29. QUINN
QUINN
Sunlight filters through the curtains, soft and golden, brushing across my face, but it doesn’t feel like a gentle morning.
My chest is tight, my stomach twisting in knots.
I lie motionless, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet press in around me.
Today is supposed to be the big fundraiser, the culmination of months of planning, but I can’t bring myself to care about that. Not today.
All I can think about is him. My Beck.
The events of the past week come rushing back like a tide I can’t hold back.
My words, sharp and cruel, slicing through the air and landing straight in his heart.
How I shouted, blamed, and pushed him out the door.
And now... he’s gone. Missing. I don’t know where he is, and the panic inside me twists tighter than my fear of this pregnancy.
I press my hands to my face, trying to hold back the tears. I didn’t just hurt him—I humiliated him, pushed away the one person I want most in the world right now. And for what? My fear? My panic?
Slowly, my fingers fall from my face, and I take a shaky breath.
I sit up, pulling the covers around me like a shield, and replay the fight in my mind.
His face, strained with hurt and disbelief, flashes before my eyes.
The way his jaw tightened, hands fisted at his sides, the hurt I can still feel echoing from his voice—it all breaks me.
I can’t believe I was capable of saying the things I did.
And then it hits me like a punch to the gut: I need him.
I’ve needed him all along, even when I was angry, even when I was scared.
That stubborn, reckless part of me that wants to run from fear can’t mask it anymore.
I want him. I want to face this pregnancy, this future, everything, with him by my side.
But fear still lingers, gnawing at the edges. What if he doesn’t forgive me? What if he hates me for all the words I threw at him? What if I’ve lost him for good?
Even with that fear, one thought rises above it all: I can’t stay away from him.
I can’t let pride or fear stand between us.
I love him too much. And that love is louder than the panic, louder than the consequences.
It’s screaming at me to find him, to fix what I’ve broken, to bring us back together.
I grab my phone from the bedside table, my fingers trembling as I scroll through my contacts. Landon’s name flashes on the screen. My stomach tightens—maybe he knows where Beck is. He is his best friend, after all. I know I can just leave my bedroom to find him, but I’m too weak to leave.
“Landon,” I ask, my voice almost breaking.
“Quinn, is everything all right? Do you need something?”
He’s been at my beck and call all week, making sure that I’m okay as I’ve been pushing myself hard to prepare for the fundraiser.
I’ve been too scared to ask him until now. “Have you heard from Beck? Where is he?”
“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, concern threading his tone. “I have no idea where he is, and no one else knows where he disappeared to.”
My chest sinks. Missing. Gone. And I have no idea where he might be. Panic bubbles up, threatening to spill over. My mind races with all the possibilities—what if he’s hurt? What if he’s blaming himself too much to come back? What if this distance has made him give up on us entirely?
I press my hand to my forehead, trying to steady my breathing. The fundraiser, my plans, the hundred little things I’d been obsessing over—it all feels meaningless now. Nothing matters more than finding him, telling him how I feel, and hoping he can forgive me.
“I need to find him, Landon,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “I can’t wait. I have to fix this.”
Landon doesn’t argue, just hums in understanding. He knows better than to try stopping me.
I hang up and grip my phone tighter, a mix of fear and determination coursing through me. Beck is out there somewhere. And I’m going to find him.
I pace the room, phone clutched in my hands, rehearsing words over and over in my head.
My voice falters even in my own mind. How do I tell him everything I feel without sounding desperate?
How do I make him understand that I love him, that I need him, that I’m willing to face everything with him by my side?
I take a deep breath, letting my fear settle like a stone in my stomach, and stop pacing. There’s no perfect way to say this. There’s only the truth. And the truth is that I love him, I want him, and I can’t keep waiting.
With trembling fingers, I press his number. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times. My heart hammers with every unanswered ring, and then I get his voicemail.
“Beck, it’s me,” I begin, my voice catching. I swallow hard and keep going. “I—I just need you to know how much I love you. I’ve been scared, and I let that fear make me say things I shouldn’t have, things that hurt you, and I’m so sorry. I never should have pushed you away.”
I pause, biting my lip, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. “I want you back. I want us. I want to face this, everything, with you. I’m ready to adapt, to adjust, to grow, with you by my side. I hope you can forgive me, and I hope you come back. Please come back. I miss you.”
I hang up before I can second-guess myself, letting the phone rest in my hands as if it were a lifeline. My chest heaves, relief and terror swirling together. I’ve said it. I’ve laid my heart bare, and now I have no choice but to wait.
For him. For his forgiveness. For his return.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, phone still clutched in my hands, staring at the wall as if it could somehow tell me he’ll come back. Relief courses through me, but it’s tangled with dread—the gnawing, anxious worry that maybe I’ve said too much, or too little, or that it won’t matter at all.
I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes, whispering a quiet hope into the empty room. Please... let him come back. Please let him forgive me. Please let us fix this.
The world outside the window continues its steady, indifferent rhythm—the birds flit across the garden, the morning sun glints off the rooftops—but I’m suspended in this moment, held fast by longing and fear.
For the first time in days, I allow myself to hope.
Hope that love can heal the hurt I caused.
Hope that Beck will return. Hope that together, we can face whatever comes next.
And even though I don’t know where he is, I make a silent promise: I’ll be ready for him when he comes back.
I lift my head when I hear voices in the hall. It’s my parents. My chest tightens, and I freeze. I’m not in the right frame of mind to see them, especially today, even though I have no choice but to see them at the fundraiser later.
Father storms in first, his face red, his usual authoritative tone cutting through the quiet. “Quinn, what the hell is going on with you? You’re supposed to be up and about by now, handling things for this evening, but you’re here moping about that boy. What is—“
I bite my lip, but before he can finish, Mom follows, her expression softer, calmer, but her eyes sharp as ever. She steps between us, placing a firm hand on his chest.
“Enough,” she says quietly but firmly. “A father may be stubborn, but a mother will always see the heart. Look at her, Conrad—their love is real. You can yell and scold her all you want, but it doesn’t change that.”
I glance at her, tears welling, as she turns to me and gives me a reassuring squeeze.
“What is meant to be yours will always come back to you. If he is meant to be yours, he will find his way back to you. And if not, you have us to support you, right, honey?” she asks, turning to my father with a pointed look.
“Of course, dear,” Father grumbles, but the tension in his shoulders softens slightly under Mom’s gaze.
She smacks his arm lightly—a warning and a gesture of love at once.
“Thank you, you guys,” I murmur, my heart feeling lighter than it has in days.
For the first time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, everything could work out. Beck will come back, and I have my family behind me.