Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Quinton
Saturday afternoon had arrived, and with it came the undeniable realization: I was, without a doubt, the loneliest man in New Haven.
I sat on my couch, phone in hand, scrolling through the barrage of messages from my so-called friends.
Each excuse they offered seemed more creative than the last, as if they were competing in some kind of avoidance Olympics.
All I had wanted was to spend the evening at Laugh Riot, the new comedy club downtown that had opened just last week.
The name alone—equal parts inviting and vaguely alarming—had piqued my curiosity, and I had been looking forward to the event for days.
Instead, I was going to check it out alone—apparently.
It seemed as if every person in my contact list had suddenly come down with a serious, contagious case of Having Better Things To Do Than Hang Out With Quinton. My plans for a night filled with laughter and company had quickly morphed into an evening spent with only my phone for companionship.
Julien: Can’t. Triplets. Sleep deprivation. If I leave the house, my wife will hex me. Actual hexing, Quinton. With candles and chanting. Last time I suggested going out, she threatened to curse my coffee maker. I can’t live without coffee. I WON’T.
Me: That’s not how hexing works.
Julien: You don’t know that. Neither do I. That’s the problem. She’s got crystals, Quinton. CRYSTALS. They’re everywhere. I found one in my shoe this morning. What does that even mean???
Me: It means you need better shoe storage.
Julien: This isn’t funny. I’m being spiritually attacked by my own wife.
Me: You married her.
Julien: IN VEGAS. WHILE DRUNK. This is your fault for not stopping me.
Me: I wasn’t there.
Julien: EXACTLY.
I moved on to Gabriel, who I was certain would be my voice of reason.
I was wrong.
Gabriel: Family dinner tonight. Cate’s making something called “deconstructed lasagna” and Megan threatened to disown me if I miss it. Apparently, it involves “layers of love.” I’m genuinely concerned this is a cult thing.
Me: It’s lasagna, Gabriel. Just lasagna.
Gabriel: You haven’t seen what Cate does to pasta. She talks to it, Quinton. She TALKS TO IT. She whispers things like, “you’re going to be beautiful” and “let’s unlock your potential.” It’s unsettling.
Me: That’s called cooking.
Gabriel: No, cooking is following a recipe. This is performance art. Last week she made “emotionally intelligent risotto.” I don’t know what that means, but I ate three bowls and cried.
Me: You’re being dramatic.
Gabriel: I’M BEING SUPPORTIVE. There’s a difference. Also, Megan learned the word “disown” from Cate and has been using it as leverage. I’m being manipulated by a five-year-old. This is my life now.
Me: You’re a pediatrician. You literally deal with five-year-olds professionally.
Gabriel: THOSE ONES AREN’T MINE.
Strike two.
Maybe Nathan?
Nathan: On call. Someone has to keep New Haven alive while you’re out laughing at dick jokes.
Me: Comedy is more sophisticated than dick jokes.
Nathan: Is it, though?
Me: ... Sometimes.
Nathan: Name one sophisticated joke.
Me: I don’t have to prove myself to you.
Nathan: That’s what I thought. Enjoy your dick jokes, Wesley.
Me: They’re observational humor.
Nathan: About dicks.
Me: I hate you.
Nathan: You texted me.
Strike three.
I seriously needed to find new friends.
Grumbling, I texted Hayden.
Hayden: Absolutely not. I’m 48 years old, Wesley. I’ve earned my weekends of peace and quiet. Go bother someone else.
Me: You’re not even 50.
Hayden: I’m 48 going on dead. Leave me alone.
Me: That’s not how aging works.
Hayden: You’re 32. You don’t know ANYTHING about aging. Call me when your knees sound like bubble wrap and you need reading glasses to see your own phone. Until then, I’m spending my Saturday night with a glass of scotch, a medical journal, and blessed silence.
Me: That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
Hayden: It’s called self-care. Look it up.
Me: I don’t think that’s what self-care means.
Hayden: I’m a doctor. I know what self-care means. Now stop texting me before I block your number.
Me: You won’t block me.
Hayden: Try me.
He did not block me. But he did send me a GIF of a man throwing a phone into a lake, which I chose to interpret as a warning.
And then there was Fitz.
Oh, glorious Fitz!
Fitz: Can’t mate. Got a date with a matching pair of airline stewardesses. TWINS, Quinton. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m hoping to join the mile high club. Twice. Simultaneously. This is my Everest.
I stared at that message for a full thirty seconds, trying to process the sheer audacity.
Me: You’re not even going to be on a plane.
