Page 28 of Finders Keepers

Quentin, of course, does not come to the door wearing nothing but a fig leaf.

But he does open it wearing gray sweatpants, which might as well be the same damn thing as far as my libido is concerned.

He also has on a black Franz Ferdinand T-shirt, and I mentally cling to it like the ivy climbing up the side of Sprangbur’s westernmost turret.

“Of course,” he says. He aims a rueful smile toward the floor. “You know, when I heard that album, one of my favorite bands melded with one of yours…I actually started drafting an email to talk to you about it. It felt like a sign to reach out.”

“You never sent it.” It comes out quiet, almost inaudible.

“No,” he confirms. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?” I ask before I can remind myself that’s a path littered with shards of broken glass.

Quentin raises his chin slightly and glances past me, giving it more consideration than I expected. “I was worried that it had already been too long. That the door I closed would be locked. I thought it might…hurt…if I tried to pry it open again.”

This feels different from the other night. The past doesn’t feel as sharp-edged and dangerous to talk about right now, looking into his exhausted eyes. It mostly feels…sad. “Maybe,” I admit. “But I wish you’d done it anyway.”

He runs his fingers through his damp hair.

I step into his space, into a cloud of his just-washed scent. “Even if it hurt a little, something would have been better than nothing.”

He inclines his head to look into my eyes.

“You say that now, but…” Quentin lets out a sigh, followed by a tired chuckle as he runs his hand over his face.

I notice he hasn’t shaved recently, leaving a ruddy shadow coating his jaw.

My fingers tingle with the desire to touch it, to see how it feels against my skin.

“God. It’s been a long couple of days,” he says, instead of finishing his thought.

“Yeah,” I agree, even though I’m not the one who had to see my ex again and bring a naked-ass cat on an international flight. Speaking of…

I glance around the living room for the first time, Quentin’s stupid sweatpants having distracted me when I first arrived.

Faustine is nowhere in sight—probably hiding upstairs, busy plotting the destruction of all human life.

There’s also no furniture. Just four freshly painted light gray walls, a stepladder, and a drop cloth.

It’s sparse, temporary. Easy to leave, to move on from.

Probably how I should think of our current relationship if I don’t want to wind up bruised again.

“Anyway, you have something for me?” I ask.

“Right.” Quentin holds up a finger. “One second,” he says, hurrying upstairs.

“I hope you don’t plan to give me Faustine!” I call out.

A faint laugh drifts down from the second floor.

He returns quickly, something clenched in his fist. “Definitely not. But it is something else I grabbed from Charlene while I was back in Paris, since she hadn’t gotten around to mailing it yet.” His fingers unfurl, revealing a beautiful diamond engagement ring.

“Oh, wow. That’s…Quentin, it’s gorgeous.”

“Glad you think so.”

“Why on earth are you giving it to me ?”

He presses his lips together and raises his eyebrows sardonically. “I figured you could borrow it for the venue tour of Sprangbur tomorrow. For authenticity.”

“Oh. Um, sure, but…That isn’t going to be…weird for you, is it?” I ask.

“Not weird for me. Is it weird for you?”

I take the ring from his hand and turn it, letting the overhead light fixture pick out the sparkle.

“Everything is already weird for me at the moment. What’s one more drop in the ocean, right?

” It slides onto my finger with ease; very convenient for our shenanigans that Quentin’s ex-fiancée and I have the same ring size.

“Nice of…Charlene, was it?…to return it,” I say instead.

“She didn’t seem to feel too strongly about it one way or the other.

Kind of like how she felt about me, I guess.

” He doesn’t laugh at his joke, and I realize it might not be one.

Quentin walks back over to the stairs and takes a seat on the third one up.

“Those long-ass, back-to-back flights gave me a lot of time to think,” he says.

“Yeah?” I join him, sitting on the bottom step. I have the weirdest, thankfully fleeting, urge to wrap my arms around his outstretched leg and rest my head on his thigh.

“I thought it would be painful seeing Charlene again. But the only thing I felt was…stupid.” He grips the edge of the stair tread as he talks, his fingers growing whiter as he squeezes harder.

“I knew, Nina. I knew practically from the beginning that she didn’t truly give a fuck.

That she was with me mainly because her father approved of the match, and that meant enough to override the general ambivalence she felt for me personally.

I knew all of that, and yet I stuck around.

Made sure we checked off the milestones her parents expected of us, stayed on schedule with the life they wanted us to build.

” I swallow, feeling Quentin’s words deep inside my heart.

Both of us were stuck in relationships that were better on paper.

I can’t help but be glad fate crumpled them up and threw them in the trash.

