Chapter 2 #2
The silence from Carson is calculated rather than reassuring.
In the three years I worked under him at the academy, I learned to recognize the pattern.
Carson never acts in the heat of the moment.
He waits until you relax, until you believe the danger has passed, and then he strikes for maximum effect.
Maybe I can stay on the island for the rest of the week. Would that be overstepping? With everything that needs to be done, I’m sure Quinn’s uncles and aunt would be happy for another pair of hands to unpack.
Quinn hands me a worn copy of “The Turtle Who Carried the World,” her favorite. “This one needs to go in my special box so I can read it tonight.”
“Of course.” I place it in a smaller box marked Quinn’s First Night.
I check the time on the microwave. “Once this shelf is packed, let’s do some coloring before lunchtime.”
“Coloring!” Quinn bolts for the table, leaving the books half-packed.
I should have known better than to suggest her favorite activity before the task was done, but I don’t have it in me to bring her back around.
I follow at a slower pace, using the time to draw a steadying breath. Movement helps, as does keeping my hands busy. Being still gives thoughts too much space to multiply.
She drags her art book over and flips to a clean page. “I’m going to draw my new room!”
She hunches over her paper, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration as she draws a box.
“This is my window seat,” she explains, using so much force with the purple crayon that I worry she’ll break it. “Sprinkles can sit here and watch for birds while I read books.”
I fold my arms on the table and lean forward. “Tell me more about this window seat.”
Quinn switches to a blue crayon, outlining a large rectangle. “It has cushions with stars on them, and a secret compartment underneath for my treasures.” She draws a small square beneath the seat. “Uncle Blake says he can build anything I can draw. Last time, he built me a treehouse.”
I lean closer to examine her work as she adds a floating bed in the center of the room.
“What about shelves for your books?” I suggest, handing her a brown crayon.
She gasps in delight. “Yes! Tall ones, all along this wall. With a ladder!” She draws a series of horizontal lines stacked from floor to ceiling. “And shelves for all my wooden animals.”
The box of carved creatures sits nearby, her collection growing with each gift from Blake, every piece shaped with careful attention to detail.
“And a night light shaped like the moon,” she adds, sketching a circle in the corner. “Because sometimes the dark is too dark.”
“That’s a perfect addition.” A pang fills me as I study her drawing. “Your room at the Homestead will be wonderful.”
Quinn beams and grabs a fresh sheet of paper. “Now, let’s draw your room!”
My hand freezes mid-reach for a crayon. The casual statement hits me with unexpected force, stopping my breath somewhere between my lungs and throat.
“My room?” I manage to ask.
“Yeah.” Quinn sketches with a blue crayon. “Aunt Chloe drew her room, and my uncles brought it to life. So we need to draw your bedroom at the Homestead. It should be next to mine so you can help if I have bad dreams.”
As she draws, a hollowness grows in my chest. Of course, Quinn assumes I’ll be moving into the Homestead with her and the Wright Pack.
Why wouldn’t she? Our days have revolved around each other for months now, with shared meals, lessons, and morning, afternoon, and evening walks with Sprinkles.
I’ve become a constant in her world, a steadiness she leans on without question.
But constancy isn’t the same as belonging.
“See, here’s where your bookshelves go,” Quinn continues, oblivious to my silence. “You need lots of shelves because you always stop at the book cart at the market. And a desk right here by the window for all your teaching stuff.”
She sketches a rectangle for a window and adds a small square on top. “This is your tea mug. The blue one you always use in the morning.”
My throat tightens.
With the Homestead renovation finished, Quinn and the Wright Pack will move into the family suite together. A family, a pack. And me, no matter how long I’ll be here, no matter how much space I take up in Quinn’s life, will be reassigned to the staff cabins at the back of the property.
“And this door,” Quinn says, drawing a small rectangle between two larger ones, “connects our rooms. So if I have a nightmare or can’t sleep, I can come find you without going into the hall and waking up everyone.”
The connecting door. Such a small detail, yet it pierces through my heart. In Quinn’s imagined future, I remain within reach, a constant source of safety she can access whenever fear finds her in the dark.
“What do you think?” She holds up the drawing, pride radiating from her. “Is it right? Did I forget anything?”
I swallow hard past the tightness in my throat. “It looks perfect.”
“Your room is blue because that’s your favorite color,” she explains, pointing to the walls she’s colored to match my shirt. “And here’s a chair for reading, like the one you told me about from your old apartment.”
Each careful detail is an invitation I don’t deserve. I open my mouth to stop her, to say something neutral or temporary, but nothing comes out. Correcting her would mean taking something from her before she is ready to lose it.
Still, I can’t deny the ache as she fills the page with shelves and light and small, thoughtful details.
Not because I want the room, but because I realize how long it’s been since I allowed myself to choose anything at all.