“I’ve talked to your Quinn. A lot. Confessions over pumpkin pie and latenight chats with heavily spiked eggnog. Her trash can of a father did a number on her. She’d never admit it outright—she’d never want to give him that power—but she doesn’t believe she’s worth sticking around for. So I guess that’s the real question. Is she worth it? If the worst case happened and you lost your job and could never find another professorship, would you regret choosing Quinn?”
It’s a mirror of the question Quinn asked me. And with the pressure of supporting my mom lifted, the answer is so resoundinglyclear that I feel like a complete dumbass for not seeing it to begin with.
“No.” The answer comes easily. I’d miss my work, but I could never regret anything that keeps Quinn in my life.
Momma's wide, self-satisfied smile splits her face. “Then go get our girl.”
35
COLTON
I immediately jump into action,yanking out my suitcase and flying around the room. Choosing Quinn is so painfully obvious that I want to kick myself, or to find a way to go back in time and take it all back.
I set the phone up on the desk, Momma talking through what I should say while I throw my stuff into my luggage. I barely get it zipped around the crumpled clothes. When I come out into the living room, Inez and Tomasso are standing there, watching as I sprint around the apartment tossing the last-minute items into my messenger bag.
“Quinn talked to you?” I ask Inez, never stopping.
Inez glances nervously at Tomasso. “Yeah, she did, but what?—”
“I’m going after her. I never should have let her leave.”
“Oh, thank god,” she says, a sweet, wide smile spreading across her face.
“What flight is she on?” I ask as I stuff my laptop into my bag.
“I don’t know yet. She promised she’d text when she got it sorted out. I’ll send the information as soon as I have it.”
I run over and plant a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re an angel.”
She laughs. “I’ve never seen you so expressive before.”
I beam at her. “I’m gonna get her back.”
“Good luck,” she yells as I bolt out of the same door Quinn ran through an hour ago.
I sprint towards the closest taxi stand with my luggage bouncing wildly over the cobblestones as I dodge drunk tourists. I curse the fact that I can’t hail a cab like in New York. There’s a line of twenty taxis when I reach the back of the stand, and I beg the closest one to take me instead of making me run up to the front cab. I again curse the damn taxi system when the other cabbies demand I honor the process and take the first one in line.
Finally reaching the front, I throw my stuff in the trunk, too impatient to accept the driver's help, and dive into the back seat. I tell him I need to get to Fiumicino as quickly as possible, and he speeds off, winding through the other cars.
We’ve just reached the highway, so close, yet not nearly close enough, when the traffic hits. Bumper to bumper, with no end in sight. I get a text from Inez with Quinn’s flight time, which is too close for comfort, and yell in frustration.
“You need to go there faster?” my driver asks.
“Yes. I need to get on this flight to catch the woman I love,” I say, playing into the dramatics of the situation.
“Do not worry,” he says with a flick of his hand. “Dominico can fix this.”
He pulls off the highway and slams on the gas pedal. We shoot down the shoulder at a speed that would have scared the living shit out of me on the actual road. But if it gets me there before she leaves, I’ll take it.
And if I die in a fiery car crash, I hope Quinn will come to my funeral.
We reach the terminal with enough time for me to buy a ticket on her flight. I bounce impatiently as I wait in the securityline, then sprint to the gate, making it just before they close the doors.
I walk down the aisle, scanning every face for the one I’m looking for. She’s in a window seat, head leaning against the wall. Her eyes are closed and puffy. The seat next to her is open, but I continue a few rows back to my assigned seat. We have time, and I don’t want to start this conversation only to be interrupted by the half-dozen announcements flight attendants make at the beginning of a flight.
An hour later—the longest hour of my life—the flight attendant announces over the speaker that we can move about the cabin, and I shoot out of my seat and up to Quinn’s row. The person in the aisle seat looks at me funny, but makes room for me to squeeze by. Quinn’s eyes are still closed, but I’ve seen her sleeping enough this summer to know she’s faking it.
“Hi,” I say. An impressive opening line.
