I pick up the business card and tap it against the table. “This is often a good time to think. I’ve been putting off doing something for a long time.” I sip the scotch, which has a warm and rounded flavour.
“Would it help to talk about it?”
The better question is would it help to talk to someone other than my twin brother, Beau? Or maybe the more pertinent question for this moment is whether it would help if I spoke to Quinn.
“I want to find my mum, but at the same time, I don’t.” I sigh. “She walked out on us when we were thirteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
As far as I know, Fraser, Beau’s fiancé, is the only other person in the house who knows about our messy family life.
I drink more scotch. “I want to know she’s all right, but at the same time, I don’t. I doubt that makes sense.”
“She doesn’t contact you at all?”
I shake my head. “Not even birthday or Christmas cards.”
Quinn dips his gaze. His pale lashes hide his dark blue eyes.
I put the business card down. “I don’t know if finding out she’s happy will worsen or alleviate the pain.”
“Maybe knowing will help you move on?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll be jealous of her life without us. Who knows?” I finish the scotch. “I’m sorry to offload on you.”
He looks up and meets my stare. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t know what I can say that might help. I’ve got no advice to give.”
I smile. “I wasn’t looking for advice.” I don’t even know why I told him what I did. “Don’t let me keep you up.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’re not. I told you, I’m awake. For now. I can either talk to you or try to get some work done in the lounge. The light isn’t good enough in my room at night. If it was, I wouldn’t have come down and stumbled into you.” He smiles. “Maybe I should thank our landlord?”
My chest tightens. “Work?”
“I’ve got some character sketches to hand in. For a book.”
Quinn is a freelance illustrator. I haven’t seen any of his book illustrations, but I have seen some of his projects. He drew me and my award for best Dom at The Library and gifted it to me. I keep the picture in a drawer in my room, mainly so Beau doesn’t make even more assumptions about my feelings for Quinn. It doesn’t belong in a drawer. Maybe, one day, I’ll frame it and hang it in my room.
It’s not the only time Quinn has drawn me, but it’s the only illustration of me that I know about officially. He fell asleep while sketching me, and I accidentally saw what he was working on. I’ve never felt so beautiful as when seeing myself through his eyes.
Quinn snaps his fingers.
I blink. “Sorry, I was miles away, then. Lost in my thoughts.”
“It’s normally me who has absent moments.”
I assume that’s part of his sleep disorder.
“Do you miss your mum?” Quinn asks.
“Every day.”
“Me too. My mum, not yours.”
My smile fades. “What happened?”
“She died. It’s been a while, but it doesn’t get easier.” He draws in a shuddering breath and then makes a frustrated noise as his head nods. “So”—his speech slurs like he’s at the end of a heavy night of drinking—“I”—his eyelids look like they’re weighed down by lead—“one… moment.”
“Of course.”
