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I switched off the blow dryer. Maybe I could try contacting him, though the matter could hardly be qualified as “urgent.”
Back in my living room, I pulled out my notebook and moved back to the couch. Dating the Differently-Abled. I jotted down some of the observations I made about Hunter and Mitch, and I expanded on the questions and answers I already had.
“Definitely need more interviews,” I said, and my voice bounced off the arched windows and back to me.
I stopped note-taking to draw the curtains. Leaning against the window frame, I stared out into the night. Lamplight peppered the length of the street, and car tires chuuurred over the wet road. Quinn should have arrived in Louisville by now.
A step back, and the reflection of me alone in the room winked back at me. The apartment seemed bigger, colder without him. My stomach rumbled, empty—hungry.
I popped a slice of bread into the new toaster Quinn bought. I ought to write a report on the blessings of an attentive roommate . . . friend. Boyfriend?
A small shock shot up my middle, and I prepared the toast with shaky hands.
Sitting at the end of the table, I ate slowly while reading the current Scribe. I scanned the opinions page and Jack’s report on the reopening of the 32nd floor of the Cathedral of Learning, which ended with a mention of the black-tie event that Mitch had invited Hunter to. Sounded like my type of party. But that Friday wasn’t going to work for me, unless I got my feature article to the chief before that. Considering all the interviews I would have to schedule this week, I didn’t think the black-tie event would be a possibility.
I shut the magazine and pushed it to the middle of the table. Its churr echoed loudly. Staring at the other end of the table at what had become Quinn’s chair, I revisited my reasons for staying home.
I came to the painful conclusion that I’d made the wrong choice.
I woke up to the smell of the neighbors making pancakes, of all things. On Thanksgiving Day, I thought most families would skimp on a large breakfast in favor of the turkey extravaganza later.
I rolled out of bed and took a quick shower. I slipped into a maroon robe, and when I stepped out of the bathroom, the thick scent of pancake goodness tickled my nose.
And then came the distinct sound of shuffling.
I froze for a second before striding to the kitchen—
“Gah!” It wasn’t my imagination. He was here, making pancakes. Quinn.
He twisted from the pan, wielding a spatula in his right hand, a sheepish grin twitching his lips. “Morning.”
The window was hitched open a crack, and I drew my robe tighter at the draught of winter-spiced air. “What are you doing here?”
He focused on the pancake, taking a moment to flip it. Then he pointed the spatula at me as if it explained everything. He added, “You kissed me in the café. In front of everyone.”
I followed the rise and fall of the spatula. “I did.”
Quinn fished the pancake out of the pan and set it atop the others. “I liked it.”
He looked sincerely at me, like he could see through me, somewhere deep that I only occasionally visited. I hooked my thumbs around the robe belt to tighten it.
He poured the last of the batter into the pan and set his spatula on the bench. He lessened the distance between us. Closer. Closer. Closer.
“A lot, Liam.”
He took my hand and drew me into the kitchen until he was pressed against the bench and I stood between his opened legs. His jeans were coarse against my skin, prickling against my hairs.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it the entire drive home.”
He brushed a kiss over my bottom lip and pulled back to stare, mesmerized, as if my lip could sparkle. I curled my lip in, tasting the warm spot.
“You crossed my mind a fair bit too,” I said. “The place feels so much more comfortable with you in it.”
The next kiss came to the top of my head, matting short hairs to my forehead. “It’s so hard for me not to ask you again.”
I stilled a moment. He meant us, our relationship—being more than friends