38. Quinn
Quinn
I leave the coffee shop without a coffee, which is saying a lot for me.
At first, I am in such a state of utter shock over everything that just happened, I literally have no idea where I am going or what I am going to do.
I want to go after him, but I also feel like I should know better.
That explosion was hot enough to burn, and I know better than to touch the safe fire twice. Until it cools down a little, anyway.
When I get behind the wheel of my car, I don’t know where I’m going. But my brain does. Because how could he accuse me of all of that? The idea of me using him for money, of me somehow knowing that Michael Overholt was his client and that I would try to mess with any of that is just…
“Does he even know me at all?” I ask no one in particular. The guy behind me at the stoplight honks his horn and goes around me, rolling his window down to yell as he passes.
“It’s green, lady! Get your head out of your phone!” he yells with a Brooklyn accent.
“Get your head out of your ass!” I yell back before hitting the gas.
This isn’t me. Verbally road raging at people, ugly crying while driving, teetering somewhere between heartbreak and rage. None of it is me. And you know what else isn’t me? Using someone for money. Lying to someone I care about.
Dating my father’s workplace rival.
Jesus…
That one really throws me for a loop. I mean, at this point I have so much vertigo from the intensity of the situation, I don’t know which way is up and which way is down. But finding out that my father and Reid have literally fought each other in a courtroom makes me physically nauseous.
Speaking of that.
While I had no idea where I was going when I got in my car and ripped down the congested New York street, it wasn’t until I put the car in park in front of my dad’s house that I realized this was my destination.
But it makes sense for two reasons. One, I always go to my dad when I have a problem.
Nearly thirty or not, he’s my dad. He’s all I’ve had.
But also, finding out he is, or was, on the Overholt case is news to me. And I need to know what he knows.
“Hey sunshine, how’s things?” my father stops when he sees my face. He’s in the middle of rinsing off dishes to place in the dishwasher, and he turns off the water and dries his hands on a dish towel. “Quinny, are you okay?” he asks.
“No, Dad, I’m not,” I tell him, making no point of hiding the fact I’ve been crying or the fresh tears making their way forward from the back of my eyes.
“Well, why don’t we have a drink and talk about it?” he asks calmly. My dad is nothing if not calm. Always.
“I haven’t even had coffee yet,” I sniff, running my hand through my hair as I try to calm myself.
“Well, coffee then. I’ll put on a pot right now. And you’re in luck. I just bought that organic vanilla creamer you like,” he says.
“I don’t feel like coffee right now,” I say, and he closes the fridge.
“Alrighty then, no coffee,” he says. Then he takes my hand and pulls me into his arms. “Hug first. Always hug first. And then we talk.”
I follow him over to the couch and sit down. He hands me a throw, and I snuggle up in it. Then I grab one of the pillows just for good measure and take a deep breath as my dad sits across from me.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I tell him.
“Anywhere you want,” my dad says softly. “But just know, whatever it is, it can be fixed and it’s not the end of the world.”
“I don’t know,” I sigh. “This really could be the end of the world. The end of my job. The end of my love life. The end of everything I came to believe was true.”
“That’s a lot,” he says. “But I promise you. Whatever it is–wait. Love life?” he asks.
I nod. “Yep. Love life,” I say.
“So there is a man after all. It’s a man, right?” he asks, and I toss him an eye roll. “Sorry. Just trying to make you laugh. Alright. So what catastrophe is so colossal that you feel like every important aspect of your life is over?”
I take in a breath. Hold it. And start in.
“So that donor who has been helping with finances since the funding went haywire just pulled out,” I tell him.
“Reason?” he asks. “And was it a formal contract? You know I hate the idea of you counting on word-of-mouth donors instead of formal contracts. You’re a nonprofit. It’s not just generosity. It’s your income. Your business’s livelihood.”
“I know,” I tell him. “And no. There was no truly formal contract. More of a…if I help you, you’ll help me sort of way.”
“I see,” he nods. It’s a signature response of my dad’s when he very clearly isn’t affirming of a decision I’ve made.
But my dad has never been one to make me feel stupid about my decisions.
It’s not his parenting style. Although it does kind of give an, I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed vibe.
“And how much money were we talking about here?”
“Enough to fund more or less the entire business for the rest of the year,” I say, and the corner of his lips twitch. That’s all though. No jetting eyebrows. No widened eyes. No sudden response.
“And the tradeoff?” He asks, no doubt expecting something equally as pricey.
I bite my lip.
“How big is it, Quinny?” he asks.
“It’s not that it’s big per se…” I trail. “It was more time-consuming and…emotionally draining than pocket training.”
My dad clears his throat, a hint to get to the point.
I let out the breath I have apparently been holding since we sat down on the couch.
