Epilogue Two
Cecily
I’ve poured blood, sweat, and tears into this house. As I sit on the porch and look at the plants I’ve coaxed to life in the front yard, the light fixtures and ceiling fan I put in by myself—I love this house. Old, tiny, with more character than working parts, but it’s mine . My grandmother left it to me, and I have poured myself into making it the kind of home I always wanted. Warm, inviting, welcoming. Everything about it looks lived in and cozy instead of like the mausoleum I grew up in. And now, because I made a mistake and pissed off the wrong person, I’ve lost my job. I’m about to lose this house. At this point, if I don’t sell, I’ll just have to suffer the humiliation of eviction and foreclosure.
And as if all that isn’t stressful enough, I’m now having to face off against the biggest mistake of my life. Quinn Carter. My ex. At this point, I don’t even know what to call him. Is he my almost ex or my almost husband? We were only married for a hot minute when I was too young and stupid to know any better. Then my dad had a fucking meltdown over it and insisted we get it annulled. And Quinn didn’t fight him on it. He just let me go.
Why the fuck that matters now, why it still stings my pride, I cannot say. But sitting here on the verge of bankruptcy, selling everything I own to repay Peter, Paul, and every other apostle who’s waiting in line, I’m not looking forward to facing him. But I don’t have a choice because Calvin Farnsworth the second was a shitty, shady lawyer who pocketed my dad’s money and apparently did nothing else.
A large truck, older but in good condition, pulls onto my street. I sit up straighter. It’s him. Quinn. He’s here.
The truck eases to a stop in front of my house and he climbs out. And this is not the boy I dated in high school. Sweet baby Jesus.
The dark hair is the same, still thick as ever. And as he walks toward me, he shoves his hands in his pockets. It’s a familiar gesture. One I saw him do a million times, usually when he was nervous about something. But that’s where the similarities end. With his tattoos and wary expression, this man looks dangerous.
“Cecily,” he says.
“Quinn… This is a fine fucking mess we’re in, isn’t it?”
He smiles at that, and for a split second, I see the boy he used to be.
“That’s an understatement. I stopped in and saw Damien Sizemore this afternoon. He’s going to look into it and figure out what we have to do.”
I nod. “Thanks. I don’t guess there’s much point in doing any of the other paperwork until we figure that out.”
“Probably not,” he agrees.
Silence falls between us. When we were younger, we could sit together for what felt like ages without saying a word and it was completely fine. But this is uncomfortable. Awkward. Because we’re strangers now. He was my first date. My first kiss. My first everything . And now we don’t even know what to say to one another. And I can’t come up with a single intelligent thing to mutter to ease this purgatory we’re in.
After a minute, he just starts glancing around, like he’s looking for an escape. Then he stops. “You’ve got a flat tire.”
I look over to the driveway, like I don’t know what’s there. That tire got slashed two days ago. But no job means nowhere to go, so I’ve just let it sit. “Yeah, I know. I’ll have to get it looked at.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
Before I can even formulate a protest, he’s already striding toward it. That his ass is still that amazing in a pair of jeans catches me off guard. Then he squats down and his head whips back toward me. “This isn’t just a flat, Cecily. Who slashed your motherfucking tire?”
“It’s nothing,” I insist.
“Bullshit. I’m not leaving till you tell me what this is about,” he says.
I look across the way and see some nosy neighbors poking their heads through the curtains. This isn’t a conversation I can have with him in the front yard. Not when everything I say and do is being reported back to the very person who is causing every bit of my problems. “You better come inside… It’s gonna be a long story.”
—-
I’m in the kitchen, pouring iced tea into two glasses while Quinn is sitting at my kitchen table. My hands are trembling as I turn back to face him, the tea sloshing precariously in the glasses with each step. Before I dump it on him, me, and the floor, he takes both glasses from me and puts them down.
“Do you remember Evan Salyers?” I ask him.
Quinn’s expression darkens. “Yeah, I remember that ass.”
“Well, about five months ago, he came through the ER where I was working. Pill seeking. The doctor knew it. Everyone fucking knew it, but they gave him what he wanted and he left. High enough to sit on Wednesday and see both Sundays… so I called to report it. Evan was going to kill somebody on the road if I didn’t. Anyways, Troy James pulled him over.”
“Troy’s a good guy,” he says. “And you did the right thing. If Evan is as stupid now as he was back then—and it sounds like it—he’s too damn dumb to operate a vehicle anyway.”
I laugh at that because it’s true. “Yeah, well, I should have called Troy directly instead of going through dispatch. That’s a mistake I’m paying for… Lucy Carpenter works in dispatch.”
That just gets an eye roll from him. “Jesus Christ. What a pair that is. So she tells him you called it in and now he’s resorting to petty vandalism to get even?”
And this is where shit starts to get complicated. “Not exactly. Troy busted him for the DWI, but what they found in the car was a little more of a big deal… fentanyl and meth. In large quantities. So he got busted for trafficking, as well.”
Quinn whistles softly at that. “So who slashed your tire? Cause if he got busted with that much fentanyl, he’s not out here running around.”
“No… but Jenna Stevens is. While he and Lucy might have had a thing going on the side, he and Jenna have been together for a long time,” I tell him. “And you know what the Stevenses are like!”
I said it as a joke, but I can tell from his expression that he’s not taking it as one. “Cecily, these people are dangerous.”
“I’m aware, Quinn.”
He shakes his head. “Is that why you’re selling? Because you’re afraid?”
It’s not exactly untrue, but it’s not the whole of it. Still, that’s less humiliating than telling the man I’m quasi-married to that I can’t afford to pay my bills. “Yeah. Just gonna get out somewhere that nobody knows me and start fresh.” Living in my car, probably.
“These assholes don’t get to run you out of town. No. Not while I’m here.”
“I’m not your responsibility!” I snap. I’m so goddamn sick of men thinking they get to run my life and make decisions for me.
Then he levels that look at me, the one I know. The one that says he’s digging in and not letting it go. “According to the laws of the great Commonwealth of Kentucky, that’s not true. Legally, I’m still your husband… and you, Cecily, are still my wife.”