were everything right now.
His cell phone buzzed against the table, making him jump. The air had turned sharp and cold while he’d been going through these invoices, and he tried to make himself relax, knowing the air would do the same if he could mentally get himself to a better place.
He ran a thumb along the screen to wake it. A text message.
Quinn. His girlfriend.
Sort of.
Really, his relationship with Quinn was just one more thing that belonged on a list of all that made him feel insecure, uncertain, and guilty.
Any way you can pick me up at the Y?
Nick glanced at the clock. Gabriel had the car and Michael had the truck. Michael would be home first, but not for another twenty minutes. He typed back quickly.
Not for a while. You OK?
Fought with Mom again.
Nick winced. He texted back.
I can get you. 30 mins OK?
Sure. I’ll be in studio.
The studio was really just a room at the back of the Y, with half a mirrored wall and a barre bolted awkwardly into the patches of drywall. But Quinn’s parents wouldn’t pay for dance lessons, and Quinn had been kicked off the school dance team.
Unlike Nick, she knew exactly who, what, and where she wanted to be.
She just couldn’t get there.
He hadn’t met her parents yet, but apparently her mother had been put on this earth with the sole purpose of torturing Quinn, and her dad had nothing better to do than stare at the television—when he wasn’t running his mouth about how amazing Quinn’s older brother was. Quinn had a younger brother, too. He stayed out of the line of fire by hiding behind headphones and video game controllers.
Tensions had been running high in Quinn’s house before a fire had burned the place down—part of a string of arson attacks started by another Elemental in town. But now her family was living in temporary housing, a cramped three-bedroom condo closer to Annapolis.
And Nick thought he had problems.
He didn’t hear the front door open, but the air told him when Michael was home.
It also told him that Chris and Becca were struggling to right themselves in the living room.
Nick smiled and entered the last invoice into the computer, then set aside the three where payments were missing.
Michael looked beat when he walked into the kitchen, and Nick was glad he’d gotten the paperwork done.
His brother grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and dropped into a chair. “Thanks for taking care of that.”
Nick always did, but he shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“You think you could help me with a job tomorrow, since school is out?”
Nick had been planning to spend the day doing more college applications, tweaking entrance essays, and taking a few more SAT practice tests.
But Michael looked exhausted, and Nick could put that stuff off for a few hours. “Sure,” he said. Then he paused, thinking of Quinn. “You think you could let me borrow the truck for an hour?”
Michael had to be tired, because he took another drink of water, then tossed the keys on the table.
Nick’s eyebrows went up.
Michael shrugged, then shoved out of the chair, heading for the doorway. “I know you won’t do anything irresponsible.”
Nick never did.
And sometimes he wondered if that was part of the problem.
Quinn Briscoe stretched her left leg against the barre in the empty room, then folded her upper body as low as she could. She didn’t do ballet, not really, but she’d taken enough classes as a kid that she always started and finished with a classical warm-up—just because that was the most thorough routine she knew, and it hadn’t let her down yet.
Her thighs were screaming, and she told them to go to hell.
Really, she wished she’d worn sweatpants instead of these stretchy booty shorts. Then she wouldn’t have to look at how massive her legs were.
Besides, it was probably cold outside.
The shorts hadn’t been her choice. They were part of the cheerleading uniform at Old Mill, and
His cell phone buzzed against the table, making him jump. The air had turned sharp and cold while he’d been going through these invoices, and he tried to make himself relax, knowing the air would do the same if he could mentally get himself to a better place.
He ran a thumb along the screen to wake it. A text message.
Quinn. His girlfriend.
Sort of.
Really, his relationship with Quinn was just one more thing that belonged on a list of all that made him feel insecure, uncertain, and guilty.
Any way you can pick me up at the Y?
Nick glanced at the clock. Gabriel had the car and Michael had the truck. Michael would be home first, but not for another twenty minutes. He typed back quickly.
Not for a while. You OK?
Fought with Mom again.
Nick winced. He texted back.
I can get you. 30 mins OK?
Sure. I’ll be in studio.
The studio was really just a room at the back of the Y, with half a mirrored wall and a barre bolted awkwardly into the patches of drywall. But Quinn’s parents wouldn’t pay for dance lessons, and Quinn had been kicked off the school dance team.
Unlike Nick, she knew exactly who, what, and where she wanted to be.
She just couldn’t get there.
He hadn’t met her parents yet, but apparently her mother had been put on this earth with the sole purpose of torturing Quinn, and her dad had nothing better to do than stare at the television—when he wasn’t running his mouth about how amazing Quinn’s older brother was. Quinn had a younger brother, too. He stayed out of the line of fire by hiding behind headphones and video game controllers.
Tensions had been running high in Quinn’s house before a fire had burned the place down—part of a string of arson attacks started by another Elemental in town. But now her family was living in temporary housing, a cramped three-bedroom condo closer to Annapolis.
And Nick thought he had problems.
He didn’t hear the front door open, but the air told him when Michael was home.
It also told him that Chris and Becca were struggling to right themselves in the living room.
Nick smiled and entered the last invoice into the computer, then set aside the three where payments were missing.
Michael looked beat when he walked into the kitchen, and Nick was glad he’d gotten the paperwork done.
His brother grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and dropped into a chair. “Thanks for taking care of that.”
Nick always did, but he shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
“You think you could help me with a job tomorrow, since school is out?”
Nick had been planning to spend the day doing more college applications, tweaking entrance essays, and taking a few more SAT practice tests.
But Michael looked exhausted, and Nick could put that stuff off for a few hours. “Sure,” he said. Then he paused, thinking of Quinn. “You think you could let me borrow the truck for an hour?”
Michael had to be tired, because he took another drink of water, then tossed the keys on the table.
Nick’s eyebrows went up.
Michael shrugged, then shoved out of the chair, heading for the doorway. “I know you won’t do anything irresponsible.”
Nick never did.
And sometimes he wondered if that was part of the problem.
Quinn Briscoe stretched her left leg against the barre in the empty room, then folded her upper body as low as she could. She didn’t do ballet, not really, but she’d taken enough classes as a kid that she always started and finished with a classical warm-up—just because that was the most thorough routine she knew, and it hadn’t let her down yet.
Her thighs were screaming, and she told them to go to hell.
Really, she wished she’d worn sweatpants instead of these stretchy booty shorts. Then she wouldn’t have to look at how massive her legs were.
Besides, it was probably cold outside.
The shorts hadn’t been her choice. They were part of the cheerleading uniform at Old Mill, and
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