Page 16

16

QUINN

The knock comes when I’m least expecting it.

I’m lying on the couch, one sock on, one off, staring at the ceiling, contemplating whether or not I have the energy to start a movie. I already know I’ll abandon it halfway through, so what’s the point?

And there’s that knock again. Sharper this time.

I groan, roll onto my side, and shout, “Did you forget your key?”

Jordan left half an hour ago, something about meeting Alyssa at the farmer’s market to “gather seasonal inspiration”—which sounded suspiciously like an excuse to go people-watching and make up stories about strangers.

One last impatient knock and I’m officially annoyed.

I sigh, push myself up, and shuffle to the door. To my complete surprise, it’s my brother, Wesley, standing there. He’s all bright-eyed and restless, like he’s been up for hours just waiting for an excuse to bother me.

I don’t get the chance to ask what he wants because right beside him, looking way too pleased with himself, is our dad. “We’re stealing you for the day,” he says, like this has already been decided.

I blink. “Are you?”

Wesley shoves past me into the apartment. He surveys the space, frowns. “Yeah. You’re coming.”

Dad leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Mom’s at work. Wes and I are bored. You’re free. No excuses.”

Mom’s a nurse at the outpatient facility on Maple Grove. She’s been at the same place for nearly two decades, working twelve-hour shifts that stretch into fourteen more often than not. She never complains about it. Not out loud, anyway.

Dad, on the other hand, took a more flexible job a few years back. Remote consulting, mostly, which let him be there for Wes whenever he needed it. All the doctors’ visits, the therapies, the unpredictable bad days. And even though Wes is better now, even though he’s stronger, healthier, steadier, they still watch him like he could break at any moment.

That’s why he’s been bored out of his mind all summer. Our parents still don’t let him stay out past nine. He has to check in every hour when he’s with friends. He handles it well enough, but I can tell it eats at him. The lack of freedom, the invisible line he’s not allowed to cross.

I didn’t even have a real curfew when I was his age.

I huff out a laugh. “There are a lot of assumptions happening here.”

Wes plops onto the couch and makes himself comfortable. “And yet, here we are.”

I glance between them, trying to decide how much energy I have to fight this. Because I do want to spend time with them. I was sort of craving a day alone to recharge, to exist in my own space without anyone else’s expectations. But I love my family, and I haven’t spent much time with Wes lately.

Once school starts, I’ll have less time to spare, and chances like this will get harder to come by.

Dad gives me a knowing look. “It’s just lunch, Quinn. Get your shoes.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s half-hearted at best. Because I know myself. I know I’ll go, and I know I’ll enjoy it. I’m just arguing because it’s part of the ritual—part of how I soften the yes.

“Fine,” I say, “but I’m picking the place.”

A nicer place is out of the question. Not because my dad would say no. He’d try to swing it, act like it’s nothing, but I’d see it. The pause before he reached for the check. The quiet calculation behind his eyes. He’d blink, then bury it.

We’ve never been particularly flush. Between the medical bills and the job shifts, things have always been tight—held together by resourcefulness and a lot of pretending.

And Wes, sweet as he is, assumes everything’s fine. He’s still a kid. He doesn’t know what it means to stretch a paycheck or what it costs to act like you’re not.

That’s why I always suggest something casual. Something cheap enough not to leave a mark. Something that won’t make Dad wince when the bill hits the table.

Maybe I wouldn’t micromanage so much if I didn’t feel a little guilty. He’s an adult; he knows when and where to spend his money. But the truth is, I know what it feels like to take from him without asking. And I still carry that weight in a place I try not to examine too closely.

For the most part, I was an okay kid. A helpful sister and a dutiful daughter. But we all have our faults—and mine was knowing how easy it was to take what wasn’t offered.

Wes snorts. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, princess.”

I grab my bag, lock the door behind me, and follow them down to the car.

We end up at Maggie’s, a hole-in-the-wall diner we’ve been going to for as long as I can remember. The kind of place with laminated menus, a too-loud jukebox in the corner, and a waitress who’s probably been here since the dawn of time.

Wes orders pancakes with extra chocolate chips and whipped cream, even though it’s the middle of the day. Our dad doesn’t stop him.

“You’re gonna knock out in the booth,” I warn, watching as he drowns them in syrup.

Wes shrugs, unfazed. “At least I’ll die happy.”

Dad shakes his head, unamused, then turns his attention to me. “How’s work?”

It’s an easy, neutral question. The kind that fills the space, that keeps the conversation moving without actually meaning much. Because what else is he supposed to ask me? We don’t talk much. Not because we’re distant or because anything’s wrong. Just because, lately, it feels like we don’t know what to talk about anymore.

