It’s Friday and I just got in from the office. I have a laundry list of stuff to do before driving down to Eastwood, but this week has killed me. I pulled a late night at the office Monday and was so tired by Tuesday it physically hurt to keep my eyes open. I crashed on the couch when I came home and was in bed by eight-thirty. Wednesday wasn’t much better, and I was cramping so bad from my impending period I didn’t have much of an appetite. I think the lack of food furthered my exhaustion and coupled with the stress of this project that I finally figured out today, I’m just done.
I lazily strip out of my office attire and snuggle into bed. Not meaning to fall asleep, I feel a bit of panic when I wake up about an hour later. Shit. I sit up too fast and get hit with dizziness. Rubbing my eyes, I force myself up, chug some water to try and feel better, and get a move on.
“Sorry, guys,” I say to the cats. Going as fast as I can, I feed them, set cans out on the counter to make it easier for Marie, my neighbor who comes and feeds them when I’m out of town. I quickly pack a bag, make my bed, and try to muster up the energy to vacuum. I’m not a neat freak or anything, but I like things to be tidy when I come home after a weekend away.
There are dishes in the sink, but I don’t want to load them in the dishwasher and leave it running after I leave just in case it leaks or something weird. I pull on my pink rubber gloves and turn on the water to hand wash what’s in there.
The smell of my yogurt bowl from this morning makes me gag. It hasn’t spoiled or anything, yet that fruity scent is sickening. I turn my head and inhale, trying not to breathe as I scrub out the bowl. I’m feeling so sick by the time I finish the dishes, I’m worried I came down with the flu. I crawl to the couch and curl up, closing my eyes for just a minute.
Half an hour later, my phone rings. I sit up, blinking, realizing I fell asleep again. I don’t feel nauseous anymore at least. I grab my phone and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hey, honey,” Mom says. “Are you still coming? I haven’t heard from you and you’re usually getting here around now. I saved a plate of dinner for you.”
“Yeah.” I sit up, blinking rapidly to try to force my eyes to focus. “I’m leaving here in a minute. I fell asleep on the couch. It’s been a long week.”
“You’re not too tired to drive, are you? Should you stay home and come in the morning?”
“I’m okay. I’ll regret it in the morning and wish I’d left tonight. I’ll swing by Starbucks on the way. I’ll grab my stuff, say bye to the cats, and be out of here in ten minutes.”
“Be safe, honey. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
I hang up, grab everything I need and haul it to the door and say goodbye to the cats, who are more interested in the handful of treats I scattered on the kitchen floor before making my exit.
I wait until I’m out of the city to get coffee and sing along to the radio to help keep myself awake. As much as I love my loft, there’s something so comforting about my childhood bedroom. We moved into the old house when I was twelve, and back then it was in really rough shape. It scared me at first, and Logan and Owen had fun telling me how haunted the place was. Obviously, it doesn’t scare me anymore, but I still think it’s haunted. The ghost is friendly at least and I’m pretty sure her name is Anna Beth. Or at least that’s what the spirit board told me one night when I was sixteen.
By the time I pull into my parents’ driveway, I have to pee so bad it’s not funny. I’m already strategizing where to park, how I’ll only grab my purse, and then run straight to the bathroom. There’s another car in my spot, one I don’t recognize right away. Then I get closer, and I know exactly who that Jeep belongs to.
Archer Jones.
16
Archer
“Do you boys want a second helping?”
“Yes, please,” I tell Mrs. Dawson, even though I’m already full from the first plate of chicken potpie I had. But it’s homemade and delicious.
“Your interview was pushed to tomorrow?” she asks as she puts another helping on my plate and moves on to give Dean another scoop.
“Yeah. The chief surgeon wanted to talk to me as well but couldn’t. There was a nasty car accident and he’s been in surgery all day.”
Mrs. Dawson grimaces. “I don’t know how you do it. I’m so thankful you can, of course. We need more good doctors like you in this county.” She gives me a warm smile. “You’re staying here tonight, don’t even try to tell me otherwise.” Mrs. Dawson smiles. “I love to have both my boys back! It’ll be just like college. Except you’re both much more mature,” she adds with a wink. “What about dessert?”
