Page 38 of Finders Keepers

Bon Jovi’s stupid handsome face staring off into the distance pops into my mind.

Do it in pencil , he taunts. So much of my life is currently up in the air.

The things I have control over have dwindled to almost nothing.

This could be my chance to have a say in something again.

To prove to Bon Jovi that there’s this one aspect of my journey—a physical relationship with Quentin that operates in a neat, mature fashion—that I can map out in pen, goddammit.

Sabrina is right. The world is my oyster, and now I just need to figure out how to go about eating it.

The silence between us as we enjoy our apple fritters isn’t awkward so much as anticipatory.

Like we both know that after we’re finished, we’re going to need to figure out how to handle what happened.

I know what I want, and I think I’m ready to go after it.

But what does Quentin want? Does he want anything at all?

It might be my imagination, but it seems like we’re both taking smaller bites, chewing slightly more slowly than usual, trying to put off the conversation.

Which is why I watch, rapt, as he balls up his napkin, sprinkled with flakes of sticky glaze, and tucks it into the empty bag. He does it slowly, meticulously, with reverence—as if he’s performing some sort of sacred ceremony.

He stares straight ahead for a long moment.

“Thanks for bringing breakfast,” I say, sucking sugar off my fingertip.

“I have never come as hard as I did watching you touch yourself.” He drops this absolute bombshell of a non sequitur, then turns his head to look at me.

It seems like he’s waiting for a response, except by the time my lips part (not that I have any idea what to say), he’s already continued, “But it’s okay if that’s all that ever happens between us. ”

“These signals seem…mixed,” I say slowly.

Quentin hangs his head. “What I am trying to say is, I enjoyed last night. Very much. It was the most erotic moment of my life, to be honest, and I will treasure the memory. I don’t know if you intended—”

“I did. I did intend. I would like…again,” I interrupt.

“More.” Okay, so those were not even real sentences, but I do still seem to get my point across because Quentin inhales deeply and rubs the back of his neck, as if hoping to cover the flush sweeping up it.

“But you…You did say last night on the porch that you couldn’t.

And it sounds like you’re still unsure now…

” This feels suddenly too vulnerable. It leaves too wide a space for something that could devastate me.

So I tease, “It’s because you’re afraid you’ll lose the next round, isn’t it? ”

He lets out a low chuckle that gets added to yet another new subfolder— Hot as Hell . “Oh, believe me, Nina. If we aimed for first again, I would be victorious in like, three seconds. It took every ounce of willpower I had to last as long as I did.”

And the memory of exactly how long it took both of us reminds me that there is a part of me that was bold enough to stand in front of that window mostly naked.

A sensual, less anxiety-driven part. Someone I enjoyed being.

Someone I’m not sure exists when not powered by the electricity between us.

“Then if we were to give it another go, maybe instead it should be who can come last?”

He visibly swallows. “Maybe.” Quentin’s face has gone a delightful shade of pink to match his neck. He turns his head to look at me, smiles, and sighs before bowing it again. And I can tell there’s still hesitation there. Something beyond being slightly flustered or caught without protection.

I rush to reassure him. “Listen. All joking aside, I know what I intended, but maybe you…I don’t want to pressure you. If you don’t want to—”

“I do. I want…so much. I’m just…I need to…

” He lets out a frustrated-sounding exhale, as if the rest of his words are being held up somewhere along the route from brain to mouth and he isn’t sure how to get them unstuck.

His eyes focus downward and I follow them to my hand, where the engagement ring was the other day.

“Oh.” I lean back, no longer intruding into his personal space.

“Right. Charlene. I’m sorry. I sometimes forget that you guys were like, living together and everything.

Cole was so far away, and we didn’t even…

Anyway, I understand. It’s too soon. I’m sure you’re still dealing with that, with your feelings for her. ”

“No,” he says firmly. “It’s not about Charlene. At all. There aren’t any feelings left to deal with there, I promise.”

I hesitate. “About me, then? About what I did when we were kids?”

“About what I did,” he says.

I’m surprised that he’s taking any of the blame. Up until now I assumed he thought of his harsh words and silence as justified punishment for my betrayal, not their own separate harm done. “Well,” I say, but don’t know where else to take that thought.

“Nina, I want you. I do. But I’m really trying not to make any more mistakes.”

