a job in motivational speaking,” I told her dryly, shoving my fat cat back inside and firmly shutting the door on the real world. “Or grief therapy. You have that touch.”
She put the coffee and a brown paper bag on the table before scooping up Winston and collapsing down into a chair. “Yes, because you’re such a fragile flower,” she snorted, grinning as the cat happily butted against her face. “Come on, Quinn. Sit down, have some breakfast. Tell me what’s going on.”
“You didn’t have to come over,” I told her, stubbornly wrapping my arms around myself, that ache starting again in my throat at the soft pull of the sweater against my skin.
Hitching up an eyebrow, Tracy began unpacking the bagels. “Actually, I did. I left you three messages, and you never returned any of them.” Her expression softened. “I was worried, Quinn.”
Crap. My phone. Which was probably still in my jeans pocket. Sighing, I rubbed a hand through my hair and wandered into the bedroom to check. Sure enough, my phone was blinking urgently at me, discarded in the puddle of jeans and shirt I’d left behind last night.
Scrolling through the missed calls and messages, I frowned. Three from Tracy, two from Annabeth, and six from Brady. He’d called twice and sent four text messages, the tone going from gently teasing to worried to flat-out concerned.
Yeah. I supposed disappearing from a guy’s bed after sleeping with him the first time warranted a few messages.
Sitting down at the table next to Tracy, I studied the texts.
Hey, sry I missed you. You were fantastic. Mind blowing. Pls tell me I can cook for you again? ;)
It was good, you were good, everything was rly rly good. p. much best ever. call me?
Ok, now Im worried. Just txt to let me kno you’re alive?
Quinn, bb, please.
I deleted them one by one before letting the phone fall to the table. Resting my head in my hands, I ignored Tracy’s patient look. Yeah, right. She was like a schnauzer with a chew toy. There wasn’t a force on earth that would shake her away from whatever she’d come here to say.
“Brady call you?” she asked, all innocent, like she didn’t already know.
“Where’s the coffee?” I grunted, ignoring the topic. Tracy frowned at me, but she handed me my cup and I took a grateful sip, getting up to rummage around for the sugar. Tracy never put enough in. Then again, I tended to add enough to give the average person a diabetic coma.
“He called me this morning. He’s worried, Quinn. According to him, you just took off.” She was quiet as I fixed my coffee, as I puttered around the kitchen, delaying the conversation. “I told him that didn’t sound like you,” she eventually continued, voice raising slightly, forcing me to hear her even though I had decided right then was the best possible time to reorganize my canned goods.
“Quinn.” It was how she said my name. Not harshly, not with frustration or anger. Just so concerned. Softly, she said my name, my best friend, my oldest friend, one half of the tattered remains of my very small family. Sighing, shoulders slumping, I stopped fussing and stalling.
“I slept with him,” I said in a mumble.
“I know,” Tracy told me gently. “You called me sounding worse than I’ve heard you in a long time. You left without saying anything to Brady, and now you’re not returning his calls. What’s going on?”
“I slept with Brady .” Like if I could say it the right way she’d get it. “We had sex and it was really good, Trace. I liked it. I wanted it.”
Sighing, she moved to stand behind me and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. “Okay,” she murmured. “None of that sounds like a bad thing.”
But then she got it. Her fingers tightened on the fabric of Aaron’s sweater and she understood. “But he wasn’t Aaron,” she said softly, and I hung my head, ashamed and guilty and so confused I felt sick. It was what I’d told her last night, choking on tears and
She put the coffee and a brown paper bag on the table before scooping up Winston and collapsing down into a chair. “Yes, because you’re such a fragile flower,” she snorted, grinning as the cat happily butted against her face. “Come on, Quinn. Sit down, have some breakfast. Tell me what’s going on.”
“You didn’t have to come over,” I told her, stubbornly wrapping my arms around myself, that ache starting again in my throat at the soft pull of the sweater against my skin.
Hitching up an eyebrow, Tracy began unpacking the bagels. “Actually, I did. I left you three messages, and you never returned any of them.” Her expression softened. “I was worried, Quinn.”
Crap. My phone. Which was probably still in my jeans pocket. Sighing, I rubbed a hand through my hair and wandered into the bedroom to check. Sure enough, my phone was blinking urgently at me, discarded in the puddle of jeans and shirt I’d left behind last night.
Scrolling through the missed calls and messages, I frowned. Three from Tracy, two from Annabeth, and six from Brady. He’d called twice and sent four text messages, the tone going from gently teasing to worried to flat-out concerned.
Yeah. I supposed disappearing from a guy’s bed after sleeping with him the first time warranted a few messages.
Sitting down at the table next to Tracy, I studied the texts.
Hey, sry I missed you. You were fantastic. Mind blowing. Pls tell me I can cook for you again? ;)
It was good, you were good, everything was rly rly good. p. much best ever. call me?
Ok, now Im worried. Just txt to let me kno you’re alive?
Quinn, bb, please.
I deleted them one by one before letting the phone fall to the table. Resting my head in my hands, I ignored Tracy’s patient look. Yeah, right. She was like a schnauzer with a chew toy. There wasn’t a force on earth that would shake her away from whatever she’d come here to say.
“Brady call you?” she asked, all innocent, like she didn’t already know.
“Where’s the coffee?” I grunted, ignoring the topic. Tracy frowned at me, but she handed me my cup and I took a grateful sip, getting up to rummage around for the sugar. Tracy never put enough in. Then again, I tended to add enough to give the average person a diabetic coma.
“He called me this morning. He’s worried, Quinn. According to him, you just took off.” She was quiet as I fixed my coffee, as I puttered around the kitchen, delaying the conversation. “I told him that didn’t sound like you,” she eventually continued, voice raising slightly, forcing me to hear her even though I had decided right then was the best possible time to reorganize my canned goods.
“Quinn.” It was how she said my name. Not harshly, not with frustration or anger. Just so concerned. Softly, she said my name, my best friend, my oldest friend, one half of the tattered remains of my very small family. Sighing, shoulders slumping, I stopped fussing and stalling.
“I slept with him,” I said in a mumble.
“I know,” Tracy told me gently. “You called me sounding worse than I’ve heard you in a long time. You left without saying anything to Brady, and now you’re not returning his calls. What’s going on?”
“I slept with Brady .” Like if I could say it the right way she’d get it. “We had sex and it was really good, Trace. I liked it. I wanted it.”
Sighing, she moved to stand behind me and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. “Okay,” she murmured. “None of that sounds like a bad thing.”
But then she got it. Her fingers tightened on the fabric of Aaron’s sweater and she understood. “But he wasn’t Aaron,” she said softly, and I hung my head, ashamed and guilty and so confused I felt sick. It was what I’d told her last night, choking on tears and
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