Page 37 of Finders Keepers

I’m surprised to find my head doesn’t split right in half when the alarm I accidentally set goes off at nine-thirty Sunday morning. That’s what having three drinks will do to you in your thirties, I guess. I wonder if Quentin is equally miserable.

Quentin.

Oh shit. Last night.

I cannot believe Quentin and I…What exactly do you even call what we did? The most technical description, I guess, would be that we mutually masturbated from a distance. At a distance?

No English class ever prepared me for this particular grammatical conundrum.

After I get dressed and ready for the day and brush the furry feeling from my tongue—which goes a long way toward making me feel more human—I climb back into bed and message Sabrina: Quentin and I hooked up last night.

Then I add, Sort of. The exact circumstances are a bit unconventional.

Her response comes a few minutes later: ????

My phone buzzes in my palm before I can reply, an incoming video call on the screen. I answer and Sabrina’s flushed, cherubic face appears. She’s walking on the treadmill at her university’s gym.

“Hey, I figured this would be—”

“First we were mouth-blocked by Smash Mouth and then I was standing naked in front of the window because I was drunk and it felt nice! And then he—”

“Wow. Hold please.” She pops in her earbuds. “Now that your strange sexcapades will not be broadcast to the entire Queen’s University gym, you can proceed.”

I flop down on my bed. “You’re the one who called me! You should’ve been prepared.”

“How was I supposed to know you were going to launch right into ‘we were mouth-blocked by Smash Mouth and then I was standing naked in front of the window’?” she counters, her voice lowering to a whisper as she quotes me.

“And what does that all even mean , Nina? Take a very deep breath and start over.”

In through my nose. One-two-three-four. Out through my mouth. One-two-three-four-five-six. The breath exercise is like a partial system reboot, the energy coursing through me much less frantic. “Okay. So.”

I fill her in on everything that happened yesterday between Quentin and me.

The slow dance to S Club 7—“Oh man, I freaking loved their show,” Sabrina interrupts, then sings the chorus of the S Club 7 in Miami theme until I ask her if we can get back to my story, please—and the hand-holding on our walk home.

The kissing on the porch. How, at first, I thought things wouldn’t progress any further, but then…

“Oh. Wow. That’s…hot? Weird? I’m not actually sure.

” Sabrina pushes a button and the treadmill slows until it comes to a stop.

“David Bowie would approve, at least.” She raises her eyebrows as she glances over my shoulder at the poster on the wall.

“What did Quentin say after? What did you say?” she asks.

“Neither of us said anything.”

“You just stared at each other? Creepy.”

“No, we didn’t stare. Not for more than a second or two anyway. I didn’t really know what to say or do, though, so I waved, and then I closed the window and went to shower.”

“You waved ?”

I groan as I cover as much of my face as I can with one hand. “I panicked, okay?”

“And he hasn’t texted you or anything?”

I check my phone again to be certain I didn’t miss it in a half-asleep state at some point overnight, but my last message from him is the picture of Faustine. “Nope.”

She grimaces.

“That look is not helpful,” I admonish.

“It’s all I’ve got,” she says with a regretful shrug. “This is an unusual situation. One I am grateful I am not in myself.”

“Thanks. Very reassuring as always.”

She sighs. “I guess the way to proceed,” she says slowly, “is to ask yourself: What do I want to happen next?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know,” she counters. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Okay, fine. I want to have sex with him. Badly. But it’s a horrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a lot of history between us, and this whole treasure hunt, and someone from high school he might still like, and…it’s just complicated.”

“There’s no way to have a chat, try to uncomplicate some of it?”

“I mean, probably.” That was basically my plan last night, wasn’t it? Before the whole window situation escalated.

“So do that,” she urges. “Remember, the world is your oyster. You’re unconstrained. You can be anyone you want.”

“Sexy Nina,” I whisper.

Sabrina nods. “Exactly! Sexy Nina. And if Sexy Nina wants her hot neighbor to pound her into the mattress—”

“All right, I’m done. Goodbye.” I hover my finger over the button to end the call.

Sabrina laughs. “Wait. Don’t hang up! I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” I say, unable to keep the fondness from my voice.