“But she wasn’t happy,” he continues, “and neither was I, and instead of doing something about it, doing anything about it, I started finding excuses to work longer hours, to give her more space. And now I’m not sure if I hoped it would make her realize she missed me, or if I was trying to give her an excuse to finally put me out of my goddamn misery. ”

“I’m so sorry, Quentin,” I say, tucking my hands beneath my thighs so I won’t lay one on his.

He shakes his head. “I wish it hadn’t had such a domino effect on every other aspect of my life, but it’s actually better this way.

I’m…I’m grateful. To get to start fresh.

To have a redo at some things.” Quentin pauses for a long moment, staring at the ring on my hand.

“What about you?” he asks eventually. “How are you feeling about things since we last talked?”

The question startles me. “Oh, about my things?”

“Unless you have feelings on mine?”

I do, actually. A surprising number of them.

Most prominently, I’m baffled by the concept of anyone feeling ambivalent about Quentin Bell.

I don’t know how you know this person and not have a strong sense of some specific feeling toward him.

I know I always do at any given time—even though it’s often annoyance or frustration.

Not always, though.

“Well,” I say slowly. “I also wish everything hadn’t gone to shit all at once.

But I actually had a similar realization today, about my relationship with Cole.

I think we both felt it was a decent partnership—when we first got together at least—but that he considered the romance aspect sort of… optional.”

“But you don’t,” Quentin says. His eyes sweep over my face, as if really seeing me for the first time since I walked through the door. He must be exhausted.

“I don’t need candlelit dinners and rose petals on the bed, no.

But I do want to be… wanted , I guess.” Ambitious Nina was fine with putting romance second (or third, or sometimes eighth), prioritizing the hustle with the understanding that affection and togetherness were something to enjoy at a later date, when the work was done.

In academia, the work is never really done, though, and I simply went without for so long I stopped noticing.

But now, with Quentin sitting so close that I can count his faded freckles, I’m noticing again.

Noticing quite intensely. “I don’t mean wanted sexually, although ideally that would also be the case.

I mostly just want someone who genuinely enjoys being with me.

Someone who wants to spend time together.

Who feels like I’m equally worthy of their attention and love, whether I’m a massive success or a huge failure or doing just fine.

” I think back to the first time I visited Cole after he moved to Alabama for his first tenure-track job.

How I spent most of the trip alone in his house because he said he didn’t want to introduce me to anyone there “until I had some good news to share.” God.

I completely understand what Quentin means about feeling stupid.

I look down at the glinting ring again and let out an overwhelmed chuckle.

“It’s such a relief Cole and I hadn’t gotten this far yet.

Breakup logistics are already annoying enough with the new place we were leasing together.

Can’t imagine how much of a pain it is to move out of a shared space and also cancel a whole wedding. ”

“I do not recommend,” Quentin says with a tight smile. “Very expensive and not super fun.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then softly, I say, “You are worth a lot more than it sounds like she would have given you. And maybe it makes me a jerk, but I can’t help but be glad that you’ve wound up here instead of there.

” I have apparently lost control over my words and also my hands, because one is now resting on his knee.

At least I am touching a relatively innocuous part of him instead of doing something egregious, like licking his jaw.

His sleep-heavy eyes go wide for a second before his expression turns warm and his hand comes to rest over mine.

Our fingers weave together, and the sudden rush of electricity through my system sets off a mental siren.

The feelings coursing through me hold an echo of familiarity.

They’re the grown-up version of the ones that once led me to believe that I loved Quentin Bell.

And I definitely do not have any business going back there, to that long-ago, foolish version of myself.

“So!” I say with a nervous smile as I yank away. “Thanks for the…” I hold up my hand—the right one at first, the one that was touching him, and have to quickly switch it for my left, where the ring sits on my finger like it belongs there. “Definitely a nice touch.”

“Yeah. Sure. No problem.” Quentin nods, and it might be my imagination, but he seems slightly muddled too. He follows me to the front door. “It is worth, like, several thousand dollars, though, so please take care of it.”

“Thank god you said something, since I was planning to be extremely careless,” I retort.

The corner of his mouth kicks up. He takes my left hand and rubs his thumb over the diamond on my finger, twisting it back and forth for a moment, his mouth in a straight, pensive line.

I’m expecting him to be serious again, but he says, “If for some reason they ask…I was thinking we’d combine our names into a new one. We could be the Bellicutts.”

“I think I prefer the Hunnibells. Less violent sounding.”

“Mr. and Dr. Hunnibell,” he says. “That’s delightful.”

“Did you want to come up with more of a backstory? Make sure we’re on the same page about any other questions they might have?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says. “Too tired. Let’s just wing it.”