CHAPTER 12
Quinn
Gravel crunches under my tyres as I pull into the driveway too fast. I’d already left Josh a voicemail on the way back from the bank, so the plan was to wait for him to call me. But my stomach growls loud enough to remind me I haven’t eaten since… what, coffee this morning and two stale crackers?
Inside, I kick off my shoes, toss my keys onto the chipped laminate bench, and open the fridge. Empty, as usual. A sad apple. Expired condiments. Leftover ragu in a plastic container.
I dump it in a bowl, reheat, pour myself a shiraz from the pantry, and call it dinner. Pathetic, but after today, it’s all I can manage.
I’m halfway through a bite when I remember to turn my notifications back on, needing to know the moment he calls back. My phone explodes with texts, junk emails and spam calls. Then a photo notification, a “one year ago today” post.
It’s a memory, a collage from Josh’s birthday.
That’s just what I need—another reminder of the guy. I thought I’d scrubbed my socials clean, but somehow this tagged post slipped through, like a splinter I’d missed, making an already heavy day feel unbearable.
I almost swipe out, but something at the edge of the frame hooks me. I pinch the screen wider, breath catching as my pulse spikes.
Her. Brittany. Blurred but still obvious. My fingers tremble as I pinch the screen tighter, breath lodged in my throat. I wasn’t there that night; I was at Sophie’s, curled on her couch with food poisoning, clammy and weak. Josh had insisted I stay home, said it was a boys’ night.
My heart slams as I open the album, digging. Post after post. His friends’ pages. Tagged photos. She’s in all of them, next to him, laughing behind him, close enough to touch.
The pasta turns to ash in my mouth. I gag, stumble to the sink, spit it out, and dump the whole bowl straight into the bin. My head spins, the sour tang clinging to my tongue. I dig my fingers into the counter, knuckles white, willing the nausea to pass.
I scroll. Obsessive. Zooming, swiping, pinching the same five photos until the screen is no longer visible through my tears. My hands shake as I fumble for Sophie’s contact.
She picks up on the first ring. “Q? What’s wrong?” Always straight to the point, always listening for tears. For the first month after my breakup, I couldn’t get through a call without them.
Back then, she’d show up on my doorstep with food and coffee, never pushing me to talk. We’d sit shoulder to shoulder watching Gilmore Girls reruns while I forced myself to swallow small bites of food. Her persistence was the only thing that made me believe I’d survive it.
“Yeah, can you look at these pictures? I’ll message them to you now. Is that Brittany in them?”
“Hold up. I’m putting you on speaker while I check.” She pauses for a moment.
“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me it’s not her.” My voice cracks, fingers drumming anxiously against the counter as I wait for her to answer.
“Nope. That’s Brittany. Her hair looked tackier at the bar the other week, but it’s her. Look, the same ratty sneakers she wore at Avellana.” She sucks in a breath. “God…”
The confirmation knocks the air from my lungs. I press the heel of my hand against my sternum. “So it wasn’t just in my head.”
Her voice sharpens instantly, heat rising under the calm. “Are you kidding? He had her around back then? I swear, Q, I wish I’d thrown that drink in his face.”
I let out a brittle laugh, though it barely lifts. “Yeah,” I breathe out. The counter is cool against my palm, grounding me before I add, “And now I have to call him.”
Sophie groans, and I hear the shuffle of footsteps like she’s pacing hard. “No. He doesn’t deserve your breath. Just leave it, babe.”
“I wish I could,” I whisper, running my thumb over the rim of my wineglass, “but he gambled away all of our savings. My savings. I need help to paint and sell this house.”
Saying it out loud gives the words their own weight, sinking into the drab walls around me.
Her fury explodes across the line. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. He blew through everything you saved? I hope he chokes on his own arrogance.”
Then her voice softens, gentler. “Q… I can help you. Let me lend you the money, at least until this is sorted. You don’t have to call him.”
I close my eyes. The offer makes my chest ache in the best and worst way. “I can’t take your money, Soph. This is my mess, and I’m going to fix it. I need to.”
“At least let me help you get the money back? I could sort something out at work.”
“No, it’s okay. I just want to move on.”
Sure, the idea of taking Josh to court and getting my money back is tempting. But I know how these things go. Cases drag on forever, and even when you win, you barely get anything back. He’s already taken enough out of me. I don’t owe him another ounce of energy.
She exhales. “Fine. But I hate that I can’t fix this for you.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, staring into the dark swirl of wine. “So wish me luck.”
“Luck? He doesn’t deserve you even saying his name. But fine, good luck. And call me after. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I’ve barely set down my phone before his name lights up my screen. Fittingly, “Stop Calling Me Josh” plays from my phone and I smirk despite myself at the ringtone I set out of pettiness.
I wrap my palm around the bottle of wine and slide down to the floor. The cool tiles bite against my thighs as I slump back against the cupboard. I’m going to need more than a glass to get through this.
“Q-tip,” Josh drawls. “How are you?”
His voice scrapes against every raw nerve I’ve got. That pet name. He once told me it was because I talked his ear off, like that was supposed to be charming. Because every girl dreams of being compared to a cotton tip.
“I’m fine,” I bite out. “Thanks for calling back.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Thought we were still friends.”
“We’re not. And you know that.”
He laughs, low and mocking, like he’s in on some private joke I’ll never get. It’s the same sound I once mistook for charm, but now it feels like a knife twisting.
“What, trading me in already? Moving on fast, huh?”
I balk. “What are you even talking about?”
“A friend said you were basically screwing some guy at a bar. Real classy.”
And there it is.
I tilt the bottle to my lips and drink deep. “Let me guess. Tyler’s sister? You really want to play this game?”
“If it was her, so what? You ended things.” His tone is dismissive, as though my pain is some minor inconvenience to him. Then, before I can even form a reply, he cuts in again, voice dripping with contempt. “What’s the matter, Q? Jealous?” He dangles the words like bait.
“Don’t twist it. I left for a reason.” My voice is sharp, but my hand trembles as I tighten my grip on the bottle.
“All I ever did was try to be there for you,” he says smoothly.
I bark out a laugh that tastes bitter at the back of my throat. “How long, Josh?” I gulp down a few more mouthfuls, the shiraz burning hot as it slides down. The warmth spreads through me, but it does little to ease the tension bubbling to the surface.
A beat of silence, then he drops it like it’s nothing: “A year. Happy now?”
The words land like a fist to my ribs. I open my mouth to let out a gasp.
“Anything else? Like why I had to beg a bank for a loan because you gambled away our savings?”
Nothing but dead air, then: “I was gonna win it back. Had a tip on a horse.” He says it like it’s reasonable, like I’m the crazy one.
I laugh, but it’s devoid of humour. “You risked our future on a fucking horse?”
“I was handling it. You wouldn’t have noticed.”
Of course. My fault for noticing. My fault for being here to clean it up. My wine-fogged head throbs as I bite down hard on the thought.
I drag a hand down my face. “Well, you’d better win it back, because we have to sell the house. And renovate.”
“Can’t. I’ll be out of town.”
I blink, the kitchen tilting just enough to remind me how empty my stomach is. “Where?”
“Europe. Summer trip.”
I grip the bottle tighter. “You’re still on the mortgage, you idiot.”
In the background, a voice cuts in. “Hurry up, baby. We’re gonna be late.”
My jaw locks. My vision prickles at the edges. “Take me off speaker.”
“You’re not on speaker.”
“Don’t test me.”
He sighs. “Auction’s all lined it up. Handled it.”
“You’re at the airport.” My voice drops, disbelieving, as I swipe at my damp cheek.
“You’d know if you answered my texts.”
“Bullshit.” The word cracks. “None of them mentioned an auction or Europe with your best friend’s baby sister.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, the sour taste rising again.
“I’m twenty-two next month,” Brittany pipes in. Her bright voice slithers through the line, rubbing salt in a wound she’s never bothered to acknowledge.
The phone nearly slips from my grip. I clench it harder, knuckles aching.
“We still have to renovate,” I grind out. “You can’t just dump it on me.”
“Why not? You didn’t need me before. Why now?”
“Because you’re still on the mortgage.”
He snorts. “Figure it out. You always do.”
Boarding calls echo through the line. He’s already walking away.
“Anyway, gotta go. Drop my stuff at Tyler’s. Thanks, babe.”
And then he’s gone. No apology. No goodbye. Just silence.
And me, slumped on the kitchen floor, head tipped back against the cupboard as the tiles leech the heat from my skin. Tasked with cleaning up his mess. Again.