Until I saw him in his bar.
It was brunch and he was behind the counter and some skank who had too many Bellinis leaned over the counter and tried to kiss him.
He moved his mouth so she got his cheek instead of his lips.
I was fuming.
When he picked me up for dinner that night, he could tell something was the matter.
We fought.
“What the fuck do you want from us?” he shouted.
“What do you fucking think?” I yelled back.
He followed me as I stormed out of the car.
“We aren’t dating!” he shouted.
“Right,” I yelled back. “Let’s just keep it casual, asshole.”
The next day—still crying—I boarded a cross country flight from San Francisco to New York City.
“Ma’am?” the flight attendant who sold me the ticket asked me at the counter.
“I’m fine,” I said sharply as I put on my dark sunglasses.
I made it through to the lounge and then got onto the plane.
And I curled up.
And began to cry for the next five hours.
Quinn
I’m in love with a dick.
Okay, look, I know how that sounds.
You’re sitting there thinking, Oh no, one of those women. Not again!
Same shit, different story, right?
Boy meets girl, boy hurts girl, boy loses girl.
Cue rainy montage. Dark night of the soul. Grand gesture.
Blah blah blah.
She forgives him, they bang in the final chapters, and have a baby in the epilogue. Three hundred thousand words of unreleased bonus material in the back matter, and sign up here for my fucking newsletter!
You’ve heard this one before, right? Well, breathe a sigh of relief now, babe—because that’s not quite what I’m dealing with here.
See, when I first moved into the Bradford, I thought to myself, Fuck yeah, Quinn! You finally made it!
As far as starting your own company goes, this is pretty much the dream. I sold that enterprise for so much money that I’m set for life.
Cushy apartment in the swankiest apartment building in NYC. Black cherry Tesla in the garage downstairs. Yearly donations to every notable charity that’s batted its eyelashes at me.