Chapter 34 Quinn
THIRTY-FOUR
Quinn
Mardi Gras During Wartime: During periods of national conflict, including World War I and World War II, several New Orleans krewes suspended parades and scaled back formal balls in response to resource shortages and civic responsibility.
These interruptions underscored how even deeply rooted Carnival traditions yield to broader forces beyond the control of any single krewe.
The river path stretches ahead, its brick surface spotted with shade from the live oaks that line the walkway. I match Nate's pace, but something is off from the first few strides.
My legs move like they're running through mud, and my breath is shallow, sitting high in my chest instead of filling my lungs the way it normally does during a run. A faint nausea settles low in my throat, persistent and unwelcome.
The Savannah River moves sluggishly beside us, its surface flat and brown under the haze. The brackish smell is overwhelming today. It must be the heat and low tide.
"I wanted to talk to you about something." Nate's voice is steady, his breathing barely affected by our pace. He was always the stronger runner.
"Talk away, Cuz."
"Southern Stars needs leadership. Real leadership, not just board meetings and galas."
I keep my eyes forward. "You have a board. And I'm not going anywhere. I can help as I'm available."
"The board manages optics. I'm talking about someone who understands systems and structure. I'm talking full-time, director-level." He glances over at me. "I want someone who knows how to build something that lasts."
The implication lands clearly. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist.
"I fought for my promotion, Nate. I spent years working toward this position. I'm not walking away now that I'm finally gaining traction."
"I'm not asking you to walk away from anything."
"Then what are you asking?"
"I'm asking you to consider what kind of work actually serves you." His stride remains even, unhurried. "Meaningful work should expand a person, Quinn. Not hollow them out."
My jaw tightens. "I'm fine."
"You've lost weight, you look brittle, and you hardly have space for anything besides your work."
"I look tired because I've been working. That's what happens when you take a new assignment seriously."
He does not respond immediately. The silence between us fills with the sound of our footfalls and the distant hum of a barge moving upriver.
"The foundation could use someone with your skills and dedication," he says finally. "That's all I'm saying. It's not a demotion, it's a recalibration that could honor you and our family's legacy."
I increase my pace slightly, forcing him to adjust. My lungs protest, but I ignore them.
"I didn't come here to talk about career changes, Nate. Can we change the subject, please?"
"Yep. Just promise me you'll think about it."
I sprint ahead, forcing him to catch up with me. I'm not making him any promises.
We approach the final stretch where the path curves back toward the parking area. The sun breaks through the haze, bright and sharp against my eyes.
My right foot catches on something. My stride falters.
I stumble but catch myself before I go down. The brick path blurs for a second, and something sharp twists low in my abdomen.
It's not a cramp or the familiar burn of pushing too hard. This is different. Deeper. A hot, pulling sensation that radiates through my pelvis and steals the air from my lungs.
My hand flies to my lower stomach before I can stop it. I press my palm flat against the fabric of my tank top, fingers splayed wide. My stride breaks completely. I am standing still on the path, bent slightly forward, trying to breathe through whatever this is.
"Quinn." Nate's voice cuts through the fog. His footsteps stop beside me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The word comes out thin. Unconvincing.
"You're white as a sheet." His hand lands on my shoulder, steadying me. "Here. Drink."
He holds out his water bottle. I take it because refusing would require more energy than I have. The water is warm and tastes faintly plastic-y, but I force down a few swallows anyway.
The pain eases. It's not gone, but dulled to something manageable. Something I can breathe around.
"Just a cramp." I straighten up and hand the bottle back. "I'm fine."
"You haven't been eating enough. I can tell." His blue eyes scan my face with the kind of clinical assessment I imagine he uses on constituents who try to lie to him. "When did you last have a real meal?"
"You're being a nerd. I had dinner last night. And lunch a few hours ago."
"What did you have?"
I can't remember. The question lands somewhere distant, and my brain refuses to retrieve the answer. There was wine, maybe crackers. Nothing solid comes to mind.
"It doesn't matter." I wave my hand dismissively. "Let's just finish the loop."
"We're walking the rest." His tone leaves no room for argument. "I'm not dragging you back if you pass out."
I'm not going to pass out.
