The job is perfect. A dream position. And I should be saying yes without hesitation.
Something had to be seriously wrong with me if I wasn’t jumping at the opportunity.
Was I still too young for a midlife crisis?
“Ugh. What’s wrong with me? Why aren’t I excited about this job?”
“Do you want my honest opinion, or do you want to mope around for several more days until you figure it out yourself?”
I sigh. “I feel like moping.”
“Great. In that case, email Kroychek. Tell her you’re interested but you’ve got family stuff going on and can’t commit just yet. Ask if she’d consider holding the position for a few weeks.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I guess I could do that.”
“It’s a great job, Quinn. But if your heart’s not there—if that’s not where you want to be—then don’t force it. You’re allowed to want something different now.”
“Thanks, Mar.”
“Anytime. Call me when you figure it out. I’m always here if you need to talk.”
“Sure. Love you!“
“Love you.”
She hangs up, and I fan my hair over my shoulders. Then, I spin on my bare feet and head downstairs to toss the green beans in the oven. All the while, that damn job offer twists in my gut, leaving my stomach heavy with doubt.
Go Eat a Dick
Quinn
Tripp leans against the kitchen counter like he owns the place, and I try not to get too distracted by the way his biceps flex under his tattoos as I rattle off instructions to Wes. Pops huffs and puffs about not needing a babysitter, but I know better. He still needs help getting up and down the stairs. And after the comment he made about the Little Debbie cakes, I don’t trust him on his own.
I busy myself sliding the green beans into the oven, determined to ignore the way Tripp’s presence fills the kitchen. But I can feel the weight of his hungry gaze as it trails down my body until I swear I’m going to melt into a puddle on the floor.
The second I’m convinced the boys have it under control, I wave goodbye and slip out the door. I can’t get out of there fast enough. Being around Tripp when my brother’s in the room is like trying to navigate aland mine of heated glances and brushes of contact that linger a little too long.
Less than ten minutes later, I pull into the gravel lot outside Herds, already itching to unwind with Sawyer and Allie. I spot Sawyer first, in her usual graphic tee and jeans, waving me toward one of the last high-top tables. Herds is packed—it always is on Friday nights in a dinky town with nothing better to do.
My boots stick to the grime on the floor as I weave through the crowd. A few curious glances snag on me, and my cheeks heat at the memory of the last time I was here. I won’t be getting up on that bar again.
Allie intercepts me halfway, balancing three shot glasses. “I got the first round,” she says with a grin, setting them on the table.
“That doesn’t look like whiskey,” Sawyer complains, eyeing the drinks suspiciously.
Allie wrinkles her nose. “You know how I feel about shooting straight whiskey.”
Sawyer makes a show of rolling her eyes, so her best friend can clock her annoyance.
“What is it?” I ask, already playing peacemaker like I always used to when it was the three of us.
“Red-headed slut. In honor of this one,” Allie says, jabbing her thumb at Sawyer, whose red braid is draped over her shoulder.
“Hey, now!” Sawyer laughs and elbows Allie in the ribs.
I smile, but the moment sours quickly when I spot a group of women by the bar—the same girls who always tried to make my summers here miserable. A sense of unease worms its way through me, transforming me into the shy, nerdy girl who always felt a little like she didn’t belong anywhere.
I snag my shot from the edge of the table, and down it in one gulp.
