deep breath and head for the main floor. It’s blocked by a door, but the handle turns easily enough. I step into the kitchen and my mouth goes dry. The hardwood floor is swept, the sink is empty of dishes, the cream-colored counters are washed clean. After knocking on a rusty front door, this is the last thing I expected.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Quinn and I lived in opposite-land. Me, in my beautiful mansion stuffed to the gills with dirty junk. Him, in this run down colonial that’s clean and polished and gorgeous on the inside.
I take Mr. Walker’s advice, open the refrigerator and pull out a gallon of milk. But instead of closing the door, my hand stops in mid-air. Milk hovers above the hardwood floor as I try to figure out what’s in the baby bottle on the door.
The substance is a funny color, not white but not yellow either. A couple ounces of thin liquid rest on the bottom while three full ounces of cream float on the top. It has to be breast milk. I know because, what else could it possibly be? But why would Quinn have breast milk in his refrigerator?
I put the cow’s milk back, no longer in the mood to drink anything produced by a mammal. Maybe water would be better. I open a cupboard and find baby bottles lined up in rows. Wrong cupboard! I open the one next to it and find white plates with blue flowers on them sitting beside a few plastic kid-sized bowls.
I groan. Quinn’s mother must have had another child. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
After opening the third cupboard down, I finally find a glass. It’s smooth and cold to the touch. I fill it with water from the sink. Bubbles dance around the rim as I take a sip. When I put it down, I see a note on the counter.
Quinn,
Our boy needs diapers. Would you mind terribly picking more up after grandpa gets home from his Beethoven concert?
Me
And just who is “me”? The word Grandpa makes me think Quinn’s mother didn’t write this note, though I guess it’s possible Quinn’s grandfather lives here too.
I shake my head, trying not to think about it, forcing myself not to jump to conclusions without evidence. But the words our boy keep coming back to me, poking me in the ribs, waving like a big red flag.
Back when my dad actually talked to my mother, he’d made it a habit of referring to Roland as “our boy.” So the thought that boy really means son is stuck in my head. What if Quinn isn’t as moral as he pretends? What if he’s a big fat hypocrite?
And to think, I was worried when he didn’t show up at George Mason.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and turn as Mr. Walker steps through the door. His eyebrows raise when he sees me.
“You okay?” he says.
Am I that transparent?
“Did your wife have a baby recently?” I ask, keeping my voice cool and even. Worried I’ll say something stupid, I put the glass of water to my lips and take a long sip.
Mr. Walker takes a few steps closer, cupping a hand around his ear as if I’ve mumbled something inaudible.
“What did you say?”
I put the glass down. “You heard me.”
He shakes his head. “Humor me, please.”
If he thinks playing dumb will keep me from finding out the truth, he’s more than naáve, he’s just plain stupid. I pick the note up off the counter, wave it in the air and let my angry voice take over.
“Explain this!” I snap.
He looks down at his shoes. “Please don’t judge my family. People make mistakes.”
I feel betrayed, like I’ve swallowed battery acid. I can’t believe Quinn got some girl pregnant, yet he has the nerve to strut around pretending to be so moral. And while a part of me wants to punish Mr. Walker for his son’s failings, another part feels bad for a man filled with so much shame he’s yet to take his eyes off the floor.
“Tell Quinn that Kat stopped by,” I say, unable to get out of there fast enough. I storm past him, knocking over a chair as I leave.
That boy needs some humbling, and I’m just the one
If I didn’t know better, I’d think Quinn and I lived in opposite-land. Me, in my beautiful mansion stuffed to the gills with dirty junk. Him, in this run down colonial that’s clean and polished and gorgeous on the inside.
I take Mr. Walker’s advice, open the refrigerator and pull out a gallon of milk. But instead of closing the door, my hand stops in mid-air. Milk hovers above the hardwood floor as I try to figure out what’s in the baby bottle on the door.
The substance is a funny color, not white but not yellow either. A couple ounces of thin liquid rest on the bottom while three full ounces of cream float on the top. It has to be breast milk. I know because, what else could it possibly be? But why would Quinn have breast milk in his refrigerator?
I put the cow’s milk back, no longer in the mood to drink anything produced by a mammal. Maybe water would be better. I open a cupboard and find baby bottles lined up in rows. Wrong cupboard! I open the one next to it and find white plates with blue flowers on them sitting beside a few plastic kid-sized bowls.
I groan. Quinn’s mother must have had another child. It’s the only thing that makes sense.
After opening the third cupboard down, I finally find a glass. It’s smooth and cold to the touch. I fill it with water from the sink. Bubbles dance around the rim as I take a sip. When I put it down, I see a note on the counter.
Quinn,
Our boy needs diapers. Would you mind terribly picking more up after grandpa gets home from his Beethoven concert?
Me
And just who is “me”? The word Grandpa makes me think Quinn’s mother didn’t write this note, though I guess it’s possible Quinn’s grandfather lives here too.
I shake my head, trying not to think about it, forcing myself not to jump to conclusions without evidence. But the words our boy keep coming back to me, poking me in the ribs, waving like a big red flag.
Back when my dad actually talked to my mother, he’d made it a habit of referring to Roland as “our boy.” So the thought that boy really means son is stuck in my head. What if Quinn isn’t as moral as he pretends? What if he’s a big fat hypocrite?
And to think, I was worried when he didn’t show up at George Mason.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and turn as Mr. Walker steps through the door. His eyebrows raise when he sees me.
“You okay?” he says.
Am I that transparent?
“Did your wife have a baby recently?” I ask, keeping my voice cool and even. Worried I’ll say something stupid, I put the glass of water to my lips and take a long sip.
Mr. Walker takes a few steps closer, cupping a hand around his ear as if I’ve mumbled something inaudible.
“What did you say?”
I put the glass down. “You heard me.”
He shakes his head. “Humor me, please.”
If he thinks playing dumb will keep me from finding out the truth, he’s more than naáve, he’s just plain stupid. I pick the note up off the counter, wave it in the air and let my angry voice take over.
“Explain this!” I snap.
He looks down at his shoes. “Please don’t judge my family. People make mistakes.”
I feel betrayed, like I’ve swallowed battery acid. I can’t believe Quinn got some girl pregnant, yet he has the nerve to strut around pretending to be so moral. And while a part of me wants to punish Mr. Walker for his son’s failings, another part feels bad for a man filled with so much shame he’s yet to take his eyes off the floor.
“Tell Quinn that Kat stopped by,” I say, unable to get out of there fast enough. I storm past him, knocking over a chair as I leave.
That boy needs some humbling, and I’m just the one
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