Chapter 30 Quentin
THIRTY
QUENTIN
“You suck at cooking,” Carmen said, amusement curling in her voice as she lounged at the kitchen island, coffee mug in hand like she was judging a cooking competition he had no business entering.
Quentin frowned at the pancake fused to the skillet, its edges charred, its center suspiciously still wet. It clung on like it had developed sentience and chosen spite.
“I can make patatas bravas,” he said with a self-satisfied grin, like that made up for the current breakfast crime scene.
It was one of the few dishes he could actually pull off without setting off the smoke alarm.
That and empanadas. Everything else was a full-blown culinary disaster with a side of char.
“That’s just potatoes, Q,” Carmen said without looking up from her phone. “A monkey could make it.”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, a talented monkey.”
She snorted and went back to drinking her coffee.
Quentin sighed and tried again, flipping the next pancake with cautious optimism and a whispered plea to whatever kitchen god oversaw breakfast disasters.
The truth was, he had no business attempting food at this hour, especially food meant for another human being.
But somewhere between Sadie relentlessly mocking his aggressive loyalty to flannel and the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, eyes soft, like she was quietly taking his measure, it hit him.
Not a gentle realization. A full-body, oh no, I am absolutely screwed moment.
He didn’t just want to date Sadie. He wanted to date the hell out of her.
Not just see where things went. Not flirt until she rolled her eyes and maybe dragged him into a supply closet for a stress-relieving makeout.
No, this was bigger. He wanted to go full rom-com.
Grand gestures. Stupid, dramatic airport sprints.
Candlelight and commitment. The whole damn script. And that scared the crap out of him.
He specialized in charming detachment, the kind that photographed beautifully and required exactly zero emotional risk. He did fun. He did easy. He did not do feelings that made him wake up early to attempt pancakes.
But Sadie was different. She was hot, obviously.
And fun to argue with until neither of them could remember how it started or why they were smiling.
But she was also real. Honest. Completely unfiltered.
The kind of woman who made you want to level up, get your life together, and earn a seat at her table instead of just assuming one would be there.
So yeah, he’d crashed on the lumpy couch in the guesthouse instead of crawling into bed with her like every horny hormone in his body had begged him to. It had felt like the right move. The respectful move. Possibly even the romantic move.
His lower back, however, strongly disagreed.
And now here he was—sleep-deprived, full of feelings, and making pancakes like a lovesick idiot.
The next pancake flipped cleanly, landing in the pan golden, round, and miraculously intact. Quentin froze, staring at it like he’d just witnessed divine intervention.
He held it up like a trophy. “Behold. The breakfast of champions.”
Carmen took a slow, unimpressed sip of her coffee, then gave him the laziest golf clap known to man. “Incredible. A true master at work.”
Quentin ignored her lack of enthusiasm and carefully stacked the miracle pancake on top of the semi-edible pile. It wasn’t just breakfast. It was a gesture. A messy, slightly burned, maple-syrup-drenched attempt at proving he could be someone worth betting on.
“You must really like this girl to be doing all this.” Carmen gestured at the flour-dusted war zone of the kitchen. “Because this looks less like breakfast and more like you’re trying to invent a new way to ruin food.”
She leaned back. “And you brought her here, to the Ramos ranch. The holy grail of land where our ancestors toiled, bled, and probably swore a lot. Introducing her to this place is practically a proposal, Quentin.”
He snorted. “It’s a weekend visit, not a proposal. Nobody’s engraving her initials on the barn.”
Carmen raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. Sure, Romeo. Keep tellin’ yourself that. But deep down? You’re hoping she sticks. You’re already mentally photoshopping her into next year’s family Christmas card.”
“Okay, first of all, that’s insane,” he said, grinning. “Second… maybe in, like, five years. If I can convince her to go on one date.”
Carmen took a sip of her coffee, watching him over the rim. “She likes you.”
He paused. “You don’t know that.”
“I absolutely do. She’s just scared. And awkward. Possibly terminally so. She gets this look around you like a middle schooler with a Lisa Frank binder she’s filled entirely with your name in glitter gel pen.”
“That feels… oddly specific.”
“She literally dove into a pile of horse shit to avoid talking about you.”
His stomach twisted, annoyingly hopeful. “So that’s why she looked all flustered?”
“Yes,” Carmen said flatly. “Normal people do not choose manure over emotional vulnerability. That’s a meltdown, Quentin.”
“And yet,” he said slowly, “she’s still here.”
“Exactly. She didn’t flee. She didn’t fake an emergency. She mucked a stall in borrowed boots and lived to tell the tale.” Carmen smiled. “She’s emotionally compromised. Congratulations.”
He laughed. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Obviously. She survived the Ramos initiation. Once you’ve scraped horse poop off shoes that aren’t even yours, you’re family-adjacent.”
He laughed, but it faded quickly when Carmen tilted her head, studying him a little too closely.
Then, in that deceptively breezy tone of hers, she said, “So… why’ve you been dodging us?”
Quentin froze. The question wasn’t surprising. Carmen had all the finesse of a wrecking ball in a greenhouse but still, he hadn’t expected her to ask so plainly.
“I—” he started, but the word stuck. “I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said finally, though even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie he didn’t have the energy to sell.
Carmen’s expression didn’t change. Just looked at him and waited.
“It’s just…” His hand gripped the counter. “It’s hard being here after Delly passed. There’s a lot of guilt,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Still.”
“Guilt? Why?” she asked gently, stepping closer.
