“Yeah.” He hesitated. “Except I’ve been thinking of putting it on the market,actually.”
“Howcome?”
“Compared to this, it feels . . . I don’t know. Stark. I like it here, where there are pictures on the walls and plantsand—”
“Fraying fabric on the couch, drawers dedicated to poop bags, vomit stains on thecarpet—”
“Height charts on the windowsills and fresh flowers from the community garden.” He smiled. “I mean, I’m clearly not suggesting we move in together after our firstdate—”
“Also known as our faux date,” Iinserted.
“But I think I’ve outgrown my bachelorpad.”
“If you have a revolving bed or Marvin Gaye on tap, I won’t hesitate to make fun of you just because we slepttogether.”
“You’ll have to come over and see for yourself. How about nextweekend?”
The abruptness of his invitation stunned me into silence. This seemed like seventeenth date territory for someone like Sebastian. I hated to turn him down, but I had to. “Can’t,” I said. “I haveplans.”
“Can youcancel?”
“I already promised my parents I’d come home. I have a standing date in Buffalo each month to play gin rummy with mygrandad.”
I braced myself for Sebastian’s teasing, but truthfully, I didn’t care. I’d lost time with my family while I was with Neal. He hadn’t liked to visit them and didn’t want me to leave him on the weekends. Forget holidays. Since we’d broken up I’d been making an effort to drive up there at least once a month. Canceling on them for a guy was out of thequestion.
“You play gin rummy . . . and call him grandad?” Sebastian laughed, but not in a mocking way. “Cute,” he said, tucking a pillow under his face. “You are such a good girl, Georgina. Good, and cute, and beautiful adinfinitum.”
Describing me so eloquently would’ve sounded sarcastic coming from Neal. Sebastian and I had had our moments, but in this one, he wasn’t joking around. It felt good. Maybetoogood.
“As much as I’d like to keep you in bed next weekend,” he continued, “there’s nothing more important than time withfamily.”
That wasn’t quite the response I’d expected. Teasing, yes, and maybe reluctance to let me go. But not something as emotionally adept as encouraging me to spend a seemingly dry afternoon playing cards with my grandad. I thought of how fondly he’d spoken of his mom, sister, niece and nephew. Did family come before anything else for him too? I moved from my stomach to my side, readjusting my pillow to look him in the eyes. “What about yourdad?”
“Never knewhim.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Who washe?”
He hesitated. Just as I worried I’d pushed too hard, he said, “Some teenager from San Francisco visiting Mexico City with his family. My mom chose Boston because it was about as far as she could get fromCalifornia.”
That must’ve been why Sebastian didn’t talk about him. With a family as supportive as mine, I couldn’t imagine not having my dad to rely on. “Quintanilla was your mom’s maiden name?” Iasked.
“Yeah.” Something like frustration flickered in his eyes, but eventually, his shoulders relaxed again. “My sister, Libby—or Libertad as she goes by now—started using Quintanilla again at eighteen. She accused Mom and me of trying to erase history. I only ever used my full name officially, like on college apps, which, ironically, helped me.Otherwise. . .”
I bit my lip, waiting. This must’ve been the source of whatever had crossed his face just now. “What?”
“I liked being a Quinn. I know it’s fucked up, but Mom was right. It waseasier.”
“It’s okay to want easy,” I said, “especially when you didn’t have that growingup.”
He shook his head. “I’m ashamed to admit it. Iamproud of my heritage, and yet, I haven’t even claimed it in the most basic way. I’ve thought a lot about changing it back, but I’m afraid now I’ll draw attention to the fact that I hidit.”
“We can do it if you want,” I told him, letting my enthusiasm through. “I can spin it, no problem. You don’t need to be this version of yourself anymore, Sebastian. You just told me there was no divide between George and Georgina, nor should there be one between Quinn andQuintanilla.”
“I don’t want to risk involving my family in all the bad PR this job has broughton.”
I put my hand on his chest, and he covered it with his. “I’m sure your mom was proud of the work you did,” Isaid.
He shook his head. “At the end of her life, all the things I’d done for the magazine . . . all the things we’d printed . . . just felttrivial.”
