Chapter Thirteen
Quinn - Present Day
I don’t know what it is about this man, but he disarms me without even trying.
I’m sitting here eating perfectly crisp sweet potato fries without hesitation, no fear of judgement, and he picked the perfect order without even trying.
He silences the voices like they were never there in the first place—a figment of my imagination, and that’s like my worst nightmares ever come true.
The fear of turning out like my mother, even one iota, is the reason I don’t want children.
Well, honestly, I would have loved to have been a mum if I wasn’t so fucking psychotic.
But it turns out parents with ‘mental health issues’ in today's world are highly frowned upon. And while I understand the extreme end of that scale, some of us are nothing but survivors and could teach a kid a thing or two. The older I get, the more I realise that for me it would be safer not to have kids than to have kids and cause them a fraction of the trauma she has caused me. I’ve never had the maternal urge, but I don’t know if that’s something that I’ve subconsciously switched off so I would never find myself accidentally pregnant.
It’s also why I don’t have a lot of experience in that department.
My mum fat-shames me at every moment. “Should you really eat that, Quinn?” and “That’s a big portion, Quinn.
” or “That’s a lot of calories; you don’t do enough exercise to eat like that, Quinn. ”
She tears apart my appearance like no other.
Cellulite on my thighs? I look like a cheese grater.
No fringe? I have a fat forehead. Makeup on?
I look like a slag. High-waisted jeans? I have a fat vagina and a permanent camel toe.
Wearing a vest top? “Oh, look at those bingo wings; you’ve got a full house there.
” And god forbid I should attempt to wear shorts or a skirt.
One of my most pertinent memories with my mum was when she took me shopping for clothes for my birthday one year.
I must have been ten or eleven. I’m short, but not petite—as Harley has clearly noticed.
So at a young age it was mainly in the women’s section, and she never let me forget it, especially the price increase.
Every time I went up a dress size, it was noted and spoken about—loudly.
And if I ever asked to try on some jeans, I was told that we couldn’t possibly find any in my size—despite the fact that she was, and still is, bigger than me and manages to wear jeans.
When I found my first stretchmark in the shower one night, I panicked and called for her.
She looked at me in disgust because only people who have had babies should have them, apparently, and I should lose weight because of it.
And that was the birth of my eating disorder, anorexia nervosa, the binge-purge type—I know a fat girl with an eating disorder that has anorexia in it, hilarious, right?
And in a dash of bulimia and a side of binge eating disorder. What a fucking catch.
Nowadays, I’m a size twenty. It doesn’t matter what I do, how much I do it, or how little I do or don’t eat.
I carry all of my weight in my body. One day I can be small enough to fit into a size eighteen, and the next I’m a size twenty-four.
My periods are all over the place, and according to my mother, that’s also because I’m too fat, so basically, it’s all self-inflicted.
So I barely eat, and when I do, I binge.
It got worse after the accident. The inability to move for an extended period of time made it easier to put weight on, and I’ve never been able to get it off.
My face and stomach bloat so much it’s painful, and I have hyperpigmentation all over my body.
And don’t even get me started on sleep. I’m lucky if I get six hours every three days.
I’ve tried to go to the doctor, and all they say is I have heavy, irregular periods and there's nothing they can do, so I have to suck it up. The pain I suffer from for most of the month takes my breath away and makes me sick. The only pads I can use are the heavy night-time ones with wings, and I have to double them up to be able to wear them for longer than an hour. And even then, I bleed through my bedding, all over my mattress, and multiple changes of clothes a day. It's all fun and games. And it’s fucking expensive. It baffles my mind that we didn’t ask to be born women or have periods, yet we’re taxed on the products we need to get us through it every month.
Fucking men. I know it’s not all of them, but I have yet to meet a man other than Dane and Keegan who is half-decent.
“Where did you go?” Harley’s voice interrupts my train of thought.
“Oh, sorry. You mentioning my parents got me thinking.”
“And?”
“And I think you might be right.”
It pains me to admit that out loud. I don’t know why, because it’s glaringly obvious when you think about it. But it feels like I’m betraying them by admitting it.
I pick at my fries, scared to eat them, but suddenly ravenous. My eyes dart to the Mayo on the side like they’re begging to be doused in it.
“Quinn.” I look up. “Eat the fries. You’re allowed to enjoy your food. Your size doesn’t determine you as a person. You live one life, and from the looks of it, it’s been tragic so far, so for the love of God, please, enjoy the fucking fries.”
“Yes, sir.”
A pained moan comes from him, and he shuffles in his seat. It takes me a second to realise he’s adjusting himself.
“Magpie, do me a favour. Please don’t call me ‘sir’ in a public place.”
“So I can call you it in private?” I smirk at him, knowing full well I’m playing with fire.
“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Wow, how the roles have reversed.” I laugh.
“Quinny. Did you just make a joke?” I almost flinch at the sound of him calling me that, like it’s a knee-jerk reaction.
But something inside of me stops it before it happens.
I don’t know when it happened or how, but for the first time in my life, I feel safe.
A feeling I thought was so far out of reach is quite literally staring me in the face.
“You know what, Harley, I think I just did.”
“Phase one, done.”
“Phase one?”
“Yes, phase one in Operation Convince Quinn To Live has been completed.”
“What’s phase two?”
“Give me your phone number and a safe word so that we can work towards phase three.”
“Which is?”
