Page 38 of Taking Turns

Only a few people know about the view from this top-floor apartment located inside the Turning Point Club and I count myself lucky to be among them. Before me is most of downtown. The capitol building is the main focus. The gold dome is lit up at night, and even on nights like this—when it’s semi-obstructed by a steady stream of falling snow—it’s breathtaking.

The patio doors open behind me.

“Hey,” Smith says. His dress shoes make a soft padding sound through the snow covering the wet concrete. “You ready for this?”

“Are they on their way up now?”

“No,” Smith says. “I left them at the party. Maybe an hour.”

He’s silent for as long as he can manage while I think.

“You up for it or not, Quin? There’s no point going through the whole fucking song and dance if we’re just gonna get to the end and have you say no.”

“You want her,” I say, tired of this conversation.

“I wouldn’t call that news. Obviously, I’ve never been into the whole selection process. But this one’s different. She’s better than Rochelle, Quin. I’m telling you right now, whatever Rochelle was to you, this girl will be all that. And more.”

I’m still thinking. I’ve done my best to put aside the why. I’m dealing with that. I can let it go. But I’m still missing something. I’m missing her.

“What did Bric do with all her stuff?” I ask, looking over at Smith. “Throw it out?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” I turn back to the view of the capitol.

“He donated the furniture. All the rest is in storage.”

I nod. My hands are freezing. I should’ve worn gloves. But it was nice of Bric to keep her things. It constitutes a collection. Memories and trinkets gathered up over a period of three years.

“Are you coming inside or what?” Smith asks. “I’m getting wet. Your hair is soaked.”

“I’ll be in soon,” I say back.

But I don’t follow him. I have no idea how much time passes out there on the snow-covered terrace, I just know the night gets markedly darker for me. There’s no moon, it’s covered by the snow clouds. And even though all the tall buildings of Denver are lit up at night, it’s not enough to take away the feeling of despair.

“Where the fuck did you go?” I ask the city.

“If I had an answer for you, I swear, I would tell you.”

So she’s here.

I don’t turn, just keep my vigil. But I can’t help but notice her bare hands as she places them on the railing. They sink down into the snow at least two inches. She doesn’t have gloves on either, so I only imagine how badly she needs that railing to steady her right now.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “What I did was wrong and I’m sorry.”

“Did Bric tell you to say that?” I ask, turning my head just enough to look at her out of the corner of my eye.

“No. But Smith said you’re the one who’s going to make this decision.”

“They want you and I don’t.” I sum it up simply. And then I shrug. “I’m over her.”

To my surprise, Marcella slips her hands around my arm. An attempt to warm them up and give me comfort at the same time?

“You’re not over her. And I don’t care. I mean,” she corrects, “I don’t mind. I do care. But it’s not reasonable to expect you to just move on.”

She leans into me then. A nice touch to the speech Bric probably hand-fed her on the way over here.

“I know they want you. So I’m not going to say no.”