20. Porter
20
porter
When I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answers would vary. Football player. Fireman. Garbage man. I think I even went through an astronaut phase.
But no matter what I said at any given age, there was one thing they all had in common—none of them required wearing a suit to work.
And after spending all day in the only suit and tie I own at a family law office, I now know that seven-year-old me was right.
Suits are the worst.
“Hello? Where’s everyone at?” I walk through my front door, immediately loosening the tie and kicking off the most uncomfortable shoes known to man. Quinn doesn’t answer me, but I do hear noises coming from the kitchen.
As I make my way there, tossing my jacket over the couch so I can roll up my sleeves, I let the information that I got today run back through my mind.
I knew, even with Missy’s letter, that it wasn’t going to be easy gaining custody, though it did help. What I didn’t realize is how long it’s going to take, or the hoops I’m going to have to jump through to make sure that Grace is taken care of. But I’ll jump through a hoop of fire into a pit of snakes if it means that little girl stays with me. She might only have been here for a few weeks, but she already has me wrapped around her little finger.
I never wanted a family, which stemmed from not wanting to get married. Being a child of divorce, and having a mother who had no problem leaving you, does that to a guy.
But over the past week, I’ve been reminded how much family doesn’t have to be blood. And the best ones rarely are. It can be extended family that helps out in a pinch. It can be the found family at the bar you own who has taken it upon themselves to decorate and fence off a corner of the bar for your niece to have as her play area.
And it can be the woman who stepped up when she didn’t need to, helping you in ways you never thought imaginable.
The woman who’s currently having a little dance party in your kitchen, trying to entertain your niece before dinner.
“All right Gracie, here’s what we got tonight.” I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen as I watch Quinn bargain with a ten-month-old. “We’re doing peas. Now I know you’re probably going to hate them. Let’s face it, they’re gross. But! If you eat the peas, I’ll buy you your first car. Deal?”
Grace’s confused face is loud and proud as Quinn scoops a little bit of peas onto a spoon. My smile is big as I watch her lean down, doing her best to coax her mouth open. Grace opens, and I see the moment Quinn thinks she’s won.
But after two swirls around her mouth, I watch it play out in real time.
“Shit!” Quinn yells and I start chuckling as Grace furiously swats the spoon out of Quinn’s hand, making the peas go flying. If she was playing basketball, it would be an impressive block.
Note to self: Get her a mini basketball hoop.
“Don’t you laugh, mister,” Quinn says as she does her best to wipe the pureed peas off of her face. “We tried prunes today. And you’re going to be on diaper duty tonight to make up for the fact that I did every meal today.”
“Fair enough,” I say as my laughter dies down. “I take it we can put peas on the no-fly list.”
“It’s currently her most hated food. Though that can be said about most green veggies.”
I grab the dry erase marker to add peas to our list that we’ve been keeping of foods that Grace has vehemently rejected, which right now include mashed potatoes, eggs, green beans, and now peas.
“We’ll find something,” I say as I look over the six-foot-white board that I mounted on an empty kitchen wall. “At least she likes some vegetables. That has to be a win, right?”
“We’ll take what we can get. Oh! And add squash to the yes column. That was a hit during lunch.”
I do as Quinn says, while internally patting myself on the back for this idea. The last week has been a whirlwind in so many ways. One of the biggest ones that neither of us realized was that we knew nothing about Grace, in terms of her likes or dislikes. We didn’t have ten months to get to know her, or even know what she’s tried. So we’re starting from scratch.
Which is why I came up with the board. That way even if one of us isn’t here, it’s an easy way to let the other know what the goods and bads are. What a new habit is. Little notes for when we play tag to and from the bar. With as much information as we’re both dealing with right now, anything I can use a cheat sheet for, I’m going to do it.
“Should I ask how the rest of your day was?”
I pull a bottle of beer out of the fridge before sitting down across the table from Quinn and Grace—who’s now happy as a clam shoveling fistfuls of pasta into her mouth.
That’s number one on the good food list.
“We had a good day,” she says. “I finally finished unpacking. She watched Miss Rachel. And Turtle only knocked down four things today. Wins all around.”
“Turtle did what?”
On cue, Turtle jumps onto the table and sits in front of me, staring into my soul as if I’m going to dare reprimand him for tearing my house up. I didn’t know cats could be so destructive.
“You’re lucky I need your mother. Otherwise you’d be on the streets.”
“How dare you speak to my son like that!” Quinn says, reaching across the table and bringing Turtle into her arms. “He’s just a little boy, and he’s in a new house. He doesn’t know better.”