Fitz: Not with that attitude, I’m not. They’ve got a layover. I’ve got a plan. I’ve got champagne. I’ve got a hotel room with a mirror on the ceiling. Don’t cockblock me, Wesley.
Me: I don’t think that’s how cockblocking works.
Fitz: Everything is cockblocking if you’re pessimistic enough. I’m choosing optimism. And twins.
Me: You’re going to get arrested.
Fitz: Only if I’m caught. And I won’t be, because I’m a PROFESSIONAL.
Me: A professional what, exactly?
Fitz: A professional LOVER, Quinton. Keep up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go buy condoms in bulk and possibly learn how to say “I respect you both as individuals” in French.
Me: Why French?
Fitz: Because it’s the language of LOVE. Obviously.
Me: They’re flight attendants, not French.
Fitz: Everyone loves French, Quinton. It’s universal. Now stop texting me. I’m trying to set a mood here.
Me: You’re texting me from a CVS parking lot, aren’t you?
Fitz: ... No.
Me: I can see your location.
Fitz: STOP STALKING ME.
Me: You shared it with the group chat!
Fitz: That was for safety purposes. In case I get murdered by jealous husbands. Which is a real risk in my line of work.
Me: Your line of work is OBGYN.
Fitz: Same thing.
Me: It’s absolutely not the same thing.
Fitz: Look, are you going to support my dreams or not?
Me: Your dreams involve potential federal crimes.
Fitz: Only if we’re TECHNICALLY on a plane. Which we won’t be. Loophole, mate. LOOPHOLE. Now wish me luck before I lose my nerve.
Despite Fitz’s plea for encouragement, I couldn’t bring myself to wish him luck.
Instead, I silently hoped he would receive a stern lecture from airport security, a brief and inconvenient visit to customs, and maybe even a strongly worded letter from the FAA.
But ultimately, that wasn’t the main issue at hand.
The real point was that I was heading to the comedy club alone.
And that was perfectly acceptable—at least that was what I told myself.
I was a grown man, fully capable of going out solo.
Plenty of people did it; there was nothing strange about it.
In fact, it could be seen as a sign of maturity, independence, and self-sufficiency.
It meant not relying emotionally on a group of friends that, if I was honest, seemed to be unraveling anyway.
Still, it felt pretty depressing.
I tucked my phone away, grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat, and started for the parking lot exit.
The comedy club was only fifteen minutes from where I was.
I had stopped by the clinic earlier to pick up some files I’d forgotten the day before—a clear sign I’d become the kind of person who worked on Saturdays.
Marriage was beginning to feel like a trap, slowly transforming me into Julien.
Worse, it was turning me into Hayden.
I was halfway to my car when I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a car trunk being slammed with enough force to dent metal, shatter glass, and possibly register on the Richter scale.
I turned.
Vivian Darcy was standing next to her Honda Civic, her hands on her hips, glaring at her trunk like it had personally insulted her mother.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail that suggested she had given up on life approximately forty-five minutes ago, she was wearing jeans and a sweater that looked two sizes too big, and she had the expression of someone who was about three seconds away from committing vehicular homicide.
Or possibly regular homicide.
The trunk, to its credit, looked appropriately terrified.
Honestly, I should have kept walking. The universe had made my options clear: hop in my car, head for the comedy club, and devote my night to laughing at strangers’ jokes while overpaying for nachos and perfecting my impression of a guy with a bustling social life.
Easy. Clean exit. No emotional casualties.
Instead, my feet betrayed me and steered me straight to the scene of the crime.
“Boyfriend troubles?” I asked, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around irredeemably nosy.
Vivian’s head whipped toward me, and I was hit with The Look.
You know The Look. Every man knows The Look. That universal warning that translates to, If you value your life, stop talking, back away, and maybe consider a new identity in another state.
I surrendered, stepping back as if facing a wild animal. “Whoa. Okay. Backing off. Retreating. I’m retreating so hard right now I’m practically in reverse. I might leave tire marks. Consider me the human embodiment of backing away slowly.”
“Smart man,” Vivian muttered, her jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as she turned back to her trunk. She didn’t even glance at me, but the threat level felt downgraded from “volcanic eruption” to “minor earthquake.”
I really could have left it there. I should have, by all reasonable standards.
She slammed the trunk again, shoulders tensed, as if sheer force of will might fix whatever injustice the car had committed.
The car rocked, protesting like it was barely holding itself together.
I found myself genuinely concerned for the poor Civic’s structural integrity—and, if I were being honest, for my own.
“You know,” I said carefully, “if you’re trying to murder your car, there are more efficient methods. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Driving it into a lake. Selling it to a teenager.”