” I say at last. “But now that things are over, I wonder if we really were ever together at all, or if I just assumed things and he didn’t care enough to correct my assumptions. ”

Quentin’s voice is soft, accent fully dropped as he responds, “I know the feeling.” There’s a brief pause, then: “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

He is here, and god, I still can’t quite get over that.

The way I still want to confide in him, despite everything.

The way I do want to talk about it, because talking to him about my worries was once as natural as breathing and some residue of that old easiness has managed to linger over the years, even though it would be simpler if it hadn’t.

It’s sort of like a stubborn price sticker on the glass part of a picture frame.

“I thought…I mean, I don’t know, I guess I thought that he cared about me? That we were in love.”

“Reasonable assumption after six years,” Quentin says.

“Except now that it’s over, it’s like I’m finally waking up and seeing things for how they truly were.

Which was…very one-sided. Which makes me wonder about all of the other times I’ve misjudged or misunderstood situations and relationships in my life.

” I let out a small huff of sad laughter, thinking about mine and Quentin’s.

“How do I trust my memories when six whole years might not have been what I thought they were? How do I trust myself?”

I wait for him to answer. He doesn’t, but I know he’s still there, listening.

So I continue, not wanting to linger on the question any longer.

“You know, when Cole and I started dating, he said what he liked about me most was my ambition. He said it equaled his, and that together, pushing each other to be our best selves, we could be unstoppable.”

“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 so certain we 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 remind me 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 competed with you, 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 not being 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 we not losing 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.