Page 13 of Clinically Awkward

I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, already mentally composing the text I was going to send to Quinton tomorrow: “Okay, I’m listening. Tell me more about this marriage trap theory.”

Because if tonight had taught me anything, it was that maybe, just maybe, Quinton Wesley wasn’t as crazy as I thought.

And that was possibly the most terrifying realization of all.

CHAPTER FOUR

Quinton

Saturday afternoon had arrived, and with it came the undeniable realization: I was, without a doubt, the loneliest man in New Haven.

I sat on my couch, phone in hand, scrolling through the barrage of messages from my so-called friends. Each excuse they offered seemed more creative than the last, as if they were competing in some kind of avoidance Olympics. All I had wanted was to spend the evening at Laugh Riot, the new comedy club downtown that had opened just last week. The name alone—equal parts inviting and vaguely alarming—had piqued my curiosity, and I had been looking forward to the event for days.

Instead, I was going to check it out alone—apparently.

It seemed as if every person in my contact list had suddenly come down with a serious, contagious case of Having Better Things To Do Than Hang Out With Quinton. My plans for a night filled with laughter and company had quickly morphed into an evening spent with only my phone for companionship.

Julien: Can’t. Triplets. Sleep deprivation. If I leave the house, my wife will hex me. Actual hexing, Quinton. With candles and chanting. Last time I suggested going out, she threatened to curse my coffee maker. I can’t live without coffee. I WON’T.

Me: That’s not how hexing works.

Julien: You don’t know that. Neither do I. That’s the problem. She’s got crystals, Quinton. CRYSTALS. They’re everywhere. I found one in my shoe this morning. What does that even mean???

Me: It means you need better shoe storage.

Julien: This isn’t funny. I’m being spiritually attacked by my own wife.

Me: You married her.

Julien: IN VEGAS. WHILE DRUNK. This is your fault for not stopping me.

Me: I wasn’t there.

Julien: EXACTLY.

I moved on to Gabriel, who I was certain would be my voice of reason.

I was wrong.

Gabriel: Family dinner tonight. Cate’s making something called “deconstructed lasagna” and Megan threatened to disown me if I miss it. Apparently, it involves “layers of love.” I’m genuinely concerned this is a cult thing.

Me: It’s lasagna, Gabriel. Just lasagna.

Gabriel: You haven’t seen what Cate does to pasta. She talks to it, Quinton. She TALKS TO IT. She whispers things like, “you’re going to be beautiful” and “let’s unlock your potential.” It’s unsettling.

Me: That’s called cooking.

Gabriel: No, cooking is following a recipe. This is performance art. Last week she made “emotionally intelligent risotto.” I don’t know what that means, but I ate three bowls and cried.

Me: You’re being dramatic.

Gabriel: I’M BEING SUPPORTIVE. There’s a difference. Also, Megan learned the word “disown” from Cate and has been using it as leverage. I’m being manipulated by a five-year-old. This is my life now.

Me: You’re a pediatrician. You literally deal with five-year-olds professionally.

Gabriel: THOSE ONES AREN’T MINE.

Strike two.