“I’m not,” she agrees as she sits on the edge of a weight bench, a towel flung around her shoulders. “I just want you to be happy, Neen. Would hot animal sex with Quentin make you happy?”

“I don’t think you should be allowed to use words anymore.

” Nomenclature aside, I’m sure sleeping with Quentin would indeed make me happy, in the immediate moment.

But I’m not convinced being together that way wouldn’t unlatch my emotional storage cupboard, sending all sorts of other feelings tumbling out too.

Mushy feelings, and angry, wounded feelings.

Lots of things to trip and fall on when I eventually go to make my escape.

“I’m worried I’ll get hurt again,” I say quietly.

Sabrina gives me a look that’s tinged with both affection and pity. “I know, love. But when was the last time you wanted something, anything , this badly?”

I’m about to cite the long-term contract at Malbyrne, or some fellowship or award or whatever.

Except it hits me that this isn’t the same feeling at all.

Those were things I wanted because I was supposed to want them.

Because they were the next rung on the ladder I was climbing, driven by some mixture of my own and Cole’s expectations for me (it’s hard to tell where one stopped and the other began, looking back).

I want Quentin infinitely more than I ever wanted those things, and for literally no good reason except that I do.

He won’t help me get ahead in anything. In fact, having sex with him is bound to be a hugely unnecessary distraction from my efforts to get back on my feet.

It feels a lot like seeing a bottle labeled Hottest Hot Sauce That Ever Existed and having a soul-deep desire to chug the whole thing just to find out if I can.

The doorbell rings, and I realize that I haven’t heard my mom clanging and clomping about downstairs since I woke up. She must be out and about this morning, and Dad is undoubtedly already combing yard sales for cool stuff to repair and resell, as is his usual weekend routine.

“Gotta run! But thanks for the pep talk. Love to my Breen,” I say hastily, already charging down the stairs.

“Love to my Neen. Follow your heart and keep me updated!” She blows me a quick kiss before ending the call.

When I open the door, I’m out of breath and a bit worse for wear (the brisk movement was a bad idea; my head feels stabby again). Which is why my voice sounds breathier than I intend when I say, “Quentin.”

“Ho there, howdy, and good morning,” he says with a small smile.

I stand there stupidly, staring for way too long and saying nothing.

It’s just that, framed by the doorway, wearing a light pink button-down, his hair haloed with amber as the sun manages to catch a few strands despite the overhang of the porch, he reminds me of a Mucha painting.

An also slightly hungover Mucha painting, judging by the sunglasses and hint of tension in his jaw. But it’s still a sight to see.

He clears his throat and tries again, sounding less certain now. “Good…morning?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t think my parents are home.”

“That’s…fine? I’m not here for them. I’m here for you.”

“Oh. What’s that?” I ask, gesturing to the cardboard drink carrier he’s holding, with its two iced coffees and the white paper bag stamped with Best That You Can Brew’s logo of a large moon with a coffee cup resting on its crescent, the New York City skyline smaller beneath it.

“Breakfast.”

I’m still unsure how to act, what to say, how to stand . I shift on my feet.

“You know,” Quentin continues, “the thing after you wake up, before lunch. I figured we could have it together this morning. Unless you already ate?”

I shake my head as I keep staring down at what he’s holding, baffled by his presence. Everything that happened last night and now…he’s here. With breakfast. I peek into the bag and spot two apple fritters.

“So, can I come in or…?”

The question flips a switch, turning me into a fully functioning social being again. “Oh. Right. Yeah, sure.”

He takes off his sunglasses and hooks them onto the pocket of his shirt as he follows me inside. I put the bag down on the coffee table and take a seat at the other end of the couch, not wanting to be too close.

“I thought these were impossible to get unless you got there right when they open,” I say.

“Usually, yes. But Hanako gave me the heads-up last night that if you use the online ordering and choose a later pickup, they’ll put them aside for you.”

“Smart.”

“She said you wanted to try them. So.” He smiles again.

It’s a smile that makes him look a little unsure of himself.

The exact opposite of that practiced one.

My heart feels covered in condensation—either that or it’s actively melting.

Quentin takes his own apple fritter from the bag and sets it on a napkin atop the coffee table.

Then he grabs two macramé coasters—that Mom made in a class, of course—and places our drinks on them.