“Getting you healed, Little Magpie. Let's get you to your full potential and see how bright you can shine.”
“You really want to help this emotional, suicidal wreck?”
“They’re my favourite kind. Can I let you into a secret?”
“Well, considering you’re about to learn all of mine, I think it’s only fair.”
“I don’t think you want to die, Quinn. I think you’re suffering from something called suicidal ideation. Usually I would do a proper session and work through it with you, but in light of tonight’s events, I think it’s important that you know.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Being actively suicidal is someone whose thoughts go beyond and turn into actions. And while tonight, you were contemplating action, I believe your hesitation was because you don’t really want to die.
SI, or suicidal ideation, is the experience of thinking about, considering, or planning suicide, without necessarily taking action.
Still just as serious, sometimes it’s a warning sign, and it’s scary, but sometimes, knowing the difference between the two helps to separate the thoughts in your brain. ”
“So I can get better? You can get rid of the voices and Herpes?”
“Herpes is a voice?”
“Yes. There are others, but since I’ve been sat here with you, they’ve been eerily silent.”
“SI is a lifetime thing, but with proper therapy, treatment, and coping mechanisms, it can be managed. It’s similar to a disease in the aspect that relapses are possible, but if that happens, it’s okay.
We’re going to get through it. We will get you better together.
As for Herpes, she probably got scared off by the big beefy man with muscles that’s now your self-appointed bodyguard. ”
I can’t help but laugh. I’ve laughed more in the last few hours than I think I have since that dreaded night of my accident.
I've been so focused on trying to recover my memories that I haven’t looked at the life around me and what it could be.
What he’s saying makes sense. I’ve spent years harming myself in every way I could imagine, but I was always hesitant to go too far.
Sometimes I have, don’t get me wrong, but it was never intentional.
I just always assumed it was part of my need for attention.
“Can you help me recover memories?”
“I can try. There’re no guarantees, but there are a few avenues we can try, and if you’re willing to put the work in, anything is possible.”
“I think I am. Tonight, when I lost my footing, immediately, I didn’t want to die.
But I didn’t know if that was normal. And I was scared to tell you in case you walked away.
I started tonight determined to die, but it’s like you’ve lit a spark inside of me.
You see me. Not just the way I look, but it’s like you have a window to my soul.
It’s fucking creepy. But I think that spark inside of me may just want to stay alive. ”
“I’m what people call an enigma. Most enigmas are mysterious or difficult to understand, but I’m an anomaly; I just have the ability to appear that way until you find your way in.
Once you’re in, it’s game over, and I’m just a cheesy man full of feelings, desperate to heal myself as well as others, so maybe we can heal each other.
I'm not going anywhere, Quinn. I told you earlier, you're stuck with me. But whenever you need that reassurance, just ask.”
“This is going to take me time to adjust. I’ve never been able to trust anyone except for my best friend, Millie… and even then—”
“And even then, what?”
“I don’t know. Something happened to me a long time ago, and I can’t remember it—hence the recovering of memories—and since then she’s just been… different. Like she knows something I don’t know.”
“Well, then, let’s see what we can do about getting you better. You deserve to smile, Quinn. Your smile is too beautiful to hide away from the world. You’re too beautiful to be hidden away from the world, and by the time I’m done with you, I’ll never let you hide away again.”
“Well, I suppose you better give me your phone then.”
He grins. One of those grins that steals the oxygen from the room and the little sanity you have left in your brain.
I put in my number with the promise to reply when he texts me, and he insists on walking me home.
We walk side by side, every so often our arms brushing against each other like it’s inevitable that one day they’ll be joined together.
Like it’s sealed in fate. Which is funny because the only fate I ever believed in was that life was going to be hell.
Once we reach the gate that opens to the path of my parents’ house, I pause, breath held, adrenaline coursing, and all of a sudden feeling like the last few hours were a huge mistake, and I need to go back to the bridge.
“Quinn…”
“Hmmmm?”
“Look at me.” I do as he says and memorise his face like it’s the last thing I’ll ever see.
“Look at my face, and take a deep breath. In through your nose, and out through your mouth.” As I breathe, I feel his hand on my chin; my body ripples with goosebumps, the hairs standing on end.
My breaths start off shallow, almost stuttering, the feel of his hand touching my skin, grounding me in this moment.
Making me feel things that I didn’t know I could ever feel.
Safety. Hope. The inability for me to avoid processing those emotions slams into me like a sledgehammer, and I open my eyes, my breathing instantly steadier.
“Better?”
“Much.” He lifts his hand up to tuck my hair behind my ear, and my heart swoons. I’ve only ever read these things in books. “Well, Little Magpie, until tomorrow, when the real work begins. If you need me, just holler.”
As he turns, the smell of his cologne wafting in the air, he stops and turns back. “What’s your safe word, Quinny?”
“Magpie.”
His lips curve into a smile that reaches his eyes, the amber flecks burning with either happiness or desire; it’s hard to tell which one.
“Perfect. Goodnight, Little Magpie, I'll be seeing ya.”
“Goodnight, Bones.”
“Bones?” he asks.
“Yeah, you’re a doctor.”
“Not of bones.”
“Yeah, but you’re funny. So you know, funny bones.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Bones, thank you for saving my life.”
“I didn’t save you, Quinn. You did. But I'll be the safety net just in case you need it.”
I watch him walk away, his confident swagger cemented in my brain for the rest of eternity.
It’s official. I’m absolutely fucked.