“So, how’s work, Emery?” she asks. “I read that Damon Cavanaugh stepped down and that you’ve got yourself a new boss. How’s that going?”
“Good,” I say, nearly choking on a piece of chicken. “Mr. Hadid is a great addition to the team.”
“That’s nice,” she mutters. “Although, I can’t imagine why someone would want to give up their family business like that, especially after that tragedy. Ifmyparents were killed, I’d latch on to their business and try to preserve what was left of their legacy.”
A burst of defensive energy soars past my lips. “He still owns a fair amount of shares, and just because he doesn’t wish to walk in his father’s footsteps doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about their legacy. If anything, him passing the baton demonstrates his willingness to see the company succeed.”
Mom scoffs. “Please, Emery. He punched your…boyfriendin the face last year at acharityevent. He doesn’t strike me as someone who makes rational decisions.”
I ball my hand into a fist. “That was a misunderstanding.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that I’m glad you’re no longer reporting to someone the paper called unhinged. The last thing we need is a workplace incident.”
“Damon is notunhinged, Mother,” I grunt. “He’s passionate, intelligent, and doing the best he can!”
My mom blinks at me, shifting her gaze to Quin who remains neutral. “Does she speak to you in such a tone as well?”
“Damon is a friend,” Quin says, reaching for my hand under the table. He squeezes my fingers, his thumb grazing the skin. “He’s been through a lot these past three years, Mrs. Jones. Perhaps he deserves some grace.” He pauses. “Plus, only plebeians believe everything they read in the paper, right?” My eyes widen. Did he just called call my mother a fucking plebeian?! He stands up. “Shall I grab some more wine?” He glances down at me. “Cider for you?”
I nod slowly. He’s ballsy. More ballsy than I gave him credit for. When Quin disappears into the kitchen, my mother whips her head at me, frowning.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Emery,” she says. “People like Quinton are used to certain things. Their families haveexpectations. Most of them demand anheir.” She lowers her voice, and I swallow, my chest tight. “Have you talked about it with him? The risk associated with?—”
“Stop it,” I cut her off, shaking my head. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Just because you don't want to hear something Emery doesn’t make it not true.” Mom elbows Dad. “Tell her. Remind her of the risks.”
Dad’s face pales. “Your mother is right, Emery. While I,” his voice cracks. “While I’d love to be agrandfather, I don’t want you to have to go through what we did.”
A lump forms in my throat as their words sink in, heavy and suffocating. I never thought about it. I never paid much attention to Dr. Yang’s warnings. Sure, I take birth control. I have since I was a teenager. But… But kids? That never crossed my mind. I know that it’s not always the case, but I thought a child should be created through love. I never had love. Never felt it. Never wanted it. Never thought I could feel it.
Is that something Quin wants? Or Damon? Why haven’t we talked about it? Why hasn’t this topic been covered?
What do they want?
But more importantly…
What do I want?
Quin returns with the wine and cider, his expression carefully neutral as he sets the glasses down. He catches my eye, silently asking if I’m okay. I offer him a weak smile in return.
The rest of the dinner passes in strained conversation and forced politeness. My mother continues to scrutinize every detail, probing us with her questions and insinuations. Thankfully the evening comes to end without any blood, but before they retire to their room, my mother pulls out her phone and squints at the screen.
“Your father and I purchased tickets to an art gallery tomorrow morning. There’s a new VanGust exhibit.” She peers up at Quin. “As I’m sure you’re aware.” I snicker to myself. Quin knows nothing aboutart. That’s Damon’s forte, through and through. “Anyway, I assume the two of you will accompany us?”
“I’d love to, Mrs. Jones, however, I have a prior engagement,” Quin says, and I rein in a frown. He what? “But I hope you have a lovely time. I hear that exhibit is marvelous.” He motions to the stairs. “Let us show you to your room.”
As my parents lead the way to the guest room, I pull Quin to the side. “Prior engagement?”
“I’m going to see Damon in the morning,” he says, almost nervous. “I think the two of us need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Whatever the hell he’s going through.”
THE HOBBY
QUINTON
