Chapter 16
Quinn
“Have a good day tomorrow!” I shout to the back of the bakery. “Stay safe!”
“Bye!” Hailey calls out, followed by the others out the alley door.
We should be all set for the Fourth of July the day after tomorrow—pre-orders are ready, cupcakes and tarts baked and chilling, and the booth is set up in the park.
The shop will be closed tomorrow to give everyone who volunteered to work the holiday the day off before, and I’m looking forward to it.
Maybe I can get some groceries and do some online furniture shopping for my new place. I do have a little money left.
“Codi, do you have a phone?” I ask my remaining employee who finishes cleaning the display case.
She stands up straight. “Yes.”
I take out mine. “Can I get your number?”
I’m not sure if she’s more than a summer employee yet. Somewhere I picked up the impression that she might not be able to commit to a long-term schedule, so we’re taking it a few days at a time. I’ve just been paying her under the table, but I need to get her on payroll. Taxes and such…
“We’ll be all over the place for the holiday,” I warn her. “It’ll make it easier to find each other.” I hand her my phone. “Wanna put your number in?”
Keeping her eyes down, she takes the phone and starts punching in digits.
I take it back and add her as a contact. “Doing anything fun tomorrow for your day off?”
“I have to clean Farrow’s house.”
Her voice is nearly a whisper, but I’m getting used to it.
What does she mean she has to clean Farrow’s house?
“As a…a job?” I ask.
She hesitates, as if thinking, before she nods.
Which makes me doubt he’s paying her. Is she returning a favor or something? Does he help her out in return?
Farrow’s been kind to me, but I haven’t known him long.
I step in closer. “He’s nice to you, right?”
Again, she nods, but I knew before I asked that she would never say he wasn’t. She’s afraid of him.
The question is, should she be, or is she just afraid of everyone?
“Call me if you ever need anything,” I tell her. “I’m always here.”
She presses her lips together before turning and leaving.
I don’t stay long. I finish up scheduling, and my lineup for next week’s new additions to the menu, as well as carving out time after the holiday to work on the ice cream stand. It would’ve been ideal to have it for the Fourth of July, but the hottest days are yet to come.
I climb on my bike and ride to my parents’ house. The multi-day backpack I got in high school during that phase where I thought I was going to hike the Appalachian Trail is still buried in my closet, I think. Perfect for transporting more of my stuff.
In six minutes, I’m home. Walking inside, I head upstairs and dive into my bedroom, so full of energy even though I’ve been working for twelve hours.
Tonight, I’ll be in Weston. In my house.
Sitting at my table, eating something from my kitchen.
I don’t even care if it’s cereal or croque monsieur. It’s mine.
Finding my pack, I stuff in essential shoes, clothes, extra chargers, and snatch framed photos of my family off my wall. I’ll hang them in my new house.
I hesitate for only a moment. It would be smart to wait for the loan to go through before moving all of this in. What if there’s a problem?
But I can’t wait. I’ve got the keys. It’s as good as mine.
Mentally, I make a list of things to do after the holiday, like getting the utilities in my name, setting up Wi-Fi, and doing a proper scrub down. The place isn’t filthy, but it’s far from comfortable.
Dashing into the hallway, I open the closet and steal some of my parents’ linens. Luckily, there’s a twin bed in one of the upstairs rooms of my new house, and Mom keeps twin sheets for anyone crashing on the couch when we’re overbooked for the holidays.
Snatching them, I carry the bundle back down the hall. A bathroom door opens, and I stop short, watching Lucas turn off the light. He steps out in black lounge pants, steam pouring around him as he dries his hair with a dark blue towel.
He sees me and slows, water dripping down his chest. The sheets weigh as much as a truck, but I can’t take my eyes off his chest. My gaze descends to a toned stomach and trim waist. He’s so long and lean…
I look away, blinking. “It’s midday,” I gripe. “You just getting up?”
“I’ve been up since the same time as you probably,” he retorts, taking the sheets out of my hands and following me to my room. “Work calls in Dubai, and then I helped Fallon at the workshop until I came back and swam some laps in the pool.”
I open my pack and grab a handful from him, stuffing the sheets inside.
My pulse races. I wanted to ask him why he just disappeared last night, but he’s in my room. Half-naked.
I just packed my bikini. Would he get back in the pool with me?
I lick my lips, grabbing the blanket out of his hands and packing that too.
