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“Maybe it will go better next time.”
“Maybe.” He took up his camera again and stared at the screen. “You want to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I brought my foam-covered finger to my lips, but it seemed too much of an effort to lick it. I used a napkin instead.
“Come on. Spit it out.”
I shook my head even as I began spilling every detail about the BCA competition. “I just—I thought for sure . . . What’s wrong with them?”
“Them the judges? Because it’s obvious, a lot.”
“Them, my articles.”
Heat sprang at the backs of my eyes, an unfamiliar feeling. I closed them and kept swallowing until it was under control. When I opened them, Hunter was pushing his way around the table. He used his buff arms to yank me toward him and held the back of my head firmly as he pressed his forehead to mine. “You’re fucking beautiful, you know that? Right now you make me wanna cry. I’m sorry the BCA thingy turned out to be a dud, but you’re gonna be awesome, Liam, and I’m stoked I’ll be around to see it.”
“Thanks,” I murmured as he slowly pulled away. “It’s . . . I mean . . . when I get your texts . . . I look forward to seeing you.”
He waggled his brows. “I tend to have that effect on people.”
The Buck Boozer was exactly what it sounded like: a party selling beer for one dollar per polystyrene cup. Quinn, who rarely drank at parties, gave me a funny frown as he shared the backdoor step with me. “Drinking beer now?”
“It tastes horrible,” I said and took another bitter sip. “I thought you were hanging with Shannon.”
“Yes, well . . .”
We stared into the dark yard, toward a large maple with a couple draped over a tire swing.
“She’s that upset with you?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling on his ear. “I wish she’d let me talk. I’m afraid I’ve really disappointed her.”
“Sorry. I’m sure she’ll come around.” I twisted the beer cup in my hand, and drained the last drip of beer.
“Have any cash I could borrow?”
I felt for my wallet in my jacket pocket and handed it to him. “Take as much as you need.”
He opened to the flap where I kept my bills, slipped all twenty-five dollars out, and crammed them into his pocket. “Great,” he said. He handed me back my wallet, as empty now as I was feeling.
Huh. “What do you need it for?”
“Insurance.”
“I’m sorry?”
Quinn steered his gaze toward me, half his face shadowed by the night, the other side glowing dimly in the light that seeped through the fogged window of the back door. “Insurance against you getting drunk because you’re upset at something.”
Oh. Well, in that case, perhaps he had good foresight. Not that I planned to get intoxicated, but I didn’t care about how the night turned out. I hadn’t even written any notes for my column.
“So, what’s going on, Liam?”
“Just a bit off today.” I counted the swings of the tire as it swung in our direction, and when it stopped swinging, I tried to map out the branches of the maple—darker blotches against an inky sky.
Quinn inched nearer. Axe and toffee wafted over me. “Blue days suck,” he said.
I stopped counting branches and started counting how many times Quinn blinked. His eyelashes lowered as he dropped his gaze to my mouth, as if wanting to kiss me. Or perhaps waiting for me to respond. Maybe both.
My lips parted and my heavy breath slipped out, making a sigh. I followed it up with a shrug, and pulled out my notebook. “They are not fun, no.”
Quinn pinched the end of my notebook. “Can I help you come up with an angle?”
I handed him the pen. Tonight, it was just too much effort. “Go for it.”
He took my pen and scribbled a quick note in the margin, which I read over his shoulder. Sorry about the BCA results, it read.
“Hunter’s a bigger mouth than I thought.” But I was glad he talked to Quinn. Maybe it meant they’d be fine.
Quinn bumped his shoulder against mine and stared out into the night again, tapping my pen to the notebook. “That’s Hunter, he’s the epitome of selflessness, even at the cost of being a big mouth.”
“I like it.”
“Me too.” He pushed to his feet, and cocked his head toward the back door vibrating with music. “Now let’s get your angle.”
Chapter 17
Quinn and I sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, both plugged in to our laptops. It was Monday evening, and I was wrapping up my party page column, ready to draft up my feature article. I curled my bare feet around the chair’s legs.
“Yes!” Quinn pumped a hand in the air, looking over at me with a wide grin as he sank triumphantly against his chair. “Done.”
