forgetting for a second about the sketchbook, I pull on the corner and stuff it back into the box, then up onto the shelf and close the closet door with a small thump that I hope Joe doesn’t hear.
It’s only when I hear Joe’s low, soft voice humming down the hall and then muffled by the shower running in his bathroom that I follow Mollie down the hall and out of the back door, locking it carefully behind us. And as we leave Joe’s home, I try my best to put thoughts of Quinn and the kid he’d been out of my mind. That look in his young eyes had been too haunted. That expression too damn familiar. It matched the one Rhea had worn up until a few weeks ago, before her health had improved. Before Quinn had made his way into her life without permission, without invitation. But maybe, just maybe, for a good reason.
THERE IS ALWAYS chaos and activity at my parents’ home. But Mom and Dad, if not my brothers and sisters, are, at least, well-meaning. For example, inviting everyone, including Joe (who declined) and Layla and Mollie (who conveniently found something else less embarrassing to do), to their house for Sunday lunch, had been born from a desire to catch up with my friends who hadn’t been over for a visit in months. Joe, Autumn suspected, had a date he didn’t want to mention to her. And so it was only Declan and Autumn and Satan Quinn, who rang my parents’ doorbell precisely at twelve-thirty and as soon as they arrive, I grab her, greeting Declan with a kiss on the cheek and ignoring Quinn completely because he was a supreme asshat. Despite what I had learned about his childhood, my heart had not softened much to O’Malley.
It might have, had he not continued to greet me with an eye roll whenever our paths crossed at the hospital, and insist that whatever he was working on with Rhea stay a secret just between the two of them—not that I hadn’t tried to get to the bottom of it (without being too obvious, of course).
“What’s the project you and Quinn are working on?” I’d asked Rhea nonchalantly just a few days ago after she had hastily stuffed her sketch pad under her pillow as I walked into her room.
“Nothing,” she’d answered just as offhandedly, too young, too inexperienced to understand that avoiding my gaze only made me more suspicious.
“Nothing?”
“Well, Quinn says it’s no one’s business.”
“Not even mine, kiddo?”
She’s glanced at me then, attempting a smile that was pathetic if she really thought it would charm me, and one that did nothing to hide her humor. “Quinn says, especially not your business.”
Hence, my standing O’Malley Can Suck It attitude.
Not welcoming him into my folks’ home ala the ingrained southern hospitality Mom had raised me on was highly immature. Still, it makes me feel better, especially since he hadn’t missed the chance to call me a wanker yesterday when Rhea and I hadn’t finished our reading of The Forest Again chapter in the final Potter book before Quinn came in for his time with her.
“Pathetic,” he’d muttered as I’d left the hospital room. It was an insult I now returned when I saw him curiously scrutinizing the obscene amount of family photographs in the den. He kept poring over them, which gave me the perfect opportunity to be an asshat, too.
“We don’t all have different fathers, in case you’re wondering, O’Malley.”
I shoot a grin at my brother, Booker, who laughs at the old family joke. Of course we have different fathers. Duh, adopted.
“Nope,” Booker calls as he flops into the recliner in the living room. “But Mom swears the sperm bank screwed each one of her pregnancies. Except Carver. We got him from the Freak Show.”
“Oh you mean your identical twin brother? What does that say about you?”
“I was the better looking one.”
“You wouldn’t say that if he was here.” Booker’s laugh is loud, welcoming as my friends and Satan follow me into the room and I kick his feet
It’s only when I hear Joe’s low, soft voice humming down the hall and then muffled by the shower running in his bathroom that I follow Mollie down the hall and out of the back door, locking it carefully behind us. And as we leave Joe’s home, I try my best to put thoughts of Quinn and the kid he’d been out of my mind. That look in his young eyes had been too haunted. That expression too damn familiar. It matched the one Rhea had worn up until a few weeks ago, before her health had improved. Before Quinn had made his way into her life without permission, without invitation. But maybe, just maybe, for a good reason.
THERE IS ALWAYS chaos and activity at my parents’ home. But Mom and Dad, if not my brothers and sisters, are, at least, well-meaning. For example, inviting everyone, including Joe (who declined) and Layla and Mollie (who conveniently found something else less embarrassing to do), to their house for Sunday lunch, had been born from a desire to catch up with my friends who hadn’t been over for a visit in months. Joe, Autumn suspected, had a date he didn’t want to mention to her. And so it was only Declan and Autumn and Satan Quinn, who rang my parents’ doorbell precisely at twelve-thirty and as soon as they arrive, I grab her, greeting Declan with a kiss on the cheek and ignoring Quinn completely because he was a supreme asshat. Despite what I had learned about his childhood, my heart had not softened much to O’Malley.
It might have, had he not continued to greet me with an eye roll whenever our paths crossed at the hospital, and insist that whatever he was working on with Rhea stay a secret just between the two of them—not that I hadn’t tried to get to the bottom of it (without being too obvious, of course).
“What’s the project you and Quinn are working on?” I’d asked Rhea nonchalantly just a few days ago after she had hastily stuffed her sketch pad under her pillow as I walked into her room.
“Nothing,” she’d answered just as offhandedly, too young, too inexperienced to understand that avoiding my gaze only made me more suspicious.
“Nothing?”
“Well, Quinn says it’s no one’s business.”
“Not even mine, kiddo?”
She’s glanced at me then, attempting a smile that was pathetic if she really thought it would charm me, and one that did nothing to hide her humor. “Quinn says, especially not your business.”
Hence, my standing O’Malley Can Suck It attitude.
Not welcoming him into my folks’ home ala the ingrained southern hospitality Mom had raised me on was highly immature. Still, it makes me feel better, especially since he hadn’t missed the chance to call me a wanker yesterday when Rhea and I hadn’t finished our reading of The Forest Again chapter in the final Potter book before Quinn came in for his time with her.
“Pathetic,” he’d muttered as I’d left the hospital room. It was an insult I now returned when I saw him curiously scrutinizing the obscene amount of family photographs in the den. He kept poring over them, which gave me the perfect opportunity to be an asshat, too.
“We don’t all have different fathers, in case you’re wondering, O’Malley.”
I shoot a grin at my brother, Booker, who laughs at the old family joke. Of course we have different fathers. Duh, adopted.
“Nope,” Booker calls as he flops into the recliner in the living room. “But Mom swears the sperm bank screwed each one of her pregnancies. Except Carver. We got him from the Freak Show.”
“Oh you mean your identical twin brother? What does that say about you?”
“I was the better looking one.”
“You wouldn’t say that if he was here.” Booker’s laugh is loud, welcoming as my friends and Satan follow me into the room and I kick his feet
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