Page 42 of Finders Keepers

Iwake up at seven in the morning, fully dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday and…

Where am I? Oh. Right. This is…I’m still at Quentin’s.

In his bed. Okay. The last thing I remember is the “Galaxy Song” in Monty Python’s Meaning of Life , then I must’ve fallen asleep.

We spent a large chunk of the evening daring each other to eat progressively spicier Thai food and then moaning in pain on the living room floor, so it was pretty late when we finally started watching.

And Quentin ate more of the khua kling, so the movie was his pick, and he took forever to choose.

I turn over and let out a small squeak of terror, because instead of Quentin’s head on the pillow beside mine, I find the tightly wrinkled forehead and threatening-even-while-sleeping expression of Faustine, curled up in a tight, somehow angry donut.

“Uh, good morning,” I say, and give her a tentative pat on the haunch.

Between the thin skin and the wrinkles, it feels a bit like touching a disconcertingly warm raw turkey.

One eye cracks open, just barely, and stares at me without any other sign of her waking.

“Glad you two have finally met,” Quentin says from the doorway.

“Where’s she been, anyway? There aren’t that many places for her to hide.”

“Under the bed, most likely.”

“Or in the shadow realm,” I mutter.

“Don’t be too rude to her,” he chides. “She likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because she won’t sleep beside just anyone. Back when Charlene and I were together, Faustine would only come up on the bed if it was just me.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well. I’m honored, I guess.”

“You should be,” he says, and moves into the room.

He’s showered since he woke up, and changed into a different pair of sweatpants and that Franz Ferdinand shirt he wore the night he came back from France.

He’s also holding a mug. “Coffee, if you want it,” he says, and holds it out to me as I sit up.

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him. “Did you…were you in here with me and Faustine too at some point?”

“I was, until about six. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Of course. I just…don’t remember it.”

“Well, you were out ,” he says. “I didn’t know you still slept so heavily.

” Until now, the last time Quentin and I had a sleepover was when we were six and camped out with my father in a tent in my backyard, during which I notoriously slept through a surprise severe thunderstorm.

Dad picked me up and hauled me inside, and I never once stirred.

“Sorry if I snored.”

“Oh, you certainly did,” he says with a smile. “But it was cute. Like Shemp in the Three Stooges. Honk-mee, mee, mee, mee, mee. ”

“Cut it out,” I laugh, reaching for the pillow to throw at him, but Faustine has stretched out to take up both pillows now, and I don’t have the heart to displace her.

“You fell asleep on my chest,” he adds quietly.

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It was…it was nice.” He smiles beautifully, genuinely, and I realize I haven’t seen that too-charming version of him in a long time. He’s only showing me this side now—the real Quentin. “Well, it was,” he adds, “until you shifted and kneed me in the balls.”

“Geez. I really am sorry about that.”

“That you can be sorry for,” he agrees.

He watches as I drain my coffee, then takes my mug back and hands me my glasses from where he thoughtfully placed them on the windowsill after I drifted off.

“I, uh, I should get home. I’m sure my mom…” I grab my phone from where it’s shoved beneath the pillow. There are indeed three missed calls from her.

“She texted me when she couldn’t get ahold of you,” he says. “I told her you were spending the night here and not to worry.”

Oh, great. Now she’s probably even more convinced that Quentin and I are sexually involved.

Somehow her thinking that when it isn’t the truth, though I wish it was, is worse than if she thought it and we actually were.

I get out of the bed and Faustine spreads farther into the space I’ve vacated as if she is liquid and the boundaries of her container have changed.

“Still, I should…Thanks for dinner and um, the nice things you said to me and uh, letting me crash in your bed and uh, into you. Into your testicles with my knee, I mean. Not like in the Dave Matthews Band allegorical way…Anyway! Thanks for a fun time.”

I look up from my rambling to see such fondness in Quentin’s smile that my heart stutters. “Thanks for sharing what you found with me,” he says. “And for hanging out. It really means a lot to me that you wanted to.”

“Of course I wanted to,” I say, sliding my laptop into its bag and putting my shoes back on.

We exchange a quick kiss on the cheek, and I head over to my own house, ready to face the music. And I guess the name of this song is “Patti Hunnicutt.”

My mother has always been an early riser.

Which means she’s wide awake and already knitting on the couch, watching one of the morning shows, as I attempt to creep into the house.

She turns her head, registers that it’s me and not an intruder, and…

goes back to clacking her needles together while Savannah and Carson talk about their Fourth of July plans.