And yeah, asking how work is going is classic father-daughter small talk, but still, it feels ... I don’t know. Hollow.

I shrug, picking at the edge of my menu. “Same as always.”

Dad waits, like he expects me to elaborate. I don’t.

Wes doesn’t let the silence settle. “Quinn’s a big deal at Sycamore,” he says around a mouthful of food. “She gets the members’ orders right nine times out of ten. Real impressive.”

I shoot him a look. “I’m not even a server. Also, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He grins. “You love me.”

I don’t answer because he’s right. The love I have for Wes could probably crack concrete. It’s loud, stubborn, impossible to ignore. When we were kids, I used to sit outside the bathroom door while he threw up, just to make sure he wasn’t alone.

Even now, I catch myself checking in on him whenever we’re together—watching the way he moves, listening for anything in his voice that might mean a bad day is creeping in.

Dad shakes his head. “Are you gonna go back next summer?”

The question is soft, but the weight behind it isn’t. Will you still be at that dead-end job after you’ve graduated? Are you staying where it’s safe because it’s easy or because you’re scared to want more?

“Maybe,” I say. “Haven’t decided.”

Dad nods, but there’s something unreadable in his expression. And I get it. He’s never said it outright, but I think he wants more for me. Not because Sycamore is a bad job, not because he thinks I’m wasting my time.

He believes I have the potential to do something else. Something bigger. And now that Wes is stable, now that the worst seems behind us, I think he wants me to start moving again. To stop holding my breath.

Wes swipes a finger through the whipped cream on his plate. “You could always come work for me.”

I scoff. “Oh yeah? What are you offering?”

“Personal assistant,” he says. “Pays in movie nights and unsolicited life advice.”

I flick a wadded-up napkin at him. “Sounds like a scam.”

Wes gasps, hand to his chest. “How dare you. I am a fantastic boss.”

Dad snorts. “Yeah? And what’s Quinn’s first task as your personal assistant?”

Wes hums, dragging his fork through the syrup on his plate. “Fetch me a new napkin.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. Because that’s what my resume’s missing—experience in napkin retrieval.”

Dad chuckles, shaking his head. “Overqualified already.”

I huff, picking at the edge of my toast. “Might as well start now, right? Gotta get used to working jobs that don’t fulfill me so the disappointment doesn’t hit too hard later.”

Dad’s smile falters. It’s subtle, but I catch it. Strange how much he’s paying attention today. Like he’s actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to speak.

My parents have never been good at reading between the lines, at catching the cracks in my facade, so why start now? It’s not their fault. They believe what I let them see. And I’ve spent years making sure they don’t look too closely.

Thankfully, Wes changes the subject for us. He launches into a story about some new game he’s obsessed with, a fantasy epic that involves quests and guilds and whatever other nerd shit he’s into.

I half listen. I don’t care about the mechanics or the lore, but I do like the sound of his voice when he talks about things he loves. It’s comforting. Steady. Like background noise I don’t have to think about. Something solid in a world that never really stops shifting.

“Sounds fake,” I mutter when he tells me his rogue can cast illusions.

“Sounds jealous,” Wes tosses back.

Dad smiles, shakes his head. “I don’t know how you two make me feel old when I’m not.”

I hum. “You are old.”

Wes grins. “You do make that weird groaning noise when you sit down.”

Dad groans dramatically just to prove a point. “Keep talking like that, and I’m leaving you both here.”

Wes and I share a look and then immediately fall into exaggerated, innocent smiles—mirror images of faux obedience. I spear the last bite of my eggs, popping it into my mouth while Wes makes a show of licking syrup off his fork. Dad shakes his head, amused, reaching for his coffee.

“Enjoy this while you can, kid. Sugar catches up with you.”

Wes smirks. “Yeah, is that why your knees sound like popcorn? From the sugar ?”

Dad narrows his eyes, about to fire something back, but then his phone buzzes against the table. He glances at the screen, sighs. “Work. Gimme a sec.”

He mutters something under his breath and then disappears around the corner, leaving my brother and me alone in the booth.

We don’t say much. Just sort of sit there, bored, picking at what’s left on our plates without really eating. My toast’s gone cold. Wes drags the tines of his fork through a smear of syrup, absently tracing lines into it like it’s a maze.

“I’m done with this sugar bomb,” he says eventually, pushing his plate away. “Want to go outside?”

I nod, and we slide out of the booth, wandering toward the diner’s entrance.

