Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Quinn
Issues
Julia Michaels
The last stretch of highway feels like it’s daring me to change my mind. Chicago’s skyline is still distant, a jagged line of steel and glass rising out of late-summer haze, but my body already knows we’re close.
My shoulders ache from holding tension like it’s a seatbelt I forgot I could take off.
My legs feel like they’ve been folded into the shape of Quinn-in-transit for two days straight.
There’s a faint bruise on my hip from where a box labeled BOOKS — DO NOT CRUSH has been pressing into me every time Sadie hits a bump.
The car is packed to the ceiling. Literally.
The backseat looks like a Tetris game designed by someone with commitment issues.
My clothes, my textbooks, my framed photos, my winter boots I refused to leave behind even though it’s still warm enough to wear sandals; all of it stacked to the point where the rearview mirror is decorative at best.
Sadie drives like she’s running from something, which is funny, because she never is. She’s just always been like this. Fast and focused. A little reckless in a way that somehow never gets her hurt.
Her dark hair is twisted into a messy knot, sunglasses perched on her head, and she’s humming along to whatever playlist she threw on at sunrise. Every once in a while, she glances over at me, smile tugging at her mouth like she can’t stop herself.
“You’re really quiet,” she observes, voice gentle but loaded.
I blink, coming back into my body. “I’m just thinking.”
“About what?”
I look out the window as the suburbs start to blur into the edges of the city. The road signs change. The buildings get taller. The air shifts. “About the fact that I’m not visiting,” I admit. “I’m arriving.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
Sadie’s hand tightens on the wheel, but her expression softens. “Yeah,” she grins over at me. “You sure are.”
My throat goes tight. It’s not fear or regret.
It’s the sensation of stepping off a ledge and trusting the air will hold you.
New York wasn’t just a place for me. It was a rhythm.
A routine. Predictable chaos. Even the parts I complained about, like the noise, the cramped apartment, the constant pressure of being “on” had a familiarity I could lean on when everything else felt uncertain.
There’s comfort in the things you already know.
Chicago is unfamiliar enough to be thrilling and terrifying all at the same time. But it’s a change I’m truly excited about. I wish I had made the decision sooner, so I had more time to find my own place and start setting up a space that’s mine, but I know that will come.
Sadie reaches over at a red light and squeezes my knee. “Hey.”
I turn my head.
“I’m proud of you,” she states simply.
The words hit in the exact place I’ve been trying to keep protected. “Stop,” I whisper, my voice thick. “I’ll cry and then you’ll make fun of me.”
Sadie grins. “I would never.”
I give her a look.
“Okay, I would definitely make fun of you,” she admits, laughing, “but only because you’d deserve it for being dramatic.”
I exhale slowly, my anxiety easing a fraction. “I don’t want to mess this up,” I admit. “Or feel like I’m crowding you. Or make you feel like you have to take care of me.”
Sadie’s jaw shifts like she’s swallowing something emotional. “Quinn, I’m your sister. I want you here. And also, Dean has a big house and an even bigger need to feel useful. Trust me, you’re not a burden. You’re a gift.”
I laugh under my breath. “That is the sappiest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve grown,” she declares, then immediately ruins it by adding, “Also, Dean is obsessed with you being here because it means you’ll validate his opinion that Chicago is superior to all other cities.”
My mouth curves. “He would.”
“Also, he’s been counting the days since I left,” she adds, voice dropping into something warm and knowing. “So fair warning, when we get there, he’s going to be feral.”
“Noted,” I nod quickly. “I will make myself scarce.”
Sadie’s laughter brightens the car, and for the first time since we crossed state lines, I let myself smile without forcing it. By the time we pull onto Dean’s street, the sun is tipping low enough to soften the edges of everything.
Golden hour makes the neighborhood feel like a movie set with the tree-lined sidewalks, tidy brick buildings, and quiet porches.
It’s beautiful. Grounded. Like a place where a person could breathe.
Sadie parks and kills the engine, and for a beat, neither of us moves.
The silence is weighted. An ending. A beginning.
Then the front door opens. Dean steps out like he’s been pacing behind it, waiting for the exact second we arrive.
He’s in a black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up, tattoo visible, hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it too many times.
His posture is controlled, but his eyes, his eyes are not.
