“Good. It looks perfect on you.” His eyes dropped to his coffee cup as he toyed with the handle. “And I think it’s true, the idea that you get back what you put out there. Since my mom died, I’ve thought a lot about what I’m, you know, putting out there. And what I want back.”
“Yeah?” I rested my chin on my hands, elbows on the table.
“She put such pure, selfless love out there. Worked so hard and always took pride in what she did, whether it was cleaning someone’s house, cooking at the restaurant, or raising a son on her own.”
“She was very proud of you. Nothing made her happier than talking about you.” I sighed, thinking of my own mother. “I have no idea what makes my mother happy beyond her work. What she wants to put out there or get back. I don’t think it’s love.”
Quinn looked up at me. “No?”
“Actually, I don’t know. That’s terrible, isn’t it? That I don’t know my mother well enough to know what makes her happy?”
“Some people are hard to know.”
“Yeah, but she’s my mother.” I sat back, dropping my hands in my lap. “And other than her job, I have no clue what makes her excited to get up in the morning. What’s she passionate about?”
“Maybe it’s the research she does. That helps a lot of people.”
“I guess. That’s just so in her head, you know? It doesn’t connect her to anyone. She seems so…closed off sometimes. Just sharing a roof with my father and living in her own little world by herself. They don’t even share a bedroom.”
Quinn looked at me for a moment. “Are you worried that she’s unhappy?”
“Maybe.” I thought for a second, words on the tip of my tongue. “Or maybe I’m worried about turning out like her.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. Forget I said anything.” Suddenly self-conscious, I fussed with the knot of hair at my neck.
“No, come on.” Quinn leaned forward on his elbows. “Talk to me.”
God, he was so handsome. And he was good to me—I wasn’t an easy person to get close to, and he tolerated all my quirks, made me feel beautiful and sexy, respected my boundaries even after a month had gone by. He deserved more of me, and he was asking for it.
I bit my lip. “Do you think I’m too closed off? Too unaffectionate? That I might end up alone and unhappy because I won’t let anybody in?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I think,” he said slowly, “you’re a very loyal person who shows love in her own way, on her own terms.”
“But what about the way I don’t like all the mushy romantic stuff or talking about feelings or being touched all the time? Am I cold-blooded? Just weird? Am I too in my head? Why don’t I believe in love like other people do? Why do I feel like it’s me who knows the truth and everyone else is deluded, yet everyone else is destined to be much happier than I’ll ever be?” By the time I stopped talking, I was a little tearful, and Quinn reached for my hand. I let him have it.
“First, I know you’re warm-blooded. In fact, I’d venture to say your blood runs downright scalding sometimes. And I love that about you—you might keep your cool all day long, but then it comes out of nowhere, this intense heat.” He squeezed my hand. “I can’t get enough of it, and I’m not saying that to make you feel bad—I mean it as a compliment. When something is in short supply, there’s always high demand.”
I couldn’t resist. “Is that a short joke?”
“No. It isn’t.” He squeezed my hand again. “And you’re not weird. Plenty of people don’t like sappy stuff or want to be in constant physical contact. Everyone has a different comfort level with physical affection. Yours and mine might be different, but that doesn’t mean yours is wrong. Do I think you’re too in your head sometimes? Yes. Do I think that means you’ll wind up alone and unhappy? No.”
“Thanks. I think.”
He smiled. “As for love, I don’t know why you don’t believe. Maybe you won’t let yourself.”
“What?” My skin prickled with gooseflesh.
“Maybe you’re so good at being in your head that your rational mind has entirely overruled your emotions, and that suits you just fine.”
His words jogged my memory. “Margot said something like that to me about a month ago, when I was complaining about how you wanted to date me.”
He looked amused. “Oh?”
“Yeah, she said I don’t let myself enjoy sex with men I date because I don’t want to have a reason to give them a real chance. And that I use great sex as a reason to avoid dating them at all.”
“Like you tried to do with me,” he said, his eyebrows rising. “Very astute. She knows you.”
I frowned. “She does. But what does all this mean? Have I just been lying to myself all this time? Sabotaging my own chance to be happy with someone?”
“Hey.” He took my fingers and wiggled them. “No frowning. The point of the gift was not to give you an existential crisis. It was to give you a pretty little thing to remind you that what you give is what you get, and what I want to give you right now is an orgasm.”
Yes. That was enough to turn my worry into a different kind of tension—one I knew how to deal with, one that could be easily and joyously relieved, one that made me ache to get my hands on him. “Chances are good you’ll get one, too.”