39. Evelyn
39
Evelyn
G arrett is slightly drunk on sleep, and he tries to hold onto me as I get up.
“Where are you going?” he asks. His voice is rough from disuse. A new part of him that I’ve been happy to collect. Sometimes, I compare the image I had of him before I came to Hartsfall with the one I have now. It reminds me a bit of an artist comparing old work to what they’re capable of now. The first image rough with potential. The more recent work vibrant and fleshed out.
“The inn to check on Quinn.” Instead of going to the closet to get fresh clothes, I grab his button down from the floor. I pull it over my shoulders and button it most of the way up, leaving the top few undone for a relaxed look.
“You could grab a clean one,” he says as he surveys me.
“But this one smells like you.”
“Are you saying I smell?”
“Good.” I crawl onto the bed and press a kiss to his mouth. “Your three-hundred-dollar cologne is doing some heavy lifting.”
He shakes his head. He’s not wearing his glasses, so his eyes are slightly unfocused. Morning Garrett. A new version of him I get to cherish. “Five hundred.”
“Of course it is.” I go back to getting dressed, hopping into my jeans and searching for matching socks in the dresser. “I was going to ask them if they wanted to go on a day trip to Manhattan. I’m assuming you have stuff in your office to clean out, so if there’s a day that’s best…”
“Let me know what they say. I’ll tell Holt I’ll be in the area.”
I go to Love is Brewing to get ginger tea for Quinn. We used to stock up on it in our apartment for this reason. I also grab a coffee for Oliver and a matcha for myself.
The inn has massive rose gardens fanning out along its sides. Stone paths wind through the flowers and the benches that are spread out at regular intervals. It’s the exact type of place I can imagine someone renting out for a wedding.
No one is at the front desk inside. I wait five minutes before peering around the corner to where I hear casual chatter and the clinking of utensils on plates. In what appears to be a dining area, I spot a familiar redhead with springy curls is speed-walking around the dining area to drop off orders. After she slides a steaming plate of pancakes and sausage onto a white linen draped table her eyes flick to me.
“Hey! I’ll be right with you,” Poppy chimes with an enthusiasm that is at least a little bit because of the rush she’s in. She does another lap collecting plates, darts through a swinging door that I assume is to the kitchen, and then finally strides to me.
“You’re not checking in, right?” Her eyes flicker with uncertainty. “I didn’t see anything on the reservation books for today.”
“Sorry. No. I was just wondering if I can get these delivered to a friend? I wanted them to be a surprise,” I say.
The man at the table closest to us knocks a mug onto the floor with his elbow and the entire room goes silent for a heartbeat before returning to its steady murmur of conversation. Poppy is doing her best not to wince through her customer service mask.
“Quinn and Oliver? You were at my pottery class with them the other day right and at the festival prep?” she asks as her eyes fix on the mess on the floor. There was little coffee in the mug, but porcelain shards are strewn across the carpet.
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I shouldn’t do this but we’re understaffed and fully booked. Garrett likes you too and that’s good enough for me. Room 8. It’s at the end of the hall on the first floor.”
Thank God for small towns.
“Thanks.” The word isn’t fully out of my mouth before Poppy is headed to start cleaning the mess.
The flight of stairs up to the first set of rooms is lined with paintings of flowers in gold and brass frames. My steps are muffled by the thick burgundy carpet that starts on the second floor. Each of the rooms are marked with a gold number and they all have actual keyhole locks instead of electronic ones.
I knock when I reach the door at the end of the hall. After a moment I hear the familiar sound of Oliver’s voice. “It’s probably just housekeeping. I’ll tell them we’ll be inside all day so they don’t come back if you’re sleeping or something.”
The door opens and Oliver fills the gap with his body. He’s in sweats and wearing blue light glasses that have that yellowish tint, so he must be doing work. There’s a second before he seems to register that it’s me and not housekeeping and he nearly shuts the door.