Now, I know cats don’t really understand English. But I swear, at this moment, that little fucker turns his head to me and tells me through his eyes that he does in fact know better, and he’s going to do it again tomorrow just because he can.
Asshole.
“My apologies,” I say as I take a pull of my beer. “So everything went well besides the peas?”
Quinn nods as she sets Turtle on the floor, only so she can pull Grace out of her highchair. “Yup. And honestly, I can’t even be mad at her for that. I hate peas, too.”
“Really? I don’t mind them. I’ve always thought they got a bad rap.”
“Blah,” Quinn says, which makes Grace giggle. Also I didn’t know that baby laughs were like drugs. Hearing that little sound is addicting. “Nope. I’m with Grace. Team No Peas.”
I sit back and look at Quinn, who’s still making Grace laugh with her little noises and faces as she finishes cleaning off peas, pasta, and who knows what else that is covering that child’s face.
“Why are you staring at me?” Quinn says, though I don’t know how she saw because she’s still making direct eye contact with Grace.
“I didn’t know you hated peas.”
“Why would you? I don’t think I know your least favorite food.”
“I know. It’s just…When you know someone…how we know each other…I guess I thought I knew everything about you. But now that I think about it, I don’t know if I know anything.”
Quinn gives me a raised eyebrow. “You know plenty about me. In fact, you know things about me that no one else does.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” I say, figuring she means that I’m the only one who knows that if she wants a quick orgasm, that doggy style is the preferred mode. A smack on the ass also helps. “What’s your favorite color? Do you like pineapple on pizza? Why the fuck did you name your cat Turtle?”
Quinn gives me a soft smile as Grace reaches her arms out for me. I gladly take over the holding duties, wondering how in the matter of such a small time I could go from being scared to hold her to craving baby snuggles.
“You want to know the first date questions.”
“First date questions? I just wanted to know your preferred pizza toppings.”
“Which is a first date question.” Quinn turns to me, her arm resting on the back of the chair casually. When she turns to me, I realize that in Grace’s pea launching, a spot landed right on Quinn’s boob.
Boobs that I’ve done my best not to stare at. But when she’s wearing a white shirt and there’s a green mark right where I know her nipple is, it’s kind of hard.
I do my best to get my brain back on track. Luckily, Grace bounces herself on my knee to be let down, which helps.
“People are asking pizza toppings on first dates?”
“Well, if they meet on dating apps, that’s usually covered then. But yeah, that’s a normal question.”
“Do they also want to know your favorite color and how you take your coffee?”
Quinn nods. “Normally, yes. See, the locations or activities might change of said date, but it doesn’t matter if you’re going out with a coworker, a guy you met online, or a stranger from the grocery store, no matter what, the questions are always the same. It’s why I call them first dates interrogations.”
“Interrogations? I know I haven’t dated in a while, but I feel like even then I was doing it wrong if this is what it’s supposed to be.”
“Oh, it shouldn’t be. They just are,” Quinn clarifies. “First dates are interviews. You’re trying to feel each other out if you have enough in common, or can answer the basic enough questions, to get you to date number two. It’s like interviewing for a job. The first interview is always the basics because they need to weed the applicant field down.”
“That sounds awful,” I say. “Both the dating and the interviews.”
Especially the picture I’m getting in my head of Quinn on dates with other men.
Oh God…is she going to try to date while she’s living here? How did I not even think about that possibility?
“Wait!” Quinn’s exclamation breaks the image of some asshole kissing her goodnight on my front porch. “Have you never been on an interview?”
“No. I worked at the bar in high school bussing tables and washing dishes. I mowed lawns and did odd jobs for some extra cash, but none of them needed a resume, let alone an interview. And then I took over the bar. The rest is history.”
“Fascinating,” Quinn says. “Well, if you are curious on how to make a resumé, I’ll be updating mine soon.”
That takes me back. “Really? Why?”
“Because I can’t work at the bar forever, Porter. I have a degree. I’m a teacher. Or…at least I was.”
Quinn gets up from the table and quickly makes her way into the kitchen, pulling an assortment of vegetables out of the refrigerator before taking out a cutting board.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I follow her. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I know the bar isn’t going to be the rest of your life.”
She shakes her head, but doesn’t look up at me. “You’re fine. The problem is that I don’t know what is the rest of my life. I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure.”
