Quinn flicked his hand, waving him off. “I’m good. You need to get to your hockey stuff, and I need to get to school. I’ll be sure to lock up before I leave.”
It was dismissive, but August didn’t mind. He liked the way that Quinn bossed him around as if he were in charge, which, at this point, he was.
But knowing that didn’t stop August from crossing the length of the shower, leaning down, and pressing a kiss to Quinn’s forehead. A series of confused spluttering followed him out of the bathroom, and August laughed as he got dried off and dressed in casual clothes, determined to escape before Quinn followed to grumble at him.
Niko was opening the front door when August jogged downstairs to meet him, and he looked up at August’s approach, scowling.
“I can’t believe I made it out in thirty minutes,” said August, stopping to put his shoes on while fighting back more laughter. “It felt like I was up there for at least an hour.”
“Forty-eight minutes, actually,” Niko grumbled. “And you better hope that traffic isn’t bad, or we’re going to get our hide tanned. Don’t you have an interview?”
August did, but if he had to choose between having sex with Quinn and talking to a retired hockey player asking dumb questions, he would choose sex every time.
“Also, you guys are fucking loud. And the black bruises on your neck are making you look like a Dalmatian.”
August hated looking at mirrors, so he had no idea what kind of state he was in.
“Are you wearing lipstick, or are your lips just that swollen?” Niko asked, his scarred mouth pulling into a grin. “Dude, you’re going to need so much makeup before you’re allowed in the photoshoot. It’s like you were mauled by a raccoon.”
August kicked Niko in the back of the legs on the way out the door, whistling to himself as the kid hurled curses at him and picked himself up. He couldn’t wait until Niko found a guy so he could make his life a living hell.
Chapter 23
Quinn
Quinn hadn’t lied about being busy, but the excuses he’d given August hid his true plans for the day. Talking about visiting graves wasn’t the kind of energy he wanted to bring into the bedroom while fucking his ex, when he already felt guilty about fucking his ex before visiting his sister.
This wasn’t the first time he had gone to see Esme’s grave since she’d passed, but there was something different about this reunion.
Something heavier.
Quinn released a shaky breath as he forced himself to leave his car, bringing the flowers he’d bought with him and slamming the door. No one was around to see his tantrum, but not many came to the cemetery in the winter months unless they had to, so he was saved from the embarrassment.
His anger was stupid. Quinn couldn’t even say what he was angry at, only that hewas. Emotions didn’t always require an explanation, and he was trying his best to be lenient and allow himself to work through them, but knowing it was okay didn’t dull the pain.
That’s all Quinn had been lately.Pain.
He hid it well behind smiles and determination, gritting his teeth even when it felt like parts of his body were being carved to the bone, but that was who Quinn was. He was the fixer, and Esme had been the dreamer.
Mirror twins.
Quinn, the fixer. Esme, the dreamer.
Quinn, the closed one. Esme, the open book.
Quinn, the stubborn. Esme, the selfish.
Quinn, alive.
Esme, dead.
Quinn went to his knees before her grave, feeling the snow crunch under him and the cold seep through his pants. There wasn’t a lot of it; a few centimetres to keep him cool while the heat of grief burned through him like acid, turning his stomach queasy.
This part didn’t get any easier—coming to the place where his sister was waiting for him, only to find a rock with her name and a date. The name belonged to her, but it told nothing about who she was, and had been. The dates represented the day she was born and the day she died, but they said nothing about what she did with all the time in between.
Maybe that’s why Quinn was angry. It wasn’t the cancer, the death, or even the guilt. Maybe it was because graveyards were stupid and they gave false hope.
Esme wasn’t there. Esme wasn’t the ashes in the ground. Esme was so much more than the remnants of her physical body marked by letters and numbers, but Quinn had come to visit her anyway.
