But not enough to buy her time.
It made me pause and take stock. Ask myself some questions.
Life was short—what did I want to do with mine? What did I want to learn, accomplish, leave behind? What memories would I cherish when it was time to look back? What would matter most?
The amount of money in my bank account?
The number of beautiful women I’d fucked?
The square footage of my house?
As impressive as those figures were, I realized they’d be meaningless in the end. And after the bombings in Paris, where I witnessed firsthand how quickly and cruelly life can be snuffed out, I knew I had to change things. I just didn’t know how.
Alex had been my first call.
We hadn’t been as close in the last ten years of our lives as we’d been in the first eighteen, but we had the kind of friendship that didn’t require a quota of check-ins or a constant stream of updates. He might have grown up in a six-bedroom Tudor with a three-car garage and a pool in the yard while I grew up in a tiny two-bedroom bungalow on a street lined with the century-old homes of servants from another era, but we got each other.
He’d always be there for me; I’d always be there for him. Period. I’d already been planning on coming in for his wedding, but he’d been the one to suggest maybe moving back for a time, or trying school again, and as soon as he said it, I knew it was the right idea.
The last two months had been a whirlwind of buying the condo, leasing my L.A. home, shipping my stuff to Detroit for storage, cancelling what jobs I could get out of, moving into a hotel downtown, and enrolling in a couple classes at Wayne State. I’d hardly had time to breathe.
But things were starting to settle a little, and living here would be so much nicer than staying in a cold, impersonal hotel room for the next few weeks while I waited for the work on my condo to be completed. I’d jumped at the chance when Alex offered last week—especially when he told me Jaime lived upstairs. I’d been really excited to see her again.
Clearly, the feeling was not mutual.
I frowned. Should I apologize?
While I thought it over, I returned to what I’d been doing when I saw her pull in, which was unpacking the few books, pictures, and mementos I’d kept out of storage. A framed photo of my mom when she was younger, and one of us together on the beach in La Jolla before she died. Most of the books were texts for this semester; I was taking a history course, a political science seminar, and a math class.
But I also had my senior year yearbook, which I’d found while going through boxes in my mom’s attic last week. She’d given the little house to her church in her will, and they used it to provide housing to women and children who needed a safe place to stay, which my mother would have loved. I’d quickly had all her personal things boxed and stored in the attic, and I’d paid for the necessary renovations, but I hadn’t been back there since she left and figured it was time to clean out the place once and for all.
I’d had no idea how much crap was up there.
I swear to God, you’d have thought my mother grew up during the Depression or something. The woman saved everything. It was going to take me months to get through it all, and even though most of it would be junk to anyone else, I didn’t want to just throw stuff out without looking at it. It hadn’t been junk to her.
Picking up the yearbook, I sat on the couch and opened it to the front cover. It was covered with writing, and I wondered if Jaime had signed it somewhere. I didn’t see her name anywhere in the front, so I turned to the back, which was also full of signatures, farewells, and phone numbers, but not hers. Disappointed, I flipped to the page displaying her junior year photo and saw that she’d written to me there—neat cursive lettering along the white borders of the page.
Quinn, you will probably never see this because you think yearbooks are stupid and you didn’t ask me to sign it anyway. (I took it in study hall when you weren’t looking. You are over in the corner flirting with someone, surprise surprise.) Well, I just wanted to say I hope you have a great summer and even though I am still mad at you for what you said about how to grow taller (I still can’t believe I fell for that), I’m glad we are friends and I will really miss you next year. Maybe I can come visit you!!! I think we could have a good time… Love, J
I closed the book, feeling that intense attraction for her resurface. Leaning back on the couch, I stared up at the ceiling. It was quiet up there. Would I be able to hear her television? Her phone calls? Her shower running? What was she doing now? Changing out of her work clothes? I thought about her sliding out of that pencil skirt she’d been wearing, and blood rushed between my legs. I loved a pencil skirt and heels on a woman. Feminine and sexy, but strong too. Was that what grown-up Jaime was like?
Before I could think it through, I got off the couch and went up the stairs, knocking three times. Sure, she’d brushed me off earlier, but I loved a challenge, and I wanted to get to know her. Maybe I could charm my way into her good graces.
Truth be told, I’m pretty good at charming my way into tight spaces.
Four
QUINN
She opened the door wearing a gray Detroit Tigers T-shirt with the neck cut out, light blue flannel pajama pants, and fluffy pink socks. Without her heels, she was even shorter than I remembered, and I had to fight the urge to tease her again. But fuck, she was pretty, even with that scowl. Heart-shaped face, big green eyes, puffy pink lips. I’d forgotten about that dimple in her chin—fucking adorable.