25. Quinn
CHAPTER 25
QUINN
“ H ey, dork,” Sam huffs, and a second later there’s a tiny basketball bouncing off of my head. I whip my chin up, glaring at my older brother who has already turned away, pretending like he didn’t just throw something at me as he dramatically makes a shot from the line in the carpet we deemed three points when we were younger. The bright orange ball hits the rim of the mini basketball net hung above the basement closet door and he frowns as it bounces off and rolls away. “Why are you grinning at your phone like that?”
My cheeks burn and I duck my head again. Knox and I have been texting almost non-stop since Thanksgiving break started, and the conversation has somehow moved onto what I have his name saved as before we started sleeping together.
As if I’ve changed it at all yet. I quite like the contact name douchewaffle for him. It suits him well.
Douchewaffle:
C’mon, Princess. Tell me.
I don’t think you want to know.
Douchewaffle:
Is it really that bad?
I’ll be honest, it’s not nice.
Douchewaffle:
Is it something you need to be punished over?
I clench my thighs together where I sit on the couch, thankful that Sam’s currently distracted by chasing the ball down so he doesn’t see how red my cheeks are. I didn’t know that Knox had this kind of mouth on him, but I am very much enjoying it.
“Oh, just something Rory said,” I bluff. Sam sees right through it, narrowing his eyes at me. He looks like he’s about to toss the ball at me again but if he does, I won’t be so nice about it this time around, so he better watch it. I’m not above kicking his ass at Basement Basketball.
He hums in response, “I’m sure. And do her texts always make you look like a tomato?”
“No,” I bite. “But she did say something about Peep being upset with you because you won’t text her back.”
Just as I suspected, Sam’s eyes go wide, fumbling with the basketball as he rips his phone from his pocket. “What? No way, she can’t be— you little ? —”
“Mom,” I call, grinning at the utter terror that fills my brother’s eyes. “Sam’s being a dickhead to me!”
“Quinn,” she snaps back, shouting down the stairs. I wince, and Sam sticks his tongue out at me. I’ve made one grave mistake while shouting for Katie Conroy to save the day: I called my brother a mean name. “Do not call your brother that!”
I groan, letting my head fall back against the couch. Sam snickers, bouncing the ball between his legs like he’s some sort of professional. To me, he just looks like an idiot. I guess it doesn’t matter how old you get or what you study, Basement Basketball is for life.
“He was about to call me something worse,” I try to defend, swatting away the orange ball when it soars my way. It slaps off of my palm with a loud noise that makes both of us flinch. You do not want to be warned by Katie Conroy twice. I’d rather be hit in the head with the basketball again than face my mother’s Thanksgiving wrath.
Luckily, the sound of the back door opening and closing signals my father’s arrival home, and that should be enough to distract her from our misbehaving. My phone buzzes in my hand and I’m very careful about keeping my smile to myself this time around.
Douchewaffle:
Because I’m not above that. I can be very creative, you know.
Stoppppp. You’re going to get me in trouble!
Douchewaffle:
How is that possible? I’m not even there.
I roll my eyes, furiously typing back.
Sam’s wondering why I’m making faces at my phone. He threw a mini basketball at my head, so thanks a lot. I think I might be concussed.
I bite my lip to keep myself from grinning again as I picture Knox’s perfect jade green eyes rolling at my dramatics.
“Quinnie,” Sam whines, dribbling the ball across the carpet. “Play one game with me before mom calls us up to help. If you win, I won’t bring up whoever you’re texting at Thanksgiving dinner. I’m sure grandma would love to know what’s going on in your life.”
I scrunch my nose at him, checking my phone one last time before I give in to his silly demands. I only have a few days left to spend with my family before I’m back on the plane to California, and I’m going to make the most of it, even if my brother can be annoying as hell sometimes.
Douchewaffle:
How about I kiss it better when we get back, Princess?
I’d rather you kiss a little something further south, but I’ll take what I can get.
Douchewaffle:
You can take whatever you want from me and I’ll gladly let you have it, Quinn.
Is that a promise?
Douchewaffle:
Absolutely.
I shove my phone back into my pocket, cheeks and heart warm from Knox’s texts. It’s only been two days since I’ve seen him, but I’m already missing those gorgeous eyes, his rough hands hot against my skin. The apex of my thighs ache at the thought of taking exactly what I want from Knox when I get back, but I shake it from my mind, batting at Sam when he pretends to throw the ball at me again .
“And when I win, I’m going to tell everyone at Thanksgiving about you and Peep.”
Sam’s hazel eyes narrow, and he checks me the ball. “You wouldn’t.”
I grin, and it’s not a nice one. I toss the ball back, a little harder than necessary as my competitive side flares to life. “Try me.”
“So, Quinn, I hear your classes are going well,” grandma Mavis says from her spot next to me, spreading butter on her roll. I wait for her to finish before politely asking for the knife and promptly chopping the head off of the butter-shaped turkey mom always gets for Thanksgiving. I ignore the disapproving noise grandma makes because that was way too satisfying. “What are you taking this year?”