But I do not fight him on it. The pain has faded to a dull ache, barely noticeable now, but something lingers beneath it. An echo of sensation that whispers this is not normal.
We walk side by side. Nate shortens his stride to match mine without making it obvious. The sun beats down on the crown of my head, and my scalp is starting to burn where my hair parts.
Stress. Exhaustion. The emotional wreckage of the last week or so is finally catching up. I'm barely getting to the point that Keller occupies my every waking thought.
That is all this is. My body is responding to the chaos I have been suppressing since Keller walked out my door.
"You should take some time off," Nate says quietly.
"I just got promoted."
"Exactly."
I don't respond. The parking area comes into view, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
The discomfort does not fully disappear over the next several days. It comes and goes without warning. A twinge in the grocery store. A sharper pull while sitting at my desk. Nothing dramatic enough to warrant attention, but persistent enough that I cannot ignore it entirely.
Monday morning, I pour my usual cup of coffee from the break room pot. The first sip hits my tongue, and I set the mug down immediately.
The blend is the same one I have been drinking for three years. Dark roast, nothing fancy. But today it tastes like someone dissolved a handful of pennies in the carafe.
I dump the cup and try again with a fresh pour. Same result. Metallic and sharp, coating the inside of my mouth in a way that makes my throat tighten.
I make a note to clean the pot after the coffee's gone. Someone else might drink that muck, but I'm not. I'll walk down to the café during my break.
I grab water from the cooler and head to my desk.
By Wednesday, I'm kicking myself for not cleaning the damn pot. I always remember when it's full. So, I switch to black tea. The tea gives me the caffeine boost I need, but it does nothing to cut through the fog that settles behind my eyes every afternoon around two o'clock.
The exhaustion comes in waves. It's not the normal tiredness that follows a bad night of sleep. This is deeper. Heavier. It pulls at my limbs and makes my thoughts move slowly. It's starting to really get on my nerves.
Maybe Nate's right. Maybe I need a few good days away, a reset.
Thursday afternoon, I excuse myself from my desk and walk to the restroom at the end of the hall. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and bright. I make it to the last stall before my stomach empties itself.
Afterward, I lean against the cool metal partition and wait for my hands to stop shaking. The taste in my mouth is sour and wrong. My forehead is damp with sweat.
I ate leftover Thai food for lunch. The container sat in the fridge for four days. Probably too long. Definitely too long.
I rinse my mouth at the sink and check my reflection. Pale. Shadows under my eyes that makeup cannot hide anymore. My cheeks look hollow in a way that makes me look older than thirty.
I straighten my blazer and return to my desk.
Friday afternoon, Martin appears in my doorway. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, studying me with that quiet attention that misses nothing.
"Are you still having those cramps?"
"It's more of a dull ache. I'm good."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"It's nothing. Just tired."
He does not move. His expression remains neutral, but something in his eyes sharpens.
"My wife ignored abdominal pain for two weeks, dismissing it as stress." He pauses. "Appendicitis. She ended up having emergency surgery."
The words land heavier than he probably intends.
"I'm not suggesting anything specific," he continues. "But persistent symptoms warrant attention. That's basic risk assessment."
He walks away before I can respond.
I stare at my computer screen without seeing it. The cursor blinks. My stomach still feels unstable from yesterday.
I pull up my phone and scroll to my contacts. Dr. Nevins' office. I tap the number before I can talk myself out of it.
The exam room smells like rubbing alcohol and latex gloves. I sit on the paper-covered table, the crinkling sound loud every time I shift my weight. The walls are pale blue. Calming, probably by design. A poster about hand washing hangs next to the door.
Dr. Nevins enters with her tablet, scrolling through something before looking up at me.
"So, looks like we have an expedited appointment. Tell me what's going on?"
"Is there a way to see if my appendix might rupture? I've been having cramps, and my boss said his wife—"
She cuts me off, tapping notes into the screen. "How long has this been going on?"
"Maybe two weeks. It started mild, but it's gotten more persistent."
"Describe the abdominal discomfort. Sharp? Dull? Cramping?"
"Cramping, mostly. Low." I gesture vaguely toward my pelvis. "Sometimes it feels like pulling."
"Any changes in appetite?"
"I switched from coffee to tea," I say with a laugh, trying to make a joke. It falls on deaf ears.