“Ev. Wow,” he stammers then pulls the door a little more closed. “Didn’t expect you to stop by.”
“Well, I still need to pick up the clothes you guys borrowed from the other night and I brought ginger tea. I forgot to tell you to get it while we were at the store,” I say and hold up the drink carrier. “Brought you something too, didn’t want you to be left out.”
“Thanks.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. I rise up onto my toes to look over Oliver’s shoulder. A bolt of confusion courses through me when I spot two full beds. “What—”
“Oh, thank God.” Quinn joins us and forces the door open. She’s in an oversized shirt, and probably shorts, but the shirt is so long that it hovers at mid-thigh. A hand is propped on her lower back, a sign that her cramps are still giving her hell.
“Here.” I hold out the cup with her tea and she grabs it greedily.
“Hmm,” she hums with the first sip. “If you were to ask me to drink this medicinal tasting shit any other time I’d hate it, but while my uterus is actively out to kill me, it is my favorite thing in the world.”
“Can I stay for a bit? Watch TV or something?” I ask. Since dinner a few nights ago I’ve been hoping to spend more time with just the three of us, just to see how things are without Garrett as a buffer. If I do go back to Nashville, it’ll be the three of us. With Garrett’s work situation up in the air I know he could join me, but that would be too much to ask. Still, after the last few days of writing with him, I’m more conflicted than ever. It’s addictive. I want to write like this with him over and over again.
Quinn waves me in. “Sure.”
A low-budget Christmas rom-com is frozen on the screen, the female lead encountering a smalltown baker/carpenter/coffee shop owner. Quinn climbs on the bed then repositions the hot pad Oliver and I got her last night so it’s under her back. In the far corner, Oliver’s computer is set up on a massive oak writing desk. Then there’s the second bed which has obviously been used. Did Quinn not want to sleep next to him last night? I know some people like to sleep alone, but I know that’s not the case for either of them.
“Can I?” I ask, pointing to the empty bed.
“Go for it,” Oliver says as he pulls the chair from his desk to face the TV.
“Did they have too many beds or something?” I ask, gesturing between where Quinn and I are reclining. Okay, so maybe bulldoze right into a conversation.
“It’s what they had available. A shame, but we’re making do. Isn’t that right, sweetpea?” Oliver maintains his usual playful lilt to the pet name he calls her, but there’s something unreadable in the shift of his eyes.
Quinn shakes her head. “That’s not what happened.”
“What?” I ask just as Oliver says, “Quinn…”
“No. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you calling me terrible food nicknames,” Quinn snaps.
Oliver frantically glances between Quinn and me, eyes wide and words flying out of him. “We should have talked about this.”
“I tried to. I didn’t want to do this in the first place, but you were the one who grabbed my hand. You were the one who said it would be best to make it less awkward. But I’ve been so stressed that my period came late. When were you planning on stopping anyway? A month? A year?” Quinn demands.
“I bet there’s a jewelry shop around here, who says we need to stop? I mean, it would cut down on rent to move in together.” Oliver shrugs.
“Should I go?” I look between them, feeling the need to bolt as tension boils over.
“No,” Quinn says to me before her attention returns to Oliver. “Be serious.”
“Fine. I was impulsive, but it worked, right?” he counters.
I hold my hands up to stop whatever's going on before I get even more lost. “Can we slow the hell down. What’s worked?”
“Us pretending to date,” Quinn says.
Pretending? That’s what this is? But…I scramble to restructure the last week around this new information. Quinn’s insistence on leaving the other night. The hushed discussions. All the moments of hesitancy and discomfort that I misread as them not knowing how to act around me, were them putting on an act.
“Great minds think alike.” The words slip out as my brain plays a game of connect-the-dots in the shape of our current reality.
“What?” Quinn and Oliver ask in near unison. Quinn’s face pinches with confusion while Oliver’s features brighten with excitement.
