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I never promised he was a normal dog, did I?

Quinn:

He just ran into the coffee table. Then barked at it.

Me:

Yeah, that tracks.

I set my phone down on my chest and stare at the ceiling, trying to quiet the thoughts that keep circling back to one very specific person.

There’s a water stain shaped like Ohio above the bed, and I spend the next twenty minutes looking at it like it owes me money.

I guess this is what having a crush feels like.

Your brain just keeps wandering back to the same person no matter what the fuck you do. You wonder what she’s doing. What she’s thinking. Whether she’s thinking about you too.

Jesus.

I really do have a crush on Quinn Brennan.

I’m not going to text her again.

Definitely not.

Except now I’m thinking about the fact that she probably hasn’t eaten.

She left her apartment in a hurry, she’s proud enough not to ask for help, and my kitchen has exactly three things in it: protein bars, a jar of pickles that predates the dog, and regret.

I text Riley before I let myself think better of it.

Me:

Hypothetically, if I wanted to have food delivered to my place for Quinn without telling her, what does she actually like?

Riley:

This is the least subtle thing you've ever done, and subtlety is not your brand.

Me:

I need actionable intel, not commentary.

Riley:

Grilled cheese. She's incapable of turning one down. That's my professional opinion.

I place the order before I can second-guess it. Some diner two blocks from my building, the kind that's open all night for exactly this reason. I picture her opening the door in whatever she's wearing to sit on my couch, confused, and something in my chest does a thing I don't have a name for.

One text, right before the delivery is supposed to arrive at her door.

Me:

Don't be alarmed if someone knocks in the next ten minutes.

Quinn:

What does that mean?