I was wrestling with thoughts and feelings that were completely foreign to me. Every admission was a cycle of disbelief, denial, and gradual (grudging) acceptance. Finally, I came to some conclusions.
I liked Quinn. Really liked him. It wasn’t just his body or his face or even his dick. I mean, yes, he was sort of obnoxious about his selfies, and he liked making fun of me way too much, but I liked his sense of humor and his work ethic. I liked his manners. I liked the way he talked about his mom. I liked that he quit modeling to go back to school and find something he really wanted to do. I liked that he knew my family and understood where I came from. I even liked that he stood up to me—sort of.
What I didn’t like was the way he had me doubting myself. It had been five years since I’d sworn off serious relationships, and in that five years I hadn’t once regretted that decision. I’d stuck to my rules, had a good time, and never felt lonely, deprived, or hurt. The guys I’d dated casually here and there hadn’t made an impact, exiting my life as easily as they’d entered it. They were nice guys—smart, attractive, attentive, successful. But they didn’t do anything to me.
There had been a few wild one-night stands and intense extended fuck flings, but not once did I consider anything more with any of them. That kind of passion just wasn’t sustainable for more than a few weeks, and frankly, none of those guys were very interesting beyond the bedroom.
But my gut was telling me Quinn wasn’t like anyone I’d ever been with before and didn’t fit neatly into either category. He wasn’t the dependable date with no spark, and he wasn’t the guy I wanted to bang but not talk to.
I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to know him better. I wanted to listen to him talk about his past and his future, confide in him that I was terrified to make the stupid toast at Alex’s wedding, admit that sometimes I was scared of ending up like my mother—married to my career, blind or complacent about my husband’s affairs, unaffectionate and increasingly closed off, a woman with very few close friends and no visible excitement in her life.
I wanted to tell him how I felt guilty for thinking about her that way—after all, I’d lacked for nothing. Alex and I had grown up in a nice house in a great neighborhood, attended excellent schools, had plenty of clothes and food and all the extras—swimming pool, piano lessons, soccer teams, trips to Europe. Our parents attended concerts and games and conferences, praised our successes, gave us the occasional hard words, paid for our educations, supported our personal and professional decisions, and never pressured us to be anything we weren’t.
That was love, wasn’t it? I mean, my mother wasn’t a hugger, never really said I love you, and had never seemed comfortable with my dad’s attempts at affection, but that was just her. We knew we were loved, she was a perfectly fine mother, and my dad, for all his faults, was a good father.
But Alex didn’t want to be like him, either.
I rolled over and punched my pillow a few times. Being an adult was fucking hard. There were all these complicated feelings to sort through. Wouldn’t it be nice sometimes to have someone’s ear while you did it? Even if that person didn’t have any advice, just someone to make you feel like, no matter what, things were OK? That you were OK?
A friend could do that, but a friend wouldn’t then give you an orgasm to turn OK into OMG.
Quinn Rusek could be my someone.
He could. It didn’t have to mean that I was wrong about everlasting love being a myth—it could just mean I was willing to take a chance on getting closer to someone.
Quinn Rusek could be my someone.
He wanted to.
I just had to figure out how to let him without losing my bearings…or my heart.
I slept late Saturday morning, and by the time I got up and looked out the window, Quinn’s car was gone. At the gym, I guessed. Ew, if we dated, would that mean I had to be all healthy and fit? Not that being fit was a bad goal, and I was pretty sure I belonged to a health club, but there was no way I could handle Quinn’s level of dedication to his physical well-being. Maybe I could eat more vegetables or something.
I grabbed my phone and got back under the covers, intending to check my messages and email, but I couldn’t resist checking out Quinn’s Instagram first. God, he’d be so smug about that.
“That’s right, I want to see your stupid hot face first thing this morning,” I muttered as I typed his name into the search box. I tapped his profile picture, but it was my stupid face I saw on the screen, right next to his ridiculous grin. “Oh my God,” I moaned. “I look like I just stepped in dog shit!”
Off to a great start was the caption. And then: #sweetpea #firstdate #loveisreal.
Three thousand people had liked it. And a bunch of them had commented with cute little emojis that turned my stomach. Other people had written things like so jealous or who is that????? or why is she making that face, if I was her I’d be so happy.
Quinn had commented, That’s my friend. She’s making that face because she doesn’t believe in love. I’m trying to make her believe.
After that there were a bunch of AWWWWW and So sweet! and more disgustingly cutesy emojis and eye-roll-inducing ass-kissing and flattery.
Lower down, one merciful soul had written, She’s pretty, and Quinn had written beneath that, She’s a lot more than that.
I tossed the phone aside and flopped back onto my pillow.
But I was smiling.
Seventeen
QUINN