21. Quinn
21
quinn
“We need two glasses of wine, a club soda, and three crispy chicken salads.”
“And don’t skimp on the ranch!”
“Please!”
I turn around from the tedious task of wiping down the liquor bottles to see my three favorite women walking into The Joint.
“Well, well, well…what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Maeve and I have the day off, so we figured we’d make the trip down from Nashville,” Ainsley says. “You know, just a nice lunch.”
I raise an eyebrow as I pour my sisters their wine. “Really? This is what you two are choosing to do on your day off?”
“Why not?” Maeve asks nonchalantly. “It’s not like this is the only way we get a chance to see our newly-back-in-town sister since she’s basically ignoring us.”
“And maybe we just want to see where her mind might be since the last time we talked,” Stella says. “You know, if she made any big decisions, like moving, she wanted to talk to us about.”
“Or maybe catch a glimpse of that baby. Considering I’ve been your twenty-four-seven phone-a-friend, it’s the least you can do.”
I set down their drinks with a little more force than necessary. “Next time, give me a heads up when you’re planning on having another Quinn-tervention. Also, it’s highly unfair that y’all can drink through this and I can’t.”
“Not an intervention,” Maeve says before shooting a look to Stella. “Remember? We promised this was just a visit.”
Stella rolls her eyes. “Fine. But if it comes up naturally, I’m not dropping it.”
“No need to bring it up,” I say as I send their order back to the kitchen. “I still don’t know what I’m going to do.”
None of my sisters say anything as I pour myself a glass of water—which of course complements the iced coffee I grabbed earlier today—and go take a seat at their table. We’re pretty slow right now, so no one will mind if I join them for a few minutes.
“Really? You don’t know?”
I give Stella a hardened look. “I don’t. I’ve thought about it a little. I miss the kids like crazy, but I hate the politics that has overtaken our schools. If I go to a new school and they have their own P.E.N.I.S. Posse, which most schools do these days, I’ll quit before I start.”
“Maybe it would be different at another school district?” Ainsley suggests. “Or, you know, one that you once attended?”
I let out an audible “Ha!” before realizing that Ainsley’s serious. “Really? You want me, the girl who’s not allowed within fifty feet of the chemistry lab, to go teach in Rolling Hills?”
“That’s not true,” Stella says. “Plus, that chemistry teacher is gone. They probably wouldn’t remember that you once filled it with foam.”
Well, that’s good at least. “I know where your heart is at, Ainsley, I really do. But me teaching in Rolling Hills is out of the question.”
“And girls, let’s not forget she has no time to think, you know, what with helping raise a baby with her hot roommate and all.”
I narrow my eyes at Maeve. “Smooth transition, sis.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Let’s consider it payback for when you not-so-subtly asked me about my husband’s dick size.”
Stella and Ainsley can’t hold in their snickers as I tip my glass to Maeve. She’s right. I did not so subtly dig for details. Though, in my defense, at the time they weren’t even fake married. She was just his interior designer.
“For one, you’re a married woman, you shouldn’t be calling other men hot.”
“I’m not married so I can say it. He’s hot, Quinn. Very hot.”
I gasp at Ainsley. “Ainsley Mae!”
“What? I may be sweet, but I’m not blind. And neither is any other woman in this town. So spill. Or next time you message me about the baby, I’ll leave you on read.”
“I liked you a lot better before you realized you held a superpower,” I say to her, but she only flashes me the sweet-and-innocent smile that I’m starting to think might not be so sweet and innocent. “But there’s nothing to dish. Yes, I moved in to help him. Yes, we’re just roommates. That’s it. I’m only there until he gets a handle on things with Grace or I move to my next stop. Whichever comes first.”
I know Porter was scared when Grace first arrived. But I must say, he’s adapted faster than I expected. He mastered diaper changing within a few days and only threw up once during an especially epic poop from his little princess. He was very proud of himself when he came up with installing the whiteboard—which was started for foods and now has grown into an “everything about Grace” board. Foods, nap schedules, milestones, you name it, the man is tracking it.
It’s kind of adorable.
But only kind of.
“That!”
Maeve’s outburst scares the shit out of me. “What?”
I frantically start looking around the bar to see if I missed someone come in, or if maybe the kitchen randomly caught on fire. But when I see nothing, I turn back to Maeve, who’s pointing straight at me.
“That look!” she yells. “There is something going on between you two.”
Now, I have a split second to make a decision here. I could finally come clean to my sisters about what had been going on with Porter and I for longer than Maeve’s son has been alive. Or, because it’s not happening anymore, I could continue to keep mum about the only secret I’ve ever kept from them.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Mama Maeve, but nothing is going on between Porter and I. I’m just his roommate.”
“That’s how it always starts,” Stella says. “One second you’re living together, raising a baby. Next thing you know you’re bumping into him coming out of the shower and oops! Towel falls down. I wonder what will happen next.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say as I stand up from the chair. But only because I don’t want my face to give me away, because I have seen Porter in just a towel. And it should be criminal for a man to look like that, well, ever. “I’m going to go get your salads. When I come back, let’s maybe find a new topic of conversation that doesn’t revolve around my life. Oh! Remember when Ainsley said she drank in college? Let’s finally circle back around to that.”