“Mistakes. Right.” And there it is, the devastating thing I was expecting earlier. I force a smile and a lighthearted laugh, even though the pronouncement feels like a dagger to the chest. “Which is what it would be if we had sex. A mistake.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” He catches my hand, as if sensing my instinct to move away from him.

“What did you mean, then?” I ask.

“It’s only…I promised myself I wasn’t going to fuck this all up again.

That this time we would end the summer with the treasure in hand and our friendship intact.

And if we continue down the path we started down last night, I’m not sure I’ll be able to deliver on either of those.

” He absently strokes his fingers over mine.

“I am trying to do better by you than I did before. But kissing you, watching you last night…It’s very hard to remember what doing better looks like when all I can think of is, well, doing you . ”

“We could just fuck without it meaning anything,” I suggest, making it sound bright enough that I can play it off as a joke if needed.

He pauses for a moment, then says, “No, I don’t think I could. I think it would have to mean something to me.” The hand not holding mine tucks a curl behind my ear. “ You have always meant something to me, Nina.”

I swallow hard against the sentiment. It’s tempting to lean into it, to explore what he means by that.

But apparently there are still tiny pieces of the person I was back when we were young, resting like shrapnel somewhere inside of me, better left alone than pulled out.

And those all twinge in harmony, alerting me to their presence.

I want to scream, to cry, If I’ve always meant something to you, how could you disappear from my life so completely?

“I see,” I say instead.

“I hope you do,” he says quietly, as his fingers drift from my ear to my chin, nudging it upward to make me look him in the eyes. “I don’t want to lose you again.” Then he leans in and plants a soft, sweet kiss on my cheek.

Which is the moment my mom bursts through the front door.

“Sweetie, are you—Oh!” she exclaims as she takes in the scene before her: Quentin and me on our living room couch, springing apart as if we’ve been caught in flagrante delicto.

She literally takes a step backward, back out onto the porch, and closes the door in her own face.

It looks almost like someone pressed rewind on the scene, in real life.

Quentin and I remain frozen for a second or two, staring at each other. We’re wearing matching blushes, his a shade deeper due to his paler skin. The fact that we weren’t doing anything almost makes it more mortifying than if she’d actually caught us with our clothes off.

My phone vibrates on the coffee table. I reach for it and find a text from Mom: I wasn’t there. I didn’t see anything. Please proceed.

I respond, Nothing was even happening. Come back in.

“Oh geez,” Quentin says in a voice that’s so comically alarmed yet understated it sends me into a fit of laughter. He quickly joins in. “Do you think she’ll believe that it wasn’t what it looked like?”

I cover my face with my hands. “Even if she does, I doubt it will stop her from relaying an exaggerated version to every person she meets for the rest of time. Or until something juicier comes along.” Quentin frowns, and I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder.

“Thank you for breakfast. And for last night. It was…very good for me too. But I don’t want to lose you either. ”

He lets out a long sigh that sounds like relief.

“Maybe after we find the treasure…” I start.

And I say it with the certainty that it does exist somewhere out there.

Because I can’t believe otherwise anymore.

The idea that we’re holding off on exploring our connection for something that might not even be real is not one I’m willing to entertain. I simply refuse.

“Maybe after we find the treasure,” he repeats in agreement. “If you still want.”

I lift my head and turn toward him, laughing. “Why if I still want? Why is it only up to me?”

He looks me dead in the eye, pupils as dark as they were last night on the porch.

“It will be up to you because I can tell you now, I already know I am going to want to, Nina. Do not mistake my circumspection for lack of interest. If you knew how many times I’ve imagined bending you over this couch in just the last five minutes—”

“Oh. Goodness.” Our heads turn toward the voice by the door. Dammit, Mom. Of course she chose that exact moment to come back into the house. I bury my face in my hands again and groan.

Quentin grabs the bag from our apple fritters and holds it strategically in front of him as he stands. I have never seen him turn quite this red before; a strawberry held up to his face would blend right in. “Good morning, Miss Patti. I was, uh, just heading out. Have a great day!”

My mom and I both watch as Quentin escapes out the front door. Then she turns her attention toward me, eyebrows raised in question.

I glance at my phone without registering what’s on the screen and say, “Oh wow, that time already? I have an important phone call with my…insurance agent. Gotta go!” Before she can question it, I hurry upstairs to my bedroom, where I guess I will now have to hide for the rest of my life.