“How’ve you been?” he asks, before stubbing the cigarette out against the wall and tossing it into the trash.
I hesitate. “Busy. You know, work, life…”
“Still with that podcast of yours?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Still there.”
He rocks back on his heels. There’s a weird tension in the air, which makes me regret not ever discussing our breakup. But he must know why it happened. He saw me back then; there was no space in me for a boyfriend.
“Well, that’s cool,” he says finally. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks.” I glance toward the street, ready to escape the awkwardness. “I should—”
“Scarlett, wait,” he says quickly, stopping me mid-step.
I turn back, brows raised. “What’s up?”
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way he always did when he was trying to figure out how to say something.
“Is it true?” he asks, gaze stuck to the ground. “Are you… are you seeing Rafael?”
Heat rushes to my face. “I, uh…”
“It’s just…” He looks away, then back at me, his expression unusually serious. “I didn’t think he was your type.”
I laugh, though it’s strained. “How so?”
“I don’t know. He’s just… not like you.”
“Like me?” I ask. “What does that mean?”
“Look, I’m not trying to start anything. I just wanted to know if it’s true.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Rafael and I are… spending time together,” I say finally.
He nods slowly, like he’s turning the concept over in his mind. “Well, be careful.”
“Okay,” I say, though it comes out more like a question. “I heard about what happened with the killer.”
His jaw tightens, and he looks away, exhaling through his nose. “Uh-huh. Not exactly how I planned to spend my night.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I was just walking home from The Oak, late as usual. I saw this guy coming out of Mallory’s place. Big dude wearing a green cap. Something about him screamed sketchy, so I hung back to see what he was up to.”
“Oh God. And?”
“When I yelled out, he bolted down the alley. I don’t know what got into me, but I took off after him, and I caught up a few blocks over,” he continues. “He turned around, and I saw he had a pocketknife. I didn’t think—I just reacted. We struggled until he dropped it, and I took it myself. Before I knew it, I’d jabbed him in the arm.”
I blink at him, stunned. Quentin was never particularly brave.
“I wasn’t just going to let him get away without trying to stop him.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Guess I got lucky.” His shoulders relax slightly. “But if you ask me, this guy won’t stop. Whoever he is, he’s got a plan, and he’s not afraid to follow through.”
On that, we agree.
