Chapter 19 Quentin
NINETEEN
QUENTIN
Sure, he could appreciate it in theory. The waves crashing, sun shining, maybe a seagull committing fry-related crime.
All very poetic. But he didn’t crave it.
He wanted pine trees and mountains. Air that smelled like rain and dirt, not sunscreen and salt.
Something solid beneath him, not sand that shifted with every step.
The ocean looked nice from here. It just didn’t feel like his.
Still, here he was, back in Los Angeles, parked in his “beachfront escape”—a house he’d bought during a moment of rare optimism and Todd’s very persuasive tax advice.
It was meant to be a haven. Instead, it was mostly a glorified greenroom with sand in the floorboards and paparazzi drones humming outside.
Todd, his manager-slash-walking PR calendar, had demanded he fly back for some promotional event.
Something about brand synergy, renewed fan engagement, and “a chance to show the real you,” as if that version came pre-approved by focus groups.
So, Quentin was marooned for the next three days, trying to go incognito in a city where even dogs wore designer sunglasses.
He loved acting. That part had always been real.
The slip of skin between himself and someone else.
The electricity of a scene hitting just right.
But everything else—the press tours, the interviews where he had to pretend to like kale chips, the constant pressure to perform even off-camera—that was the part that wore him down.
It made him feel both microscopic and overexposed, like he was being dissected under a magnifying glass held by strangers who called him “buddy” and meant it as a transaction.
Maybe it wasn’t the beach he hated. Maybe it was what came with it. The expectations. The way this whole city hummed with ambition, and how easily it made him forget who he was when no one was watching.
He was still mentally arguing with the Pacific when the knock came.
Three sharp raps. Quentin squinted at the door. Todd wouldn’t come here. Maybe it was a neighbor coming to shame him for not sorting his recycling properly again. He stood up and swung open the door.
"Eden?"
Eden Percy stood there in cutoff denim shorts and oversized sunglasses. A tote bag hung off her shoulder, and her hair was pulled up in a messy knot that somehow still looked editorial.
“Well, don’t just stand there like I’m selling Girl Scout cookies,” she said, pushing past him. “Let me in.”
She swept in like she had every right to be there. Which she did, considering she’d recommended the realtor, negotiated the price, and threatened to sage the place every time he acted moody.
“Nice to see you too,” he muttered, shutting the door behind her.
Eden dropped her bag with a sigh and gave the living room a slow, damning scan. “How does this place still look like industrial depression chic? You’ve lived here for years.”
“It’s minimalist,” he said, deadpan.
“It’s a cry for help. This room has the emotional warmth of a waiting room and the personality of a beige couch.“
He smiled despite himself. God, he’d missed her.
Eden had always had the sharpest tongue and the softest heart, wrapped up in a musician’s soul and an outlaw's wardrobe.
She was loud and brilliant and had somehow become his best friend after a red carpet run-in that involved a shared Uber and a minor paparazzi stampede that ended with her flipping off TMZ in his hoodie.
“I’m a bachelor, this is my pad.”
“And no welcome mat? What are you, a drifter?”
“Didn’t know it was required to pass the Eden home inspection.”
“Please. I’ve slept in squats with better feng shui. And they at least had weed and a playlist.”
He didn’t doubt it. When he met her, she’d been a walking disaster in combat boots. More eyeliner than emotional regulation. Now she was an adult: married, famous-ish, and still allergic to personal space. And somehow, even with her chaos dialed to eleven, she’d never let him disappear completely.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that I’m not thrilled by the pop-in, but… what are you doing here?”
Eden peeled off her sunglasses like she was about to interrogate him. “You ghosted me for three days. Haven’t answered my two hundred texts. I figured you were either dead or spiraling.”
“How’d you even know I was back in L.A.?”
She gave him a look. “I stalked your location. Obviously. You’re my emotional support human. I have to make sure you haven’t grown moss or started talking to your blender.”
“Go bother your husband. Where is he, anyway? You two are usually one shared hoodie away from becoming a hive mind.”
“He told me to come annoy you so he could have one day of silence.” She paused. “Okay, that’s a lie. He’s actually in Alaska. Covering a guy who married a glacier.”
“Legally?”
