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I walk into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water, and when I get to the living room, she’s sitting on the couch, but whatever easy excitement she had before is gone.
Great job, Larkin.
I sit at the opposite end, leaving more space between us than I ever have before. Pickles lifts his head, looks from Quinn to me, then settles across the cushion between us like even he can tell something is off.
After a few minutes, Quinn turns toward me.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Okay.” She watches me for another moment, and I can see her trying to decide whether to push.
She doesn’t. Instead, she reaches for her jacket.
The second she does, guilt hits me. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going home.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I know.” She slips one arm into her jacket. “But you clearly don’t want company tonight.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No, but I’m not going to sit here and keep asking what’s wrong when you obviously don’t want to tell me.”
There’s no anger in her voice, which somehow makes it worse.
“Quinn…”
“It’s okay.” She gets to her feet and gives me a small smile. “Seriously. I’ll give you some space.”
I want to tell her I don’t need space.
Except maybe I do.
That’s the fucked-up part. I want her here so badly that the thought of her leaving makes my chest hurt, but every time she looks at me, I feel like she’s one question away from getting somewhere I don’t want her to go.
So I let her put on her jacket.
“Text me tomorrow, okay?” she says.
“Yeah.”
She hesitates by the door, and for a second I think she’s waiting for me to stop her. Then she leaves.
Pickles immediately jumps off the couch and trots over to the door, staring at it like Quinn might come back if he waits long enough.
“She’s gone, buddy.”
He looks at me.
“Yeah. I know. My fault.”
Eventually, he gives up and comes back to the couch, curling into the spot where she’d been sitting.
The apartment feels wrong without her in it.
