Chapter Sixty-Eight
On the way out of the hospital, Jules trails after Quinn Riley, both assaulted by harsh camera lights and questions shouted by journalists.
The night is crisp and light and it feels almost like a dream as Jules follows him.
Quinn is polite to the reporters but declines to be interviewed. He and Jules finally reach his car ahead of the mob, and Quinn opens the door for her. She slides into the vehicle.
Inside, he starts the engine and reverses out of the spot slowly to allow the reporters time to back out of the way. The maneuver is clumsy and he apologizes, says he’s not used to the car, that it’s a loaner from his firm since his car was impounded by the police.
Eventually, they’re on the interstate.
“Thanks for the ride,” Jules says.
“You’re welcome,” Quinn says. It’s surreal being in a vehicle with him.
The last time was at the Irish bar. Before that it had been five years ago, when they bumped into each other at a group therapy session at the same hospital.
When she drove him to the fairgrounds and he disappeared without saying goodbye.
In the melee at the hospital tonight, she didn’t get a chance to talk much to Quinn.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she says.
He smiles. He’s still not a talker, Quinn Riley. She sneaks glances at him while he drives. He’s gotten more handsome, she thinks. He still has the cheekbones, the intensity in those dark eyes. Still has the unruly hair.
“You’re still modeling?” he says at last.
“I’m retired. I actually moved back home this year. Started my nonprofit.” She waits. “And you’re a private investigator?”
At the hospital, the nurses fawned over Quinn, tending to his minor cuts and bruises, gossiping about the media frenzy over him and his heroic rescue of Minnie Agbayani.
The staff were glued to the TV where breaking news alerts updated about the death of an Iowa reverend, the arrest of the reverend’s wife, the manhunt for the person that the wife confessed they hired to take Minnie for them, their church’s former handyman.
“Yeah, I became a P.I. after a short, but memorable, stint in the army,” he says.
“I would’ve already known all this,” she says, “if you’d called me. I gave you my card at that Irish pub…”
He smiles, says, “I saw your boyfriend and thought it wasn’t a good idea.”
Jules shakes her head confused. Then she realizes: He must’ve seen Jack that night at the bar.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
He makes a sound of amusement in his throat. “Well, I had a girlfriend, and she was not pleased that I was talking to you.”
“Had?”
“Long story…”
“Quinn Riley,” she says if only to hear the words out loud. “I can’t believe it.”
“What can’t you believe?”
“I don’t know. We—” She pauses. “We just always seem to have parallel— I don’t know.”
He gives an exasperated laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Soon, they’re on the familiar streets of Monarch where they both grew up.
“Staying with your parents?” he asks.
“Long story,” she says, borrowing Quinn’s avoidance tactic.
They sit in the idling car in her driveway. “You want to come inside, have a coffee?”
He holds her gaze. She feels a tingle run through her at how he looks at her. She has the sudden, if not bizarre, urge to kiss him.
“It’s getting late,” he says.
“Yeah, of course, sure,” Jules says. She feels embarrassment heating her face. “My parents, I’ve talked about you, so I wanted them to finally meet you,” she says, recovering.
“Next time.”
She reaches for the door handle.
“Hey, Jules.”
She turns, looks at him.
“I wanted to call you.”
“You should’ve.”
“When I was in juvenile detention, and then when I was stationed in Somalia, where this happened”—he gestures at his face—“I wrote you letters.”
“You did? I never got them.”
“I know. I never sent them.”
“Why wouldn’t you—Why…” She lets the question fade. Then: “Well, what did these letters say?”
“I don’t remember.”
She tilts her head, disappointed.
“But I can tell you they made me feel better when I was at my lowest. Made me feel like I had a friend.”
“Well, you do,” she says, offering her hand. “Have a friend.”
He takes her hand and gives her that look that causes electricity to flitter up her arm and down her spine. “Friends.”