Page 4 of Finders Keepers

We used to go back and forth like this forever, teasing each other, sprinkled with the occasional more serious conversations about life that we were too timid to have face-to-face.

Our banter is like a second language, and even if I’m a bit rusty I’m confident I still remember enough to continue.

But there’s a larger part of me that doesn’t have the patience to bury my curiosity about why he’s back.

(When I tried to ask my mother about Quentin’s reappearance next door, she did a horrible job pretending that his return was news to her as well before putting another slice of banana bread in front of me even though I wasn’t finished with the first.)

“What are you doing here anyway?” I ask bluntly.

“I thought we already covered zees when you closed zee window. Zee Moon is always there, even when you can’t see it.”

“Quentin.”

“Nina.” He drops the horrible accent and says my name with an emphasis on the ee sound in the middle like he used to when taunting me. “I just got back to the States. Needed somewhere to crash for a while, and this place was sitting here empty, so…”

“Back to the States? Where were you?”

“Paris. I was in my firm’s office there for a couple years, advising European companies looking to expand into the US.”

“You mean you’ve actually lived in France and your accent still sounds like Pierre Escargot from All That ?”

“Just because I speak perfect French doesn’t mean the Moon is equally fluent in English.

Duh.” I can hear the smile in his voice, but when I picture it on his face, my mental image is of a scrawny fifteen-year-old with freckles scattered over his cheeks.

Strange to think that cute-but-dweeby kid has transformed into a man who wears ties and drives an Audi.

“I’d ask what you’re doing here, but your mom mentioned you were coming to visit, so I assume you’re, uh, visiting. ”

Dammit. I knew she knew.

“How long you gonna be around?” he asks.

It isn’t an unreasonable question, but it’s also not one I want to dwell on at the moment. I’ve never done well with uncertainty, or things that are out of my control. I stumble over my words as I say, “Oh, just until I…Till my…I’m already looking for…”

This one time, when we were in first grade, Quentin proposed we race up the big metal climbing dome on our elementary school’s playground.

I generally never went higher than two or three feet off the ground, too worried I’d fall through one of the triangular openings to go all the way to the top.

But as soon as he issued the challenge it was like my fear disappeared, replaced by such a strong urge to win that I attacked that dome with bold determination—and wound up missing a rung and smashing my nose into one of the diagonal steel bars.

And that’s kind of how I feel now, grasping for a next move that should be within easy reach but isn’t.

As if I’m slipping, falling forward, about to meet with a fate I could have avoided if I’d simply paid more attention.

“It’s rather up in the air at the moment,” I conclude, swallowing back the tears threatening to rise for the millionth time today.

There’s a pause, and then, “Neen.”

Quentin’s use of the shortened version of my name, especially in that soft, warm tone, makes my edges feel wiggly. “Hm?”

“I, uh, really…” There’s a brief hesitation, as if he’s carefully weighing what he’s about to say. But then finally: “Urgent memo just came through the fax. The boss wants to see us both right away.”

A choked, surprised laugh spills out of me.

This is a more obscure throwback. When we were around eleven or twelve we thought it was hilarious to pretend we worked for a huge corporation.

Doing our homework became “putting in overtime on the big Thompson file.” Walking to get ice cream from the corner store was “attending the quarterly revenue meeting.” Neither of us knew anything about huge corporations, of course, so it was a bunch of jargon we cobbled together from TV shows and movies.

We dropped the bit at some point, and I haven’t thought about it in years.

But Quentin picking it back up again now feels kind of like deciding to rewatch a movie I loved as a teenager but haven’t seen since—delightful nostalgia mixed with the worry that the passing of time might have made the things I enjoyed most about it fall flat.

“The big boss?” I respond anyway. Because I figure it’s at least worth seeing if it holds up.

“The biggest. The head honcho himself,” Quentin confirms. “Front porch. Two minutes, sharp, or Debbie says it’ll be our asses.”

“Debbie in accounting?”

“No, that’s Daphne in accounting. Debbie is the big boss’s assistant. She took over for Matthew in January, remember?”

“Oh. Right,” I say. “I miss Matthew. He always used to bring in donuts on Fridays.”

“One minute, thirty seconds, Hunnicutt. Time is money. Ticktock.”

“Fine, fine, I’m coming!”

Quentin’s window closes with a suction-y thud that tells me that, unlike mine, it’s been replaced sometime over the years.

I imagine him sprinting down the staircase in the mirror-image house beside mine, maybe even sliding down the wooden banister like he used to.

(And Dr. Bell isn’t even here to yell at him about it.)

I take a moment to blow my nose, wipe my eyes, clean my glasses, and redo my messy bun.

My reflection reminds me that it’s been a rougher few days than a quick hair adjustment can possibly remedy, but there’s not much I can do about that right now.

Hopefully the porch lights aren’t on and I can rely on that soft, forgiving moonglow.

Maybe if I look presentable enough now I can trick Quentin into thinking that when he saw me earlier, crouched behind my car with my unruly curls half out of their elastic and pretzel salt still clinging to my hoodie, it was an optical illusion.

I was actually very put-together and not acting weird at all.

Mom clangs around in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher as an audiobook blasts at full volume, and I manage to tiptoe through the dining and living rooms without her noticing me.

It’s all muscle memory, slipping outside onto the porch, holding the knob of the storm door until it shuts completely so it doesn’t slam.

Not that the sneaking is strictly necessary, but it feels proper to do this how I would have back when Quentin and I were teenagers, meeting on the porch past our bedtime to continue plotting and chatting late into the night.

He stands on the other side of the cream-painted wooden divider railing, where I first spotted him earlier. As my eyes adjust to the darkness (thank god the lights are off), I make out the outline of him bowing his head as he studies his wrist.

“Three minutes, forty-five seconds,” he says, clucking his tongue. “Punctuality is very important in this business, Hunnicutt. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.”

And even though my termination from Malbyrne had nothing to do with my being on time, that’s apparently all it takes to release the floodgates and get me bawling again.