“Shit.” I never planned on telling them Garrett’s and my relationship wasn’t real. I really wish I could rewind the last ten seconds. “Well, that’s how Garrett and I started.”
“How you started ? But now?” Oliver presses.
“Yeah. We’re together.” I bite down on my smile. “Very much, very real.”
“When did that change?”
“We got together the night of the blackout and then again.” I blush and I can’t help but be excited that we’re back to talking about things like this. “We talked at the carnival and it was all good.”
“Don’t tell me that you hooked up in a classroom. There are cameras in there,” says Quinn, practical as ever.
I shake my head. “Supply closet.”
“The classier option, obviously,” Oliver asserts.
“So, the beds?” I cock my head, still waiting on an answer.
“The plan was to come here, hang out, and have a real vacation. They only had one room but, luckily, everyone else wanted the ones with one bed. Couples destination and all that,” Quinn explains, “thus the fake dating ordeal.”
“Dating me isn’t an ordeal,” Oliver complains, shoulders sagging.
Quinn continues. “It was partly because you sent all those pictures from the berry farm and there was that picture of the two of you in it. It was supposed to be a backup plan, but Oliver, here, got a bit trigger-happy and jumped the gun before we were sure about the situation.”
“If you didn’t come to tell me about you two being together then what would the vacation be for?” I ask.
“Come on. We miss you,” Oliver says.
Quinn shrugs. “Maybe we should have told you, an ambush obviously didn’t work the way we planned, but you’ve been averaging mostly one-word responses or just sending thumbs up emojis. I took the time off months ago, just in case you wanted to invite us up to New York for your birthday.”
Everything she’s saying hits me right in the soft tissue of my heart. I pushed them away. I gave them a good excuse to let me fade. Obviously, they’ve had each other, even if platonically; still, they came after me.
“What the hell did you do the other night with the guest room?” I ask, remembering a night that was good for me, but as I’m learning theirs is a very different story.
“I slept in the bathtub. With a pillow and a blanket, it’s not that bad.” Oliver says, then rubs the back of his neck.
“Oh my gosh.” A laugh launches out of me. This is all so stupid, the lengths we’ve all gone to are so fucking ridiculous.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Garrett
Helping Alina with groceries. Probably will get roped into rehearsing a bit. Let me know when you get back and I’ll come over if you want me to.
Evelyn
I will and I do.
Anxiety funnels into my thoughts. Garrett and I have talked about us. We’re official. This revelation about Quinn and Oliver shouldn’t change anything. Still, that’s not a conversation I know how to have.
“That him?” Quinn asks, suggestiveness dripping from her voice.
“Yeah, he’s just checking in.”
“I don’t feel weird about it,” Oliver reassures me. “Just so you know.”
“I don’t either,” I tell him.
“Wow. You know what I love? Communication. Imagine. We could have just had this conversation a week ago and I wouldn’t have had to live through Oliver calling me food themed nicknames,” Quinn says.
“You know, cannibalism is a common metaphor for love,” I say.
Oliver throws out a flailing gesture that I assume is supposed to mean something along the lines of See!
“Damn. I wish I had someone eating me,” Quinn deadpans as she presses the play button to start the movie, setting the meet-cute back in motion.
“Is this the one where she sleeps with her boss’ twin brother?” Oliver asks, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees.
“No this is the one where she’s the twin of his ex-fiancée,” Quinn says, eyes locked on a scene I know she’s watched a dozen times.
“My bad, wrong twin plot contrivance.”
“Honest mistake,” I say. “Happens to the best of us.”
It’s a simple thing, a TV show we’ve watched before. Commentary we’re repeating for the hundredth time. Moments that shouldn’t mean anything. But to me, I know we’re one step closer to who we were.
But there’s one thing getting in the way of crossing the remaining distance. Me.
No matter how much I want to stay after the movie is done, I leave. I need to find a solution. I can’t lose them again.