Chapter 5 #2
Laughter bubbled up in me instantly, loud and genuine. Beside me, Quinton leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine just slightly. “You want another drink?” he asked, voice pitched low enough for only me to hear.
“I’m good,” I said, barely catching my breath.
“You sure? The IPA’s almost gone.”
“You drank most of it.”
“I’m a generous person. I’m sharing.” He shot me a mock-serious look that made my smile widen.
The comedian’s story built momentum, unraveling into a wild anecdote about a road trip with his flat-earth roommate.
“He wanted to drive to the edge. THE EDGE. Of the earth. I’m like, ‘Buddy, we’re going to hit Canada first, and I don’t have my passport.
’” I was laughing so hard I had to set my drink down, afraid I’d spill it all over the table.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Quinton watching me again, his gaze lingering just a moment too long. Was he amused by my laughter, or was there something else he wanted to say?
The set wrapped up, and as the last of the laughter faded, a new comedian took the stage: an older man, his posture weary but eyes sharp.
“I’m 58 years old,” he declared. “You know what that means? It means I don’t care anymore.
I don’t care what you think. I don’t care if you like me.
I don’t care if you laugh at my jokes. I’m here, you’re here, we’re all going to die, eventually. Let’s make the best of it.”
As the laughter died down, I realized how much I enjoyed sharing these moments with Quinton. There was something easy about the way we fit together in the noisy dark, as if we were in on the same joke.
“I got divorced last year,” the comedian continued.
“After thirty years of marriage. You know what my wife said to me? She said, ‘I don’t love you anymore.’ Just like that.
No buildup. No warning. Just, ‘I don’t love you anymore.
’ And I’m sitting there thinking, ‘Okay, but what about the mortgage? What about the timeshare in Florida? What about the dog?’”
I was crying now, actually crying with laughter, and I felt Quinton shift beside me.
Quinton handed me a napkin without a word, his hand brushing mine for the briefest second. I glanced at him, warmth spreading through me. He had this uncanny way of knowing exactly what I needed, even before I did.
“She took the dog,” the comedian said, voice thick with mock betrayal.
“THE DOG. We got that dog together. We raised that dog together. That dog loved me. And she took him. Just... took him. Like he was a lamp. Like he was a piece of furniture. ‘I’m taking the dog, Steve.’ That’s what she said.
‘I’m taking the dog.’ Not ‘Can I take the dog?’ Not ‘Would you mind if I took the dog?’ Just ‘I’m taking the dog. ’ Declarative. Final. No negotiation.”
I was doubled over, laughter threatening to burst out of me again, but in that moment, I was thinking less about the comedian and more about the man sitting beside me—the one who always seemed to be paying attention, even when I wasn’t.
Quinton was laughing too, but every now and then, when he thought I wasn’t looking, his eyes would linger on me, and something about that look made my chest ache in the best possible way.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m...” I tried to answer, but another wave of laughter hit me, and I doubled over, clutching my stomach. “I’m going to pee my pants.”
“Please don’t pee your pants in the comedy club.”
“I’m trying...” I gasped for air. “I’m trying not to.”
“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”
“I can’t move. If I move, I’ll pee.”
“Viv.”
“I’m serious. I’m going to pee my pants in this divorced-dad-smelling comedy club, and it’s going to be your fault.”
“How is this my fault?”
“You brought me here!”
“You agreed to come!”
“Under duress!”
“You literally said yes!”
The comedian finished his set with a bit about online dating (“I’m on all the apps.
Tinder. Bumble. Hinge. Farmers Only. I’m not a farmer, but I’m desperate.
”), and by the time he left the stage, I was a mess.
My face hurt. My stomach hurt. My eyes were watering, and I felt amazing.
My laughter faded, replaced by a sudden tightness in my chest as I realized how different this felt.
After months of feeling invisible with Colton, it was strange—almost unsettling—to have someone notice the little things.
I wasn’t sure if I liked it or if it just scared me.
“Really good?” Quinton grinned. “Not adequately good?”
“Really good,” I confirmed. “Genuinely, actually, really good.”
“I’m writing this down. Vivian Darcy admitted something was really good. This is historic.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Too late. Already pushing.”
I grabbed another nacho and looked at Quinton across the table.
He was smiling. Not the polite smile he used at work. A real smile. Genuine. Unguarded.
And suddenly I was confused. Because this, right here, right now, was the first genuinely good time I’d had in months.
Colton never took me anywhere. He never asked if I was comfortable.
He never ordered local beer and nachos, and made sure I was having fun.
He never looked at me the way Quinton was looking at me right now.
Like I mattered. Like my happiness mattered, and I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand why someone this charming, this considerate, this genuinely funny would swear off dating entirely.
What was the real story? What was I missing?
“You’re doing it again,” Quinton said.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you look like you’re trying to solve a complex mathematical equation.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“About?”
“About why you’re so weird.”
He laughed. “I’m weird?”
“You’re very weird. You swear off dating, but you’re... this.” I gestured vaguely at him.
“This?”
“Charming. Considerate. Funny. You pulled out my chair, Quinton. You asked about my seating preference. You ordered local beer and made sure I was comfortable. That’s not the behavior of someone who’s sworn off dating.”
“Maybe I’m just a good friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
“We’ve been over this. We’re absolutely friends.”
“We’re colleagues.”
Quinton sighed. “Viv. We’re friends.”
I looked at him, really looked at him, and I didn’t know what to say.
Because maybe we were friends. Maybe we’d been friends this whole time, and I just hadn’t noticed.
Or maybe this was something else entirely.
Something I didn’t have a name for yet. Something that confused me and intrigued me, and scared me a little bit.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Maybe we’re friends. ”
“Progress,” Quinton said, raising his glass. “I’ll take it.”
I raised my glass too, and we clinked them together over the nachos and the empty pitcher and the table that smelled faintly of divorced dad.