Page 46 of Finders Keepers

The silence lasts only a moment before we hear distant clapping now that the fireworks show is over. Quentin and I stare at each other, eyes wide, me still straddling him.

“We should…” he starts.

“Yes. Before anyone…” I add.

My dismount isn’t exactly graceful, and there’s a bit of awkward laughter as we try to figure out how to handle cleanup. I wind up getting my underwear back and slip them on again.

“Ready to go,” I say.

“Hold on.” Quentin looks at me for a long time, lips parting as if he wants to say something. But instead he kisses me again, long and slow. “Neen…” he mutters against my lips. “I need—” His words cut out and his eyes squint against a sudden beam of light directed at his face.

“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice says from a few yards outside the folly’s entrance. I turn and find a security guard shining his flashlight on us. “Break it up, you two. This ain’t no hanky-panky spot.”

“Sorry. We just got engaged,” Quentin lies smoothly. “We were just celebrating.”

“Congratulations. But you’re gonna have to celebrate elsewhere. Fireworks are over, and normal park rules and hours apply. Time to head home, folks.”

“Of course,” Quentin says. He and I share a smile as he takes my hand. “We’ll follow you out.”

Much later that night, as we lie with the covers thrown off of us in Quentin’s bed, our bare skin sticking wherever we touch, I try to imagine the life I thought I wanted even a month ago.

But it’s fuzzy. Abstract. The same way it is if I try to imagine myself living in a lighthouse in Nova Scotia or becoming a chef.

It’s like a mental exercise I can perform but feel no real attachment to. No desire to find my way back to it.

It’s nothing like when I imagine the life Quentin and I might build here.

One that’s comfortable. Soft and sweet and easy .

Sunday mornings spent exploiting the online ordering loophole at Best That You Can Brew so that Quentin and I (and Faustine, who I admit is growing on me) can linger in bed and still have apple fritters for breakfast. A big pot of soup simmering on the stove for when my parents stop by for dinner.

Maybe a couple of children with freckles and strawberry-blonde curls shrieking with joy in the backyard as they catch fireflies in their palms. It’s a life that looks like the best memories of our childhood blended with every beautiful moment we’ve spent together this summer.

All the things I think I’ve probably always wanted but was too afraid to accept could come so easily.

I fall asleep to the idea playing in my mind like a pretty music box melody.

And wake up the next morning to two emails that are like monster trucks crushing the little dancing ballerina: one in my inbox from the dean of the School of Arts and Humanities at Malbyrne and one in Quentin’s from Emily Aaron.

“Oh, hey,” Quentin says. “Albert Aaron’s great-granddaughter responded.”

“They want me…to come back to Malbyrne,” I say, staring at my phone’s screen like the words on it might change at any minute. “In a different department, but still.”

“Oh. Wow. And are you…happy about that?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. I read over the message again.

Dear Dr. Hunnicutt,

I hope you are well and enjoying your summer.

One of our associate professors in American studies has accepted a political appointment and will no longer be able to teach full-time during the 25–26 AY.

We are in need of a one-year term lecturer to cover their courses, which include two sections of Intro to American Culture and one senior-level research methods course.

We were so disappointed when we were unable to renew your contract in history, but I hope that this might be an exciting opportunity for you to continue working with us here at Malbyrne.

While I recognize this is not exactly your area of specialty, the interdisciplinary nature of the department creates significant flexibility in the way these courses can be taught.

I’m attaching sample syllabi for each, and you can contact the department chair, Destiny Jones, with any questions you might have.

We look forward to having you back on campus!

Sincerely,

Hiba Bradbury, PhD

Dean of the School of Arts and Humanities

Malbyrne College

“Sounds like they need you to save their butts,” Quentin says, reading over my arm. His voice is a strange mixture of pride and annoyance—not dissimilar to what I’m feeling.

I put my phone down and shift so that I can read Quentin’s. “I’ll deal with it later. What does Emily Aaron have to say?”

He turns his screen toward me more.

Hi Nina and Quentin,

I’m so sorry for the delayed response. Your message got stuck in my spam folder and I only just discovered it.

My grandfather, Eugene, would be happy to share what he knows about Albert’s work with the WPA and, more specifically, his interview with Julius Fountain.

In fact, he has something he thinks might interest you.

We live in Richmond and would prefer to meet in person at his home if possible.

If not, let me know and I’ll try to teach him how to do a video call. :)

Cheers,

Emily

“So…” I say. “Guess we’re taking a day trip to Richmond?”

“Unless you need to get back to Boston…”

The urge to reassure Quentin—and myself—that I’m not going anywhere leads me to take the phone from his hand and place it beside mine at the edge of the mattress.

I climb atop him, straddling his hips. “If you think you can get rid of me when we’re on the verge of cracking this mystery… you have another think coming, mister.”

“Is that…is that the correct saying?” he asks. “?‘Think,’ not ‘thing’?”

“Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

“Huh. I did not.”

And then I lean down and kiss him until thinking becomes a foreign concept to us both.