“I wasn’t here for her when she died,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I was so caught up with acting… with being away. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Carmen’s face tightened, her own eyes shining now. She reached out and gripped his arm firmly. “Quentin. She knew how much you loved her. She never doubted that for a second.”
He shook his head, blinking rapidly as tears burned his eyes. “It doesn’t feel like enough. I should’ve been here. I should’ve—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, his chest tightening. “I never got to say goodbye.”
“There is no goodbye,” Carmen murmured. “She’s part of you. Of me. Of all of us.”
Quentin lifted his gaze to meet hers.
“She told us that, remember?” Carmen whispered. “It’s ‘see you in the stars,’ never goodbye.”
The words struck him. He could see it: three kids huddled on a blanket in the backyard, stars blinking awake above them.
He had been the teacher then, explaining galaxies and nebulae, stellar births and celestial deaths, while his sisters listened wide-eyed.
Delly had loved that part most, the idea that stars never truly vanished, only changed form.
They burned bright, then dimmed, then scattered themselves across the universe to begin again.
Stardust, she had said. Everything returns to stardust.
“She said when her time came, we’d find her there,” Carmen said, her voice breaking. “In the constellations. We’d never really lose her.”
Quentin closed his eyes. He could almost hear Delly’s laugh. It hadn’t disappeared, it had only shifted places. Not out loud anymore, but in his head.
“But what if I forget?” he said, his voice rough. “Her laugh, her voice... I hear it now, but someday I won’t. I’ll lose her piece by piece. And when that happens, what’s left of her?”
Carmen pressed her palm to her chest. “This. Here. That’s what’s left. She’s still in here, Q. Even if her voice fades in your head, she’s not gone. She’s part of you. Every breath, every memory, every time you look up at the sky.”
Her voice trembled but did not break.
“And she wouldn’t want you drowning in this guilt,” she went on. “You know her. She’d want you to laugh. She’d want you to be happy.”
He nodded, slow and silent, a lump rising in his throat too heavy to speak around. When she pulled him into her arms, he didn't resist. For the first time in what felt like years, the grief spilled out of him, hot and wordless. Carmen held him through it.
And when the tears finally ebbed, Quentin pulled back just enough to whisper, “Thanks, Carm.”
She gave his arm one last squeeze before letting go.
Quentin finished cooking breakfast in silence, then cleaned the kitchen. Before he realized it, he was walking down the hall, each step drawing him closer to Delly’s bedroom. He hadn’t opened that door since she passed.
The hinges groaned softly as he pushed it open.
The air inside felt suspended. Thick with dust and memory, the room hadn’t changed in five years, time stopped and standing still. Light filtered in, spilling over the dresser and her faded quilt.
His eyes traced the constellation of photographs lining the shelves and walls, Delly’s smile glowing in every frame.
She had always been smiling. Even when her body betrayed her, her spirit never did.
One photo stilled him. The two of them stood in the backyard, starlight caught in their hair as her laughter lifted into the dark.
He reached for it, fingertips brushing glass chilled by time. When he lifted the frame, something slipped loose and slid down, landing softly at his feet. It was an envelope.
Quentinillo was scrawled across the front in messy, unmistakable handwriting.
His heart lurched. Delly had started it, years ago, when they were kids and she thought adding -illo made everything funnier. Carmen had picked it up later, weaponized it, and never let it die. But the handwriting told the truth anyway. This was Delly’s.
Kneeling, he picked it up with shaking hands. He slipped his finger under the flap and unfolded the letter, breath held like it might keep him from falling apart.
Quentinillo, if you’re reading this, I guess I’ve gone to see the stars before you. Shocker.
The first line knocked the wind from him. He sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath him, the letter trembling in his hands.
I bet you’re a hotshot actor by now. Be sure to give Matthew McConaughey a firm handshake from me. Or better yet, give him directions to my burial plot, tell him I like daisies.
A laugh escaped him—broken and hoarse. God, that was Delly. Always finding a way to make the hardest things bearable.
I just wanted to say… you’re the best brother ever. You made my life worth living. Everywhere you go, you make people happy. So keep doing it. Make their lives worth living, too.
Including yourself.
Live.
Live for me if not for you.
A sob clawed its way up his throat. This was what he had been running from, the unbearable truth that he hadn’t said goodbye.
That he hadn’t been there. That he'd tried to outrun the ache instead of letting it hollow him out and fill with something new.
But Delly… even now, she reached for him. Not to haunt him. To heal him.
I love you a billion light-years and back. – Delly.
He exhaled shakily, the letter slipping to his lap as he hunched forward, elbows on knees, grief and love twisting together in his chest like twin vines.
Even in death, she was still his compass.
Still the one nudging him forward when he would have happily parked himself in emotional gridlock forever.
After a minute, he scrubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. I hear you,” he muttered, because if Delly was anywhere, she was definitely rolling her cosmic eyes at him.
He wiped his face, then carefully folded the letter. He slid the letter back into the envelope, then tucked it into his jacket pocket—right over his heart, where her words could settle in and stay with him.
“Thanks, Delly,” he said softly. “I love you a billion light-years and back.”
He looked up at the ceiling, blinking back the last of his tears. The stars weren’t out in the daylight, but he knew they were there, just like Delly, always nearby.
As he stood and headed back to the kitchen, the heavy knot of guilt inside him loosened, and somehow, he felt lighter. He grabbed the food and made his way to the guest house.
Life wasn’t over. It had felt that way for a long time, like a part of him had ended with Delly and the rest was just him moving through the motions. But life was still here, waiting, not done with him yet. He didn't want to wait anymore.