“I can drive you where you need to go,” he offers.
My mother only got better when she took responsibility for herself. And my father only claimed her when she showed him that she didn’t need him.
I turn to leave, but he stops me. “Quinn.”
I look over my shoulder.
His chest rises with a breath that he doesn’t release. “Aren’t you going to tell me the news?” he asks.
What news?
“You bought a house.”
I square my shoulders. How the hell does he know that?
He approaches again. “Aren’t you…” He’s trying so hard to not be overbearing. “Aren’t you worried you’re moving a little fast?” he asks me.
Worried? “Yeah.” I smile at him. “I’m kind of liking it, though.”
I know what being me is like. I’m tired of being predictable.
I leave with my phone and my hat, and Lucas doesn’t stop me as I walk away from him and out the front door. Trailing across the driveway, I don’t know if I’m imagining his eyes on my back, but I’m aware of him as I climb on the bike. A grin spreads across Farrow’s cheeks as I sit behind him, and he cranks up his music as I fasten my helmet. In a minute, we’re shooting off down the driveway, cruising at eighty miles an hour onto the highway. The pull between me and where I left Lucas is like a cord about to snap. I just hang on, reminding myself to breathe as my heart pumps in my chest.
We cross the river, and I watch Farrow flip a coin over the side of the bridge. We climb the hills into Farrow’s neighborhood, up to Knock Hill—the once upper crust brownstone townhouses that Weston used to boast. Still impressive looking, they’ve mostly been empty since the flood. I look around at the street, seeing a few cars which appear to be abandoned with missing doors or beer bottles on their hoods, but the trees are all in bloom, casting a nice shadeover the lane and spilling a scent into the air of wood and grass.
Fletcher’s Barber Shop sits to my right, and I remember Fallon’s dad talking about how he still frequented the place. An old-time establishment from back in the day when the town bustled with activity and appreciation for the romance of slowing down.
Farrow parks in front of his place. Technically, Ciaran Pierce’s place—Fallon’s father. I’m not sure why Ciaran allows Farrow to live there, but he was in residence along with Hunter for a while in high school. Hunter went to college, and Farrow stayed. Loyal to Weston.
I throw my leg off the bike and remove my helmet. Without a word, Farrow takes it, and I look over, seeing a woman in a black pencil skirt and short-sleeved gray turtleneck.
“Did you have a good day?” she calls out, carrying a folder in her hand.
I walk toward her, glancing back at Farrow, who heads up the steps of his own house without a goodbye. He knows he’ll see me soon.
I turn back to the lady, her hair blonde like mine, but her eyes are blue.
I smile. “Ms. Doucet?”
She holds out her hand. “Please, Elisabeth.”
“Quinn Caruthers.” I shake. “Nice to finally meet you.”
I turn and look up at the house next to Farrow’s, the number 01 in gold on the black plate next to the door. As far as I know, Dylan was the last to live here—for a couple of weeks two years ago—when she was taken as the hostage in the prisoner exchange between the schools. She never told me what happened, exactly, but she said she loved who she became in this house.
Good enough for me.
“And yeah,” I reply, remembering Ms. Doucet’s question. “The day is ending well, at least. You didn’t have to come all the way out. I know it’s a long drive for you.”
She doesn’t reply, just gazes up at the brownstone. She hands me the key. It’ll be a little harder for me to get to work now, too, but I’m going to enjoy this for a minute before I decide what to do about the commute.
“I didn’t expect it to happen so fast.” I stare down at the key.
“We know where to find you if the check bounces.”
I laugh. “I promise it won’t.”
No one’s lived here properly in decades, but my loan still hasn’t gone through. I would’ve thought we would have to finalize that first. I guess not.