They lock onto Sadie and something raw flickers there, something I’ve only seen a few times from him.
Relief. A need so sharp it makes me look away out of instinct.
Sadie barely has time to open her door before he’s there. He yanks her out of the car as if he can’t stand the inches between them. Sadie’s laugh is breathless, surprised, and delighted all at once. Dean’s hands frame her face and then he kisses her.
It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s not a gentle reunion kiss meant for an audience. It’s a kiss that says you’re mine and you’re here and I’m done pretending I’m fine without you.
Sadie makes a small sound, half laugh-half moan, before she grips his shirt and kisses him back with equal intensity. Dean’s body angles into hers, like he’s trying to fuse them back together after ten days apart. I turn away, pretending I’m intensely focused on my seatbelt. My cheeks warm anyway.
“I missed you,” Dean grumbles, and I catch it even though he tries to keep it private.
Sadie’s voice is soft when she answers. “I’m back.”
Dean closes his eyes for a beat like those words are oxygen. I clear my throat, loud enough to remind them I exist. Sadie breaks the kiss and grins at me, totally unashamed. “Hi, Quinn!”
Dean finally looks at me, a slow smile pulling at his mouth. “Hey Quinn. Welcome to the best city in the world.”
“Thanks,” I laugh, grabbing my backpack and climbing out. “Also, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.”
Sadie laughs, leaning into Dean’s side as if she belongs there. “Too late.”
Dean takes my bag without asking, because apparently that’s the theme in this house, and slings it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. “Your home for now,” he grins, voice steadier. “We’ll figure out the rest.”
Home for now. Temporary, but filled with the hope of something new and exciting just around the corner.
Inside, the house is quiet in a way that immediately tells me Dean isn’t the type of man who fills his space with noise.
Everything is deliberate. Clean, but not sterile.
It’s lived in. A few framed photos on shelves.
A guitar leaning in the corner like it’s waiting for hands.
The faint scent of coffee and cedar and something darker; masculine and warm. It fits him.
Sadie barely makes it three steps into the foyer before Dean’s hands are on her again, fingers sliding into her hair as if he needs to anchor himself. She pulls back just enough to look at him. “Why don’t you take Quinn upstairs and show her the guest room?”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You mean I’m going to take you upstairs.”
Sadie’s grin turns wicked. “Also, that.”
I cough again, purely for drama. “I swear I’m an adult.”
Dean’s gaze flicks to me with amusement. “Then you’ll survive a few minutes alone while I remind my girlfriend she’s not allowed to leave for ten days ever again.”
Sadie laughs, then he’s kissing her again, quick and hungry, as he tugs her toward the stairs like he’s losing his mind. She tosses me a look over her shoulder. Sorry not sorry.
“Take your time,” I call, deadpan. “No really. Take so much time.”
Sadie’s laughter floats down the hall as they disappear upstairs and a door clicks shut with finality. I stand in the living room, suddenly alone, and for a moment the silence presses in. Not lonely. Just, aware.
I set my backpack down and bring in the pile of boxes we hauled from New York.
My life in cardboard. My choices stacked in corners.
I open a box at random. My textbooks. A journal.
A framed photo of Mom and Dad at the beach last summer.
I run my thumb over the glass and swallow hard.
I miss them already. Even though mom FaceTimed Sadie and I seven times in the last few days.
I carry the photo upstairs and find the guest room meant for me. It’s simple. It has neutral walls, a bed made neatly with navy sheets, a small dresser, a desk near the window. Clean, calm, and spacious.
I set the photo on the desk, then sit on the edge of the bed and let myself feel the excitement underneath everything.
Two weeks. That’s how long before my job starts.
Two weeks to find an apartment, learn my commute, memorize streets, find a coffee shop that feels like a routine.
Two weeks to prove to myself I can do this.
I unpack in small, manageable increments. I bring the boxes upstairs, and I put some of my books on the shelf. Fold clothes into drawers. Stack my work folders on the desk like a promise. Every item placed makes the room feel a little less like borrowed space more like mine.
Downstairs, I hear the front door open. Footsteps. A pause. Then a voice I recognize instantly. “Anyone home?”
My body goes still. I wasn’t expecting him. Not yet. Not tonight. I head down the stairs slowly, not because I’m afraid, but because something in me wants to observe before I react.