Page 51 of Final Drive

I hesitate. The smart move is home, to Bo’s sweet tea and Jackson in the doorway and eight men who would put themselves between me and a bus.

I’m so tired of being managed.

“One hour,” I say. “Then I have to go.”

The tapas place is small and crowded, which should help and doesn’t. Quinton steers me toward a booth in the back with his hand on my lower back, and it stays there a beat past where it should.

I slide in fast and put the table between us again.

“So,” he says when we’ve ordered. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Depends what it is.”

“Fair.” He tears a piece off the bread. “Are you happy? With them, I mean.”

The question gets in under my guard. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it?” He looks at me straight on. “Because from out here it looks like you’re drowning. Like they’re all so busy protecting you that nobody’s asked what you actually want.”

“They care about me.”

“I’m sure they do.” He sits back instead of pushing. “But you don’t look happy.”

“I’ve had a bad week.”

“I know. That’s kind of my point.”

Our food comes, giving me an excuse to look away. I spear a potato and move it around my plate without eating it.

Quinton leaves me alone for a minute.

That’s what he’s always been good at. He doesn’t crowd the silence. Doesn’t fill every empty space with advice. Even now, after everything the guys have told me about him, it’s hard to reconcile the person sitting across from me with the version of Quinton they know.

“You deserve to get to be a person sometimes,” he says eventually. “Not the coxswain. Not whatever’s happening with the team. Just Reese.”

I look at him. “You make that sound easy.”

“It should be.”

“It’s not.”

“No.” His expression softens. “I guess it isn’t.”

I take a drink and wish I’d gone home.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

That gets a smile. “Why do you keep going back?”

My fork stops.

“To the house,” he says. “To all of it. If you’re this miserable, why stay?”

“I’m not miserable.”

“Okay.”