“Kara was right,” Dean says and puts a hand on his stomach. “You are trying to fatten me up.”
“Oh hush.” Mrs. Dawson opens the fridge and pulls out a carton of eggs. She’s from the southern part of the state, and has that southern hospitality thing down pat, showing her love through feeding us constantly. I don’t mind one bit.
“Mom, I know you mean well, but I don’t think either of us want eggs.”
“They’re for Rufus,” she tells Dean. “Poor old guy hasn’t been feeling well. I think his new medicine for arthritis upsets his stomach. I stopped giving it to him, but he’s being finicky with his food.”
Part of the reason I don’t have any pets is because I can’t stand to see them get old. They don’t live long enough. Plus, I’m probably emotionally traumatized from finding our Doberman seizing on the kitchen floor after he got into pills Bobby left laying out.
The dog had to be put down the next day. The drugs destroyed his stomach.
I haven’t thought about Max in a while. It makes the resentment toward my brother bubble back up. I take a deep breath and push all thoughts of him out of my mind. Dean and I talk about a new video game while Mrs. Dawson makes scrambled eggs. She was right: it does feel like college.
All four dogs get up and run to the back door a moment before it opens. I turn, seeing who’s coming in at this hour, and my heart falls out of my chest when my eyes lock with Quinn’s.
“Finally!” Mrs. Dawson steps away from the stove to peer down the hall. “I was getting worried.”
Like a deer in headlights, Quinn stares at me, unaware of the dogs jumping up around her. Then she blinks, shakes her head, and takes off her shoes.
“What is he doing here?” she blurts, and her words are like a knife to the heart. She didn’t expect to see me, and more importantly, she doesn’t want to see me.
“Hey, sis,” Dean says, looking a little perplexed at Quinn’s disdain over seeing me. “How are you?”
“Good,” she says shortly. Setting her purse on the floor, she eyes me one more time before stepping down the hall to the bathroom. I turn back to my food, and the implications of what I did hit me in the face like a sucker punch. Which is something I’ll probably get from Dean—and rightly deserved—before the night is through.
I slept with Quinn. Three times. And it’s not that I regret it, because I don’t. Not at all. I’ve spent the last three weeks missing her more than ever, wishing I could be next to her again so bad it hurt. But I can’t.
We can’t be.
Not only would Dean hate me for it, but it would create a huge rift between him and Quinn, and they’ve always been close. The whole Dawson family is tight-knit, and something causing strain between
them is like upsetting the balance of the fucking universe.
If this family has issues, then there’s no hope for the rest of us.
Pushing my food around on my plate, I wait for the inevitable. The dogs scramble around Quinn once she comes out of the bathroom, all pushing to get her attention. She pets Rufus first, then takes turns greeting the other dogs.
Mrs. Dawson steps away from the stove to give Quinn a hug. I can smell Quinn’s sweet perfume, and my heart lurches. She crosses her arms, not sure how to proceed. I don’t either. I’ve seen her naked, kissed and touched every inch of her. Fucked her hard until we soaked the sheets. And we haven’t spoken since.
I went through a maelstrom of emotions after that, from hating myself, to regret, to an intense sadness I haven’t been able to shake. I miss Quinn, and no amount of distracting myself or trying to tell myself otherwise is going to change that.
I’m in love with her.
Sleeping with her furthered that truth in my mind.
She’s the only one I want.
“How was the drive in?” Mrs. Dawson asks, going back to the stove.
“Fine. Leaving a bit later than normal helped avoid traffic, I think.”
“That’s good. Are you hungry, honey?”
“I am. Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”
Mrs. Dawson turns to Quinn, raising one eyebrow. “You’re joking, right? I’m making scrambled eggs.”
“Oh,” Quinn says, just as surprised. “Well, I still think it smells good.”
“I’ll gladly make more.” Mrs. Dawson turns down the burner. “I’ve been trying to get you to eat eggs for years. Take a seat. These are almost ready.”
Quinn looks at the island counter. It’s long, custom made so all the Dawsons could sit together, and the place we always eat unless it’s a formal dinner. Our eyes meet, and the way she looks at me pushes the knife deeper into my heart.
“Hey, Dean,” she says, taking a spot next to him. “And Archer.”