My sisters snicker as I walk back to the kitchen to grab their salads. Honestly, the bell notifying me that their food was ready couldn’t have come at a better time. Just going back to the kitchen, grabbing the dishes, and an exorbitant amount of ranch, gives me enough time to compose myself. Because truth be told, every day I live with Porter is one more day I have to remind myself that I shouldn’t be staring at him.
Or sneaking looks at him anytime we’re in the same room.
Or trying to forget how I almost kissed him the day I cut myself.
I’ve been so close to breaking so many times. Between the way he held me when I finally grieved the loss of quitting my job, to taking care of me when I nearly sliced my finger off. Which I didn’t. I didn’t even need stitches. But the way he came running to me, and looked at me with such concern…fuck, it was hard to resist.
And when he kissed my finger? I nearly melted on his kitchen floor.
I always knew Porter had a sweet streak in him. Granted, for years, I mostly saw the dirty-talking side that chokes me from time to time. But seeing him over these last few weeks? The sweetness is undeniable. It’s pure. And it’s been there the whole time, and yet, I never got to know it.
Or, more accurately, I never allowed myself to.
I kept it casual. I made sure I never spent the night. I made sure it was sex and sex only. There’s no room for sweetness in the situation I carved for us.
But not Porter. He’s the one to always clean me up after. Make sure that I’m okay after I come down from the high he’s given me. He’s the one who always demanded a text message to let him know I got home safely.
And he’s the one who asked me to stay.
Then there’s me: The one who leaves as soon as she can. The one who wants to make sure this is a secret. The one who draws the line in the sand.
The one who never believed a man like him could actually love a woman like me.
The one who feels her carefully constructed walls breaking a little more every day.
“Dammit, Porter McCoy…what are you doing to me?”
* * *
Usually it takes me all of two minutes to walk across the parking lot from The Joint to Porter’s house. But today I take my sweet time.
Not that I don’t want to get home to spend my night with Grace, but I don’t want to see Porter.
I mean, I have to at some point, and it will only be a few minutes before we play tag for Porter to head over to the bar. But after the talk I had with my sisters today, and the emotional floodgate that opened, my head and my heart need a little bit of a break.
Even if that comes in the form of walking extra slow and then sitting on the front porch to scroll through my phone.
Out of habit, I check my emails, which I don’t know why I do. It’s not like I have a job offer sitting there, or a formal apology from my school district telling me that they realize that the P.E.N.I.S.s are horrible and they’d love to have me back. No, I’m usually just looking for good coupons so I have an excuse to shop for things I don’t need under the impression that buying will make me feel something.
I delete most of them, saving a few for possibly an online shopping dopamine hit later tonight, when I see an unusual email from something called “Quinn’s Crew Book Club.”
I probably would’ve scrolled right past it if it wasn’t my name. And, don’t get me wrong, I get plenty of spam and random emails every day, but after a while, you start becoming familiar with the senders. And I know for a fact I’ve never seen a sender of anything with my name.
Curiosity getting the best of me, I ignore every email training I’ve ever had and open it.
TO: Quinn Banks
FROM: Quinn’s Crew Book Club
Miss Banks,
We need to talk. You owe us. And I’m not just talking money from the Bruh Jar.
Here’s a Zoom link. Meeting time this Tuesday.
Sincerely,
Quinn’s Crew
P.S. Some of our moms know we’re doing this, but the not-cool ones don’t. Just thought you’d like to know that.
I laugh out loud, because I have no idea which of my former students is behind this, but it’s too good. And Quinn’s Crew? I’m here for it. Even if they’re doing this to yell at me for quitting how I did, I’m going to commend their creativity and their initiative to make contact.
I save the meeting in my calendar before checking the time. And while it’s a beautiful day, I probably need to go inside and face the music.
I quietly walk into the house, knowing this is usually Grace’s nap time, and I’m glad I do. Because as I turn the corner into the living room, I see Porter and Grace napping together, Turtle joining them from his spot on top of the couch.
And this isn’t just any nap.
Porter is shirtless, and the gray sleep pants he wears have traveled dangerously low on his hips.
Oh, and then there’s Grace, napping on top of him, her little hands holding onto him like she’s afraid he’ll sneak away.
Oh, baby girl…that man isn’t ever going to let a thing happen to you.
And I bet if I let him, he wouldn’t let anything happen to me either.
No, no, no! Stop it Quinn! Right the fuck now!
In an absolute panic, I sprint upstairs and shut my bedroom door before throwing myself onto my bed and screaming into my pillow, thinking that somehow might stop my ovaries from trying to combust. Or stop my heart from beating faster. Or regulate my body temperature that suddenly could benefit from a cold shower.
Newsflash: it doesn’t.
Seriously, what is happening to me? Am I that weak? Why am I reacting like this? Why do I want to go back downstairs and curl up on the couch with them? Why do I want to ask Grace if I can take a turn lying on top of him?
And why the fuck does a slight part of me now want to see that image every day for a very long time?
Oh, that’s right. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.
I’m a weak, weak woman.