Lucky for me, I never had to. I didn’t know whether he’d avoided the house (me) on purpose, or whether he was just busy getting ready to leave for school, but a month after that, he left for UNC Chapel Hill without ever showing his face again.
But he hadn’t even lasted a year there, because some model scout “discovered” him—every time I think of it, I roll my eyes—and plastered his stupid perfect face and hot body in catalogs and magazine ads and on shopping bags in stores that ripped off teenagers with overpriced clothes made in China. And he didn’t even wear the clothes in all the pictures! Half the time he was nearly naked—it was ridiculous! (Didn’t stop me from hoarding every one of those catalogs under my bed.)
Eventually, after I went to school and studied marketing, I realized that those pictures weren’t necessarily meant to sell the clothes—they were selling an idea. A lifestyle. A brand.
That was also about the time I learned not to trust anything or anyone that looks too good to be true. Everyone is selling something—and if you’re not selling, you’re buying.
I’d bought enough assholery in my life already.
“Jaims, you there?” Alex sounded a little impatient.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I said. “Sorry.”
“So is it OK?”
I wanted to say no, and Alex had always told me I could have final say over who lived downstairs, but I couldn’t. He barely charged me any rent and always came through with favors for me when I asked. “It’s just one month?”
“One month,” he promised. “And then he’s out. Maybe even less, it just depends on when his new place is ready. You work so much anyway, I bet you’ll barely even see each other.”
“Good.” I turned onto my street and noticed a black BMW with California plates parked at the curb. Lights on in the downstairs flat. “Jesus Christ, Alex…is he here already?”
“Ummm…I gotta go.”
“What were you going to do if I said no?” I grumped, turning into the driveway. At least he hadn’t blocked it. I’d probably have to clear out the other half of the garage and give him the second space, not that I had time to do that. Already he’s inconveniencing me.
“Beg. Listen, I actually do have to run, we have an appointment with the florist that Nolan says I have to show up to, but do me a favor and be civil, OK? You heard about his mom.”
Some of my irritation eased when I thought about his mom. She’d been our housekeeper for as long as I could remember, a single mother who’d also worked nights as a waitress, which left Quinn to fend for himself a lot. Growing up, he’d probably eaten more meals at our house than at his own, although I remember her being a fantastic cook. Our mother, with her graduate degree in biomedical engineering, could hardly boil water, but Mrs. Rusek used to bring over delicious homemade soups and bread and meatballs and pierogies, maybe because she felt guilty about how much time Quinn spent at our house.
“Yeah, Mom told me when it happened. Cancer, right? Like two years back?”
“Yeah. He brought her out to California for treatment, but I think he felt guilty that he’d worked and traveled so much she was able to hide her illness from him for so long. He told me she should have seen a doctor long before he took her. I think he blames himself.”
“That’s terrible.” When I’d heard that Mrs. Rusek had died, I’d thought about reaching out to Quinn, even bought a sympathy card, but in the end I’d decided against it. The card was still at the bottom of a desk drawer at work.
“Then he was in Paris during those attacks. Kind of messed him up a little.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t either, not until recently. We haven’t spoken much over the last few years, we’ve both been so busy, but I think he really needs old friends right now.”
“So he’s moving back to Detroit for you?”
“No, but I think it’s part of wanting to go back to when things were simpler or something. He said he’s been feeling kind of lost and wants to ground himself again. Make sure he’s doing the right things with his life.”
“Hmm.” Inside the garage, I turned off the car, disquieted by the way my heart was thumping. It had been ten years since I’d seen him—and probably at least a month since I’d stalked his Instagram—how annoying that the thought of being next to him again was doing things to me. “So did he quit modeling altogether?”
“That’s the impression I got.”
“Maybe he’s lost his looks,” I said hopefully. “Or gained fifty pounds.”
Alex laughed. “I doubt it. And I really have to go, Jaims. But why don’t you go in and say hello? I’m sure he’d love to catch up.”
I sniffed. “No, thanks. I’ll keep my distance.” My dignity had suffered enough at his hands.
“Have it your way, sweet pea,” he said, using our dad’s nickname for me. “Thanks for this.”
We hung up, and I took a minute to gather myself before going into the house. There was a chance I could get in without seeing him, although we’d share a front and side entrance. Both doors led to a hallway; at the side door were steps leading to the basement, and at the front door were the stairs to my flat and a door to his living room.