“I don’t know, Quentin. The man made a veil out of biodegradable plastic and read vows. He’s committed. Emotionally and environmentally.”
“That is peak Ronan. He’s probably treating it like Pulitzer material.”
“He texted me a picture of the ceremony. The glacier looks stunning.”
He laughed. “I missed you.”
She kicked off her boots and grinned. “Missed you too. But I’ve written three songs and only cried twice, so.”
“Solid ratio.”
“It was. One of them’s about you, actually.”
“I’m scared.”
“You should be.” She gave him a look. “So. Blood on the Prairie. How’s it going?”
He groaned. “I’m trying, Eden. It’s different from anything I’ve done. But it’s... a lot of pressure.”
“You’ve always had pressure, Quentin. This is just a different kind. A potentially critically-acclaimed, Oscar-thirsty pressure where you don’t have to wear a unitard.”
When they met, Eden had been barely holding it together.
She was burned out, hungover, high on cheap champagne.
He’d written her off as a beautiful disaster.
But then she got into therapy, wrote an album that cracked something open in the world, and slowly built a life that wasn’t just loud. It was honest.
She hadn’t just survived, she'd turned the wreckage into art. Somewhere between her world tour and her NPR Tiny Desk set that had gone viral for making grown men cry, he started questioning everything.
Because Eden’s music meant something. It was raw and messy and braver than anything he’d ever said onscreen. It reminded him why he’d started acting in the first place—why he used to care about stories. And just how far he’d drifted from that.
That was part of why he’d chased Blood on the Prairie so hard. Why he’d said yes before the ink was dry, even when Todd had looked horrified and asked if he’d suffered a stroke. Because it was different. Because it wasn’t Mr. America. It wasn’t a franchise.
“It’s not a unitard.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You literally wore it on the poster.”
“It’s a stealth suit.”
She blinked slowly. “You mean… like a unitard.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “It’s a tactically-enhanced fighting ensemble.”
“To fight crime?”
“To neutralize threats.”
“Oh, relax. You looked great in it. All righteous jawline and biceps. America’s favorite himbo.”
“That suit had no ventilation.”
“And zero dignity.” She snorted. “I still have the promotional mug. It says ‘One Nation Under You.’”
He looked physically pained. “Why would they print that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s how I drink my morning coffee.”
He glared. “I hope it scalds your tongue.”
“Okay, Mr. Gritty Western. Tell that to your action figure with ‘Freedom Punch’ sound effects.”
He buried his face in his hands. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” she sing-songed. “You love me. I keep you humble.”
“You keep me medicated.”
“Same thing.”
“Anyway,” she said, plucking an Oreo from her tote like it was part of her sermon, “as much as I love rehashing your lycra-clad shame, what I really came here to talk about… is Sadie.”
Quentin didn’t move, but the air around him tightened like a wire being pulled.
“We’re just coworkers,” Quentin muttered. Which was a lie. Coworkers did not see each other naked. Okay, some coworkers did. But not the emotionally devastating kind of naked. That was different.
“Sure,” Eden said, stretching the word until it begged for mercy. “That totally explains why you both look like you’re sharing custody of a haunted house. Also, you don’t even want to know about the call I got from Sadie a few weeks ago.”
That made his heart slam against his ribs. He straightened slightly, pulse hammering. Sadie called her? What did she say? Was she spiraling too?
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His brain was fixated on the idea that maybe he wasn’t the only one completely wrecked over this thing between them.
Eden tilted her head, watching him like a hawk. “I have to ask, why does she hate you? I’ve asked her like, three different times and she just makes a noise like a possum caught in a trap and changes the subject.”
“I wish I knew,” he said quietly, and it came out raw.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the other night when he went to her cabin after the bar, claiming he needed his hat back like that wasn’t the most transparent bullshit ever. Truth was, he didn’t want sex. Though if she’d offered, he would’ve crawled.
He just wanted to see her. Be near her. Like some hopeless fucking moth circling a porch light that had already torched him once.
But when he got there and she wasn’t in the living room, reality sank its claws in. Why had he gone there? He’d nearly turned around, heart in his throat, when he heard the sound of water sloshing behind the half-closed bathroom door.
He should’ve left. Should’ve walked out and never looked back. Then he heard it. A soft, broken moan. His name. And just like that, he was walking towards her.