“I agreed to be his date to a handful of weddings he was obligated to go to this summer…” I say. And this time I do get a brow furrow out of him.
“So let me get this straight…this man offered you…thousands of dollars and in turn you just had to go to a couple of weddings with him?” he asks. “You love weddings. And any man would be a fool not to want you on their arm. Unless…he had ulterior motives.”
“Believe me, Dad, there were no ulterior motives,” I tell him. “I wasn’t interested in him, and he wasn’t interested in me. It was strictly contractual.”
“Until…?” he asks. “And I only say until because you did mention that this story includes a romance subplot…”
“Yeah,” I sigh, kind of wishing I had that drink right now. “That got messy,” I admit.
“I can imagine.”
It’s wild, really. Even at this point in the story, with all the plot twists and turns, the man is calm and patient. Even if the whole finance part of him did ruffle his otherwise perfect feathers a bit.
“I never saw it coming,” I say, immediately hearing how cliché that sounds. “We don’t get along. Like at all. Or didn’t.”
“Enemies to lovers?” he asks.
“Worse,” I say.
“Grumpy sunshine?” he asks.
“Worse,” I say.
“What’s worse?” he asks. “God, did he die? Is this a Les Misérables story?”
“What? No! He was a divorce lawyer,” I answer.
“Oh,” he breathes out. Then, “Oh…”
“Yeah,” I say. “And he’s known for making the demise of people’s happily ever afters his life's work.”
“And you fell for him…how?”
“Because it’s not who he is,” I say. “After spending time with him at all the weddings, I realized he’s not the monster people think he is. He’s sweet and considerate and deep, and funny. Sarcastic, yeah. But–”
“He’d have to be to handle you,” my dad winks.
“Exactly.”
“So what happened?” he asks.
“What happened is we figured out that his current client was my client’s husband…” I say, knowing full well that the next part of this sentence, the part he is probably already deducing. “Your client’s husband…”
“Wait,” he sits up. “You mean…the Overholt case?” he asks, and then his eyes go almost dark, a color I rarely see.
“Yes…” I answer.
“You were going to weddings with…and seeing…August Remington?” he asks.
“Yes,” I echo, but this time my voice is much smaller.
And with that, my dad’s signature easy-going resolve is a little less…resolved.
“He wasn’t happy about it,” I go on.
“Neither am I. Why didn’t you tell me you were dating one of my rivals?” he asks.
“I didn’t know!” I say. “You never talk about who you’re working with or against. And I knew him by–”
“Reid. Right,” he grits out.
“And he thinks that I knew all of it. All along. That I was using him for his money and trying to make a fool out of him, and that you were in on it too,” I explain.
My dad humphs. “Listen, if I knew you were seeing him, I would have had a problem with it too. I do have a problem with it, Quinn,” he says.
“I know, I just–”
“He’s slime, Quinn,” he cuts me off. “He is one of the most conniving, manipulative, calculating, underhanded lawyers in the state of New York. It’s why he’s so hated. And also why he’s so rich.”
“How rich?” I ask, not that it matters.
“Rich enough that funding the nonprofit isn’t enough to make him check his bank account before agreeing to do it.”
Jesus.
“But that’s not the point, Quinn. The point is, I am not okay with you seeing him. Not for weddings or…otherwise,” he spits out the last word.
“I know,” I nod, my voice starting to shake. “And you don’t have to worry about that. Now that he thinks I was using him all along, I’m probably never going to see him again.”
My dad nods, but then his eyes flash over to me.
Because he can hear the hurt in my voice.
And he can see the tears on my cheeks. “Oh Quinny…of all the pickles you’ve managed to get into, and trust me, with your high-hopes whimsy you really do have an affinity for getting into pickles, this one might just be the sourest.”
“I know,” I sniff. “I just…I really believed he was different. At first, at all those weddings, he was horrible. But over time…” I trail off in memory for a moment. “He was just so different under all that hard outer shell. He’s been hurt.”
“Haven’t we all?” he asks.
“And I thought…” my voice cracks. “I thought that we were moving around that. That there was something there. But I guess I was wrong.”
“Listen to me,” my dad says, shifting on the couch to move closer to me.
“If he automatically assumed the worst in you, after everything you most likely did for him, then you were unfortunately wrong about him. Trust me, Quinn. I have known August…Reid…for years. And he is not better than any of it. What you see with him is what you get. And you deserve more than that.”
I think about that. And as much as I don’t want to believe it, I think my dad is right. Reid’s…August’s behavior today solidified that. And as much as it hurts to admit it, I was wrong. Not everyone can be redeemed.
I almost laugh at that.
Here I am trying to be a beacon of hope and wisdom for all the people in the world wanting a reason to believe in love, and I’ve fallen for the biggest cliché of them all.
I can’t fix him.