I guess that’s coming up in a few days. Weird that I’ve been back in Catoctin for almost a month now. Time flies when you’re treasure hunting and platonically sleeping with a sexy man and his hairless cat.

Mom’s lack of interest in where I’ve been feels almost insulting. More so than when she had no questions after thinking she caught Quentin and me fooling around on the couch. Not that I want to talk to her about any of it. I just thought she’d be more curious at the very least.

“Lovely morning,” I say.

“Too hot,” she disagrees. “And the sun’s barely up. Won’t be good for my tomato plants.”

“I was at Quentin’s.”

“I know. He told me. I wish you would’ve answered your phone.” But that’s all I’m going to get, it seems, because she continues her knitting. “They just did a segment about how to grill corn. Looked pretty good.”

“Mom.”

“Hm?”

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

Her mouth pinches, the question catching her off guard. “Little sore from all the weeding I did yesterday. But otherwise fine. Why?”

“I’m concerned about you.”

“About me? Why would you be concerned about me, Nina?”

“Because you’re…you’re…not being nosey. You’re being distinctly un- nosey, actually. It isn’t like you.”

She sets down her needles and yarn, mutes the television, and turns to face me more.

“I am choosing not to take offense to that.” Her face goes softer.

“Ninabean, I know things have been hard for you the last couple of months. But I’m glad that it’s at least brought you and Quentin back together.

You know I’ve always adored that boy. It doesn’t take a mathematician to put two and two together here as to what has…

developed…between you. And since I hardly need or want the sordid details, and you haven’t asked for my opinion—”

“You’re my mother,” I say. “I didn’t think I needed to ask for your opinion. It’s always been freely given.”

“Not with your love life,” she says.

I scoff. “In college you literally once called to tell me not to get involved with a guy you saw in the background of one of my Facebook photos because you thought he looked ‘rude.’?”

“Well, that was a long time ago. And also, he did.”

“You offered to set me up with Mrs. Bernstein’s grandson. While I was dating Cole.”

“And maybe you should’ve taken me up on that offer. He’s a very good ophthalmologist. He did Karen Harmon’s cataract surgeries last winter. Had it in both eyes, poor woman.” She picks up her needles again. “It’s about time I stayed out of your business,” she says.

I go over and sink down onto the couch beside her.

“But Mom, I don’t want you to stay out of it.

” As much as I was dreading having to answer her questions this morning, I realize now that part of me was looking forward to it.

Because my mom isn’t just my mom; she’s also one of my closest friends.

And getting to talk out this strange situation might give me some much-needed clarity.

I let out a heavy sigh and lean against her.

“I think I’m in over my head,” I confess. “I don’t know what to do. I need help.”

“I know, baby,” she says, and kisses the top of my head.

“But I don’t think I’m the right person to give it this time.

I know both of you too well. And while of course I love you more, I don’t think I can be impartial if push ever comes to shove.

” Her arm goes around me and squeezes me into a hug. “Now go shower. You smell awful.”

“Thaaanks.”

Upstairs, the water falling onto my head and running into my eyes, I wonder what my mother meant by her not being the right person to help me with Quentin.

Wouldn’t her knowing us both so well be helpful in this case?

Who would even be the right person if not my mother?

Sabrina’s no help; when I text her and tell her I spent the night at Quentin’s but we didn’t do anything beyond kiss very chastely, she sends a thumbs-down emoji.

She doesn’t understand why we aren’t moving forward until after we find the treasure, thinks it’s all an excuse so he doesn’t hurt my feelings.

If I hadn’t talked to Hanako yesterday and found out Quentin’s interest in me dates back much farther than the last few weeks, I might agree.

But, especially after last night when he held me and told me I was enough…

I just don’t see how it couldn’t be real.

Then again, I couldn’t see that what Cole and I had wasn’t real either.

Dammit, Mom. Why did she have to choose this particular moment to be reticent for the first time in her life?

I try to think back to previous advice she’s given me but can’t seem to find anything relevant beyond how to tell if a watermelon is ripe. I don’t think I can knock on Quentin’s side to determine if he’s a good pick. Even less so when it comes to taking Mrs. MacDonald’s job.

Because maybe Quentin is right that I should be considering that more seriously than I have been. My mom might not have given me any words of wisdom that apply here, but Mrs. MacDonald did: Figure out what it is you want in life before the real “can’ts” come to get you .

It just so happens that the things I want in life are also the ones that might break me if I lose them.