I tuck that sucker’s head right down the deep cut in my roll, warm in my hands. Sandwiching it back together, I stuff a bite into my mouth, almost moaning obnoxiously when I chew on the chunk of butter and the flavor explodes on my tongue.
I’m a butter fiend. It is the elite condiment.
Swallowing, I answer, “I’m taking Life Drawing, Art History, Creative Writing, and Critical Thinking.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she compliments, and I heave a sigh of relief when she turns to talk to my grandfather, who doesn’t care about what anyone is doing in their personal lives, just about how much turkey he can consume before grandma cuts him off.
“Your mother told me that you’re the best in your drawing class,” Aunt Gemma beams, and I want to roll my eyes .
Of course mom would say something like that. She only knows what I tell her, and while I am excelling in Drawing 201, I’m not the best in class. They don’t know how I second guess every project before I turn it in, how I can’t seem to stop obsessively nitpicking my work when I’m supposed to be critiquing my classmates. They don’t know that I have the hardest time figuring out what to draw, that nothing gives me the drive to create what I want anymore, because I don’t even know what it is that I want.
“It’s hard to compare when everyone’s style is so different,” is what I go with, forcing a smile. “I have this friend, Reid, who’s in my class and he’s an architecture major. His drawings are so fun to look at because he adds little elements of things he’s learned in his own classes. And Rory is quite excellent at drawing as well.”
“Right, well, no one is as good as our little Quinnie,” she grins, pinching my cheek. It hurts just as much as it did when I was a child. I laugh nervously, eyes flitting around the table, trying to find something to distract her with. I don’t want to talk about my classes at all.
My gaze meets my brother’s, who’s laughing at something grandpa said. In a split decision, I decide that I’ll have to turn the tables on him if I want to keep the attention away from school.
“Sam, anything to add?” I ask, sending my brother a pleading look. He appears smug from his spot next to dad, and I don’t think he’s going to be jumping in and volunteering for the hot seat right now. Damn.
Thankfully—and unknowingly—mom comes to my rescue. “Yes, Sammy, why don’t you tell us about your time visiting Quinn at school?” She asks, and Sam glares at me. Sorry, I mouth, but I’m not at all. At least I didn’t have to bring it up to distract them from my failures this semester. “Or should I say when you were visiting Pipa?”
He chokes on his drink, spluttering and pounding on his chest as he looks up at mom with a look of betrayal; dad stuffs a piece of turkey into his mouth, leaning over and slamming Sam on the back to help dislodge the liquid. I don’t think that it’s his water that’s choking him, it’s that now the entire family is chatting excitedly, shooting off questions at him like some sort of game show.
“Pipa? As in Pipa Wilson?” My aunt chirps, suddenly interested. “What’s going on with you and her, Sammy? Are the two of you dating?”
“No,” he gasps, like a fish out of water. I tuck into the mashed potatoes on my plate, hiding my grin behind a large mouthful of the creamy goodness. “Not officially, anyway,” he grumbles, stabbing at his green beans.
The conversation throughout the room pitches higher with everyone asking for more details. Sam’s face is redder than the cherry pie I helped mom make for dessert, trying to dip and dodge the questions as best he can.
I would totally help him out by admitting my almost failing Art History grade or the fact that I haven’t felt any inspiration for drawing since I was a teenager, or how the neighbor I’ve been complaining about all semester is now something more, but Sam looks like he’s doing a pretty good job at deflecting the questioning all on his own.
While everyone is distracted, I slip my phone from my pocket, peering down at it in my lap as I type two quick messages.
I might’ve just outed Sam and Peep to the fam. They’re still a thing, right?
Quick. What’s the best way to deflect attention?
The answers come in just as quickly as I send them.
Ro:
I think so…Peep hasn’t wanted to talk about it but I’m about to sick Aisling on her. Then, she’ll really crack.
Aisling is Rory’s oldest sister. She and Peep have always been closer, and I remember the amount of times Rory and I snuck around to hear them gossiping about high school things like boys and cars when we were still in middle school. She’s hard-headed and confrontational, so if anyone can get information out of Peep, it’s Aisling.
The other text follows promptly.
Douchewaffle:
I don’t know, I’m sitting at the kid’s table.
Knox’s response makes me grin. I can picture him, knees up to his shoulders as he squats at a children’s table at Ace’s home in Colorado, his plate of food much more colorful than all of the kids he’s surrounded by. I wonder if Ace has also been ordered to the children’s table or if they got themselves banished there.
I’m sure it’s nothing like I’m picturing, but it’s fun to imagine. I wonder if Mandy is there as well or if she stayed in New York for break.
As I’m about to answer the messages, I’m cut off by mom, scolding me.
“Quinn, no phones at the table. Put that away.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I salute, offering her an apologetic grin as I tuck it away. “I was just asking Rory what Peep had to say about all of this,” I offer, innocently, and Sam looks like he just shit the bed.
Sucks to lose at Basement Basketball.