“What are you doing?” he inquires, running the towel over his dripping hair.
“Taking another load over.”
I toss in a few books, some lotions and cuticle oil, and a candle from my night stand.
I add Renting a Moving Truck to my mental list. I can’t keep packing up backpacks as if I’m on an extended sleepover.
I have shelves of books, boxes with old keepsakes, and I’m sure my parents would let me have my bedroom set. I’ll ask before I take it, though.
Digging in my drawer, I pull out a handful of underwear and some silky sleep shorts, stuffing them in the pack.
He drifts back a couple of steps, but looms like a giant in my periphery.
Orange and vanilla swirls into the air from his body.
My bodywash. He used my bodywash. Something tightens between my thighs, and I whip around, gathering more clothes.
“That place could use a lot of renovations,” he points out. “Might be a good idea to stay at home till it’s more livable.”
I tell him softly, “I like it how it is.”
“What’s it like?”
He looks amused, like I’m telling him about a croissant again, but I don’t know…
I don’t know how to describe it. The house is bare, raw, and a little dirty, completely unlike me.
“Quinn?”
Joy lifts the corners of my mouth, possibility the only thing coming to mind when I think of 01 Knock Hill. Possibility.
“Like things are going to happen to me there,” I tell him.
That’s what it’s like. Stormy nights and misty mornings, and maybe I won’t be alone for all of them.
His eyebrows nosedive, his voice sounding curt, and I almost snort. That was definitely the wrong thing to say.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
I lift up the pack and slide my arms in, strapping it to my back. “See you in a couple days,” I reply, keeping my secrets to myself that I seem to have trouble containing.
Leaving him in my room, I exit the house, climb on my bike, and start pedaling for home as thunder cracks across the sky.
The air grows thick, the clouds bearing down, and the wind whips over my body.
There are a million reasons that I’m scared about buying a house I can barely afford in an area where I’m not sure I’m safe, but it’s like every minute that takes me deeper into this mistake, the better I feel about myself.
I’ve never done anything on my own, except the bakery.
I don’t have my own friends. I don’t travel without my family.
I don’t have a past. Hell, Dylan has more of a past than I do.
My parents will have every right to be concerned, but I’m starting to understand that it’s okay. My brothers can fight and yell as much as they want. In the end, though, I’m an adult.
And I can’t believe I just left Lucas—again—when we could be in my parents’ house alone together. If it were the Lucas from eight or ten years ago, I would’ve stayed. He’s changed.
The only part that’s an immediate concern is the car situation.
I’m miles away now, Uber doesn’t come to Weston, and it’s not a good look to still bum rides off family if I’m trying to maintain that I’m an independent adult. It’s time to invest in a company vehicle.
I roll my shoulders, the weight of the pack getting heavier every mile as I cross the bridge. I pat my leg, but I think I stuffed my purse in the backpack, and I don’t have any spare change in my pocket.
I grunt, breezing by the sunken car far underneath me. “I’ll get you next time,” I mutter.
Riding through the warehouse district, I look up at empty windows, darkened doorways, and abandoned alleys, but I feel the eyes all the same. As if the ghosts never ran from the flood.
There are still people residing in Weston. Enough to keep the schools running. It was the poorer neighborhoods that proved the most resilient.
The river flows from a higher elevation, and Knock Hill—the more affluent area that looks like it’s modeled after the Upper West Side of New York City—took the hardest hit.
The streets were consumed, businesses ruined, and most of those who evacuated never came back.
Thankfully, the main living areas of the brownstones—which are more black than brown now—were salvaged, only the basement levels really flooding.
I cruise up to my house, taking the sidewalk, because cars block both ends of the street. Tables line the curbs on both sides as Farrow stacks cinderblocks, placing a grate on top. It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s doing, but it looks like a homemade barbecue pit.
“What are you up to?” I call out to him as I park my bike.
People surround him—some men I haven’t met, and a few familiar-looking faces among the girls. Friends of Dylan’s.
He jogs over. “Block party. You coming?”
Tonight?
I climb my steps. “Why not wait till the Fourth?”
“Because we’re crashing the Falls on the Fourth.”
I throw him a look, shimmying out of my backpack and digging my house key out of my pocket. “You mess up my brother’s celebration, we can’t be friends.”
I don’t care how much we might get along. Madoc works too hard.