Chapter 23
Baking in the desert sun on a lounge chair, I marvel for the seventeenth time this weekend that this is someone’s vacation house. Infinity pool dripping like glass, swim-up bar, bocce ball court, various structures sprawling across the acreage, and, of course, palm trees.
In ten years, they’ll for sure have a pickleball court. Plus, I admit it, I’m having the time of my life at Coachella weekend. Even picking the wardrobe felt like a cultural moment, a rite of passage I needed to walk through. Cutoff denim, fringe boots, and all.
Expecting Quinn’s return any moment, I turn my head to relive the magic of Radiohead last night with her, but Alan stands there instead. I sit up and shield my face. “Alan! Hey.”
His hair hasn’t thinned yet, and up close, I guess he’s not terrible looking. Dark hair, tall, pale, prominent nose, and black eyes. He’s clearly a brilliant guy. Quinn loves something about him. It’s my friend’s unhappiness that has turned me into his critic.
“Quinn has a headache,” he says. “Do you have any Advil, by chance?”
“Oh, shoot. She needs to get better for Snoop! One second.”
“Thank you so much.”
I lean over to my straw bag and rummage.
In my periphery, Alan shifts in his sandals and neon board shorts. Maybe he feels about as comfortable around me as I’ve always felt around him. I ponder this for the first time. My fingers find the white bottle—but I hold off for minute.
“Hey, Alan?”
“Yep?”
He’s the kind of guy who says yep a lot.
Is it a question? Is it an answer? Who knows?
“Why don’t you have a seat for a second?”
He looks longingly to the house. “Quinn’s expecting me—”
I wave a hand. “She’ll be fine. I just—”
How do I make this less awkward?
We never really get to bond, Alan!
What are your intentions with Quinn?
You marry her. I don’t like it.
I go with honesty. “I’d love to get to know you a little more. Just for a second? Maybe we could chat?”
To my surprise, he sits down without a fight. “You want a drink or anything?”
I’m surprised by the offer. “I’m okay, but thank you. That’s nice.”
He leans back in the chair next to me, and I find his physique endearing up close. I take it in with appreciation, the total and complete lack of effort to bother with, say, the gym. He’s into other things besides fitness. He’s into work. And Quinn. And Radiohead. You had to respect it.
“Great show last night, right?” I say.
He brightens even in the sunlight. “Absolutely incredible,” he concurs. “These VIP tickets are really the way to go.”
“You can say that again.” Thanks to Holden’s connections—where is Holden, by the way?—we had the best views for every big show. He wouldn’t tell me how much the tickets cost. Insisted he had it all covered, for not just me, but all four of us.
I prop myself up on an elbow. “Alan, can I ask you something?”
He shrugs. “Yep.”
“What do you love about Quinn?”
He points a look at me, one that asks, Are we really having this talk?
Yes, Alan, we are.
He releases a breath and cradles the back of his neck. “What’s not to love? She’s brilliant, she’s hilarious, she’s kind—and let’s be honest, she’s way out of my league.”
I laugh. “You said it, not me.”
“Hey,” he banters back.
Our rapport is already feeling warmer than I expected.
“Do you feel like you can open up to her, though?” I inquire. “Tell her all those things to her face—like, how much you like her? Tell her how you feel when things get challenging? When you’d rather bottle things up?”
“You know we’ve been dating less than a month, right?”
“Yes, but . . . I have a feeling. I think you guys have something . . .” Special? Unique? Doomed? “Lasting.”
He’s a puppy dog with this news. He practically pants, “Did she say that?”
It’s kind of adorable.
“No,” I clarify. “But . . . I tend to sense these things.”
“Really? Well, what can I do then?” He leans toward me eagerly. “Quinn—listen. I really like her. So much. It was—it is—almost overwhelming how much I like her. How can I make her happy? If there’s an insider map, I want it.”
He is a bird in my hands, and I thank God for the opportunity to feed him whatever I can. I close my eyes.
Give me the words to speak.
“You need to build her up, Alan,” I hear myself say.
To him. To myself. To Reid.
Keep building up.
Don’t give up!
“With your words, with your deeds, with your actions. Pour into her.”
Forever. Don’t stop.
I point to a cactus at the edge of the property. “See that cactus?”
“Yep.”
“Quinn is not a cactus.”
He angles his head. “What do you mean?”
“Cacti—they have a unique ability to survive drought. Big ones can go months and months without water.”
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“Quinn? She’s more like—well, a willow tree. They require extreme amounts of water to thrive and bloom. And grow through the seasons.”
Like me, I realize.
Like me.
But have I ever told this to Reid?
I’ve been letting my friends do a darn good job, but have I stopped giving my husband the hose?
He sits with this. “That’s actually a helpful analogy. Thank you.”
“Will you remember it?”
He nods. “I will.”
And I think he might.
I pray he will.
We share the silence, staring into the heat. I’m surprised when he pierces the quiet first.
“I think I’m a cactus,” he says.
It’s the most personal thing I have ever—or might ever—hear Alan say. I don’t even want to move, for fear I might jinx it, or realize that I imagined it in the first place.
I look at him. “Really?”
He nods. “I think . . . I’m actually okay for long stretches of time.
Genuinely. Without . . . water. Affirmation.
Those things.” Another minute passes. “My parents didn’t express any affection.
At least, not well. Lots of fighting. You know.
I grew to be . . . highly independent. I got very, very good at math. Not at much else, I’m afraid.”
My heart pinches. “I doubt that’s true, Alan.”