The air is thick with heat, but the clouds keep the worst of it at bay. The smell of asphalt, grease, and faint cigarette smoke lingers in the parking lot, but it’s not unpleasant. Just familiar.

We end up at one of the weathered picnic tables near the lot, kicking at scattered pebbles as we sit. The diner’s neon sign hums faintly in the background. Wes leans back on his palms, tilting his face to the sky like he’s soaking in the warmth.

“So,” he says, not looking at me. “You okay?”

I should be the one asking him that. I’m older. I’m supposed to be the one checking in, the one steady enough to carry the weight. But maybe he sees the same thing in me that I’ve always seen in him. A flicker of something frayed at the edges, trying to pass as whole.

“You always ask me that.”

“Yeah, and you never answer me for real.”

“It’s just been a long summer.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “Why?”

I pick at a splinter on the edge of the picnic table. “I was traveling.”

“I know that.” He side-eyes me. “But then you weren’t.”

My throat tightens. “I ran out of money.”

He gives me a long, unimpressed look. “That’s really the answer you’re going with?”

It’s the answer I’ve given everyone. The one I’ve repeated so many times that maybe, if I say it enough, it’ll turn into something true. But Wesley’s never been the type to take things at face value. He likes to press me, to see how much I’m willing to give before I shut down completely.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” he says, not giving me the chance to lie again, “I like having you home.”

Something in my chest twinges. He means it. That even though I don’t live there anymore, there’s a comfort in me being close. A steadiness that settles him. Makes things feel less fragile.

“Can you come by next weekend?” he asks. “To the house?”

“Next weekend?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Mom’s making that pork thing you like. We could hang out.”

Something in me hesitates. Not because I don’t want to go but because sometimes being home makes me feel too much like the version of myself I don’t know what to do with anymore. The girl who always said yes. The daughter who never spoke up. The sister who held everything in and called it love.

“I’ll try,” I say.

Wes squints. “That’s code for no.”

I huff. “It’s not. I just—” I exhale, pressing my fingers into the wood. “I have the big end-of-summer banquet at Sycamore. All hands on deck.”

He frowns. “Banquet?”

I nod. “Last fancy event before school starts again. Everyone’s required to be there.”

He tilts his head. “So, like, black tie? Are you going to be wearing a dress?”

I snort. “No. I’ll be in a cater waiter uniform, which is exactly as ugly as it sounds.”

“So you’ll look just as tragically over it as you always do, then?”

I shove his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He laughs, but then, a little softer, “You’re sure you’ll try?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah, Wes. I’ll try.”

Dad steps out of the diner just as a group of kids on bikes loop past the lot, their laughter cutting through the thick, humid air. He’s tucking his phone into his pocket, scanning the lot until his eyes land on us at the picnic table.

“All paid up. You kids ready to go?”

Wes stretches his arms over his head, groaning like he’s been doing something strenuous instead of sitting here for the past ten minutes. “Yeah, let’s hit it.”

The drive back is quiet, easy. Dad’s got the radio low, some classic rock song humming through the speakers. Wes scrolls on his phone, humming along to the melody, and I just lean my head back against the window, letting my eyes drift shut for a moment.

It’s nice. Simple. One of those drives where you don’t have to fill the silence because it’s not uncomfortable. Twenty minutes later, Dad’s easing the car into a spot near the curb outside my apartment complex.

“You need anything before we go?” Dad asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

Wes twists around in his seat, watching me like he’s about to say something else. But he doesn’t. Just smirks, tapping the side of his head like he’s sealing it there. “Don’t forget about next weekend.”

I roll my eyes. “I said I’d try.”

“We’ll be expecting you.”

I unbuckle my seat belt, step out of the car. The quiet hits me all at once. Out here, the air is still and heavy. The silence wraps around my shoulders like something tangible, something I’m not quite ready for. I wave them off as Dad pulls away, taillights glowing red until they vanish around the corner.

Inside, I pause just past the threshold, my keys still clutched tight in my hand. It was a good afternoon. Easy. Familiar. But there’s a restlessness to it now, something that clings to me as I stand in the hush of my apartment, like I’m waiting for something to follow it.

Maybe it’s because summer’s slipping away, and with it, the rhythm I’ve clung to all season. Maybe it’s the looming return of school and all the uncertainty that waits on the other side of it.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

Maybe it’s the distance I’ve been cultivating—intentional, quiet, safe—starting to feel more like loneliness than protection. Maybe it’s the realization that soon, there won’t be any reason to cross paths with Warren Mercer. Not unless I make one.