I lean against the counter and look at Quinn, who’s doing her damnedest to not make eye contact as she whacks at the cucumber. And I know why. I might not know her favorite potato chip flavor or what her first concert was, but I know when she’s trying to hide her vulnerability. She tries to retract in herself. She’s probably thinking of some sort of joke she can make to take the heat off of her having to open up at all.
And maybe before, I’d let her. I’d know that I only had one night with her, so in the rare case when she was a little sad, I’d let her handle it her way.
But not anymore. Because for as much as she’s helping me with Grace, trying to help her work out this stretch in her life is the least I can do.
“Hey,” I say, walking over and tipping her chin up, our eyes meeting. “Talk to me.”
For a split second, I see her try and reinforce her determination. Her eyes narrow a bit and her cheeks start to redden. But I don’t let go. I don’t waver. I tighten my grip. Because if knowing Quinn has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes she just needs pushed out of her comfort zone.
“Don’t put this off, Quinn. Don’t let it fester. Though I have a feeling you already have been.”
Her resolution only lasts for a second before she drops the knife and her walls start to break.
“I miss them.” Those three little words are enough to send her into tears as she falls into my arms. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I went to the principal’s office, got in a fight with parents, and walked out with my middle finger in the air. My kids didn’t deserve that. I’m not mad about quitting or leaving that toxic school district, but I regret every day doing it in a way that hurt them.”
“Let it out,” I say, rubbing slowly up and down her back. “I’ve got you.”
And she does. For minutes we stand in my kitchen as I hold a crying Quinn. Every once in a while she’ll say a little something about problems she was having at the school, and I think at one point she starts talking at penises, but I could be mishearing things against the sound of her tears.
The way she’s crying in my arms, I have to think this is the first time she’s truly grieved what she lost in Arizona. She’s been here for more than a month. Has she really not dealt with this at all? By the way she’s crying, and the confession she just made, I don’t think she has. At least fully.
“I want to teach again,” she says as she starts to pull back from my hold. “I want to be around that environment. But I just…I don’t know where. I don’t know how.”
“But you know what you want,” I say, leaning down a bit so I’m eye level with her. “And that’s the first step.”
She nods. “You’re right. Thank you, Porter.”
“Anytime, Hurricane,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze before turning back to Grace, who has started babbling something as she plays with her blocks.
“What you got there, baby girl?” I kneel down next to Grace, but as soon as I’m crouched down, I hear Quinn’s scream.
“Ouch! Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I’m up in a flash and turn around to see a horrified look on Quinn’s face. It’s then I see her holding her finger, and blood gushing from it.
“Quinn!”
It only takes me three steps to get to her, grabbing her around the waist and all but carrying her to the sink. I flip on the water and hurriedly put it under the running water.
“Here, hold it there.”
She doesn’t argue as I start tearing apart my cupboards for my first-aid kit. Of course it’s in the last cupboard, but luckily it has gauze, ointment, and various sizes of bandages.
“Here,” I say, grabbing her hand again, and wrap the gauze around her finger, holding it tight to try to stop the bleeding.
“I swear I’ve cut vegetables before,” she says through her tears. “I just?—”
“Hey. It’s okay,” I say, holding her finger a little tighter, which brings us closer together, as Quinn is a little off balance. “Just breathe. Let me take care of you.”
Our eyes are locked as I hold the gauze around her finger. Minutes pass in silence, and I have to remind myself to check if she’s still bleeding, or worse, that she’ll need stitches.
The bleeding has stopped enough that I can put on some antibacterial ointment before securing the new bandage.
There’s just one problem. Even though the bleeding has stopped and the bandage is on, I don’t let go of her hand. I also don’t break the stare we’re sharing.
She’s right there. I could just lean down and take those lips that I miss every day. I can smell a faint bit of her perfume, and it’s enough to drive me wild.
I want to drive her wild.
I want to walk into this kitchen on an exact day like this and kiss the hell out of her.
I want her. All of her.
“My favorite color is red.”
Her words are a whisper, and the only reason I know she spoke was seeing her lips move. Because I was staring at them.
“What’s that?”
She swallows the lump in her throat. “You wanted to know my favorite color. It’s red. And pineapple doesn’t belong on pizza unless ham and pepperoni are involved, and even then it’s debatable. And Turtle is the name of a character from my favorite book as a kid. I always said that if I had a cat, I’d name it Turtle.”
“Thank you,” I say, bringing her bandaged finger to my lips and placing a soft kiss on it. And then I do the hardest thing I’ve had to do in a very long time.
I drop her hand and walk away.