“Yep. It is, though. And it’s okay. I just—” He scratches his head. “I can’t believe someone like Quinn is interested in me. Did you know that she thinks I’m funny? Me? Funny.”
I laugh at this, rather hard. “See, though? I just LOLed! Funny.”
This gets a smile out of him.
He quiets, though, looking concerned. “Do you think a cactus and a willow can work, in the long term? Sounds like two different climates.”
I breathe a sigh, thinking of future Quinn—and how desperately I want to save her.
I think again of my own marriage—and how I’m pretty sure Reid and I might both be willow trees.
And how being of the same species certainly doesn’t safeguard you from hard times—from the call for diligent, intentional, ongoing care and communication.
After all, how successful have I been with watering Reid lately?
If I’m honest, the once-steady current between us feels like it’s slipping through my limbs—and it terrifies me.
I miss the flow between us, the way it once surged with connection, assuring me we’d last through the decades.
I find myself wishing he’d ask about my random delights instead of the daily calendar.
Book a babysitter on his own for once, plan a night on the town and not bail.
But have I stopped pouring into us too? I worry if we don’t get more diligent with our tending, we might dry up like this desertscape. Maybe not soon. But someday.
Relationships need proper care, period.
I think of the gray that’s fallen over Quinn’s eyes in present day, the way her shoulders now sag. The cynical bite of everything she experiences. The world is no longer sweet to her.
And yet, she loves this guy.
She loves him so much.
I know she is simply crazy about this nerd who just offered me hydration in the high desert, and who possesses a shocking amount of self-awareness, which he has definitely been hiding under that accountant’s physique.
All she really wants is for her soulmate to love her how she needs to be loved. Could it be Alan, after all?
Could it be they’re just missing each other?
Could the same be true for me and Reid?
“I think they can,” I say. “But it takes a lot of work. Maybe more than the average relationship—or at least more awareness of your different needs. I think the real question is: Do you think she’s worth it?”
He nods decisively.
I flatten my palms on my thighs. “If I tell you to read a book, as my Official Quinn’s Best Friend Recommendation, will you do it?”
He salutes. “Yep. I sure will. I love a good self-help book once in a while.”
The guy is full of surprises.
“What’s your address?”
I fish for my phone. As he rattles it off, I tap it into my cart, making a promise here and now to reread the book myself. “Great. It’ll come to your house.”
I toss him the Advil.
He rattles it. “Thank you. This was an astoundingly illuminating poolside conversation for a Coachella weekend.”
I laugh again.
He’s funny.
And he’s just going to gobble up The Five Love Languages.
Three hours later, Quinn is revived and headache-free. We’re matching tonight. Crocheted orange tops, denim shorts, gladiator sandals, giant gold earrings, and heavy beaded necklaces. Alan wears a white T-shirt and jeans, while Holden—
Where the heck is Holden?
I’m frowning.
It’s time to go.
And I haven’t seen him all afternoon.
He was also mentally absent on the drive here yesterday.
I didn’t want to face it—or maybe admit it—but he was being weird with his phone, hiding it, sneaking off twice to the bathroom at our stop for date shakes at Hadley Orchards, both times taking way too long.
Pulling his hand away when I grabbed it during the drive.
Generally floating away in a manner so subtle I might not notice if I had not been down this highway before.
Wandering through the giant house now, in search of him, I find his master bedroom door, off in its own separate wing, closed. I poise my knuckles for a knock before I hear his voice. Muffled but clear enough.
“Tomorrow, okay? I told you. I can’t tonight.”
I press my ear to the door.
“Yes, babe. I love you too.”
I take a step back. Then another.
My heart hammers.
Babe.
I love you too.
I breathe.
Stay calm.
Maybe Holden has a sister.
You idiot. You are both only children.
How well do you even know this guy, Sutton?
What can you say of his track record?
Oh.
THAT’S RIGHT.
And you came to Coachella weekend with him?
How does Alan suddenly seem like the stallion here?
I steady myself, realizing I might be lurching head-on into a massive overreaction. You were not meant to hear that. It could have been anyone. Babe. It’s a broad term, right?
Once it’s been quiet for another full minute, I give a sprightly knock. “Hey, you! Almost ready?”
“Yeah! Just a sec!”
Are his words slurring?
I wait at the door. When he pulls it open, my stomach flutters—battling with my ears over what they just heard.
Attraction pummels me with a stomach flip.
Holden has committed to the Coachella role—and it’s hot.
He’s shirtless, his black leather vest open, white bandana tied around his neck in a V.
Dark jeans and high-top black Converse. Is he wearing eyeliner?
I don’t hate it.
Him, however?
Still a liar?
I might.
For this moment, though, Sutton Lancaster’s ready to pull out the SAG card. My face betrays no suspicion. Shoulders back, I step into character, feeling Oscar-worthy. Primed for a role spanning worlds. In the movie, I’m playing me. Young Sutton still fooled by his games.
He reeks of booze, and I don’t even pull a face.
Has he been in there just drinking all day?
Alone?
I’m concerned.
“I missed you today,” I say, peering over his shoulder at the mountains of clothes, at the booze bottles decorating his nightstand. “You okay?”
He runs a hand broodily over his mouth. “Needed some rest. A little me time. It’s going to be a late night.”
Me time?
Barf.
I flap my lashes. And grab his hand, like a groupie fawning over her rock star. “Let’s go, babe!” I hope he fears I was eavesdropping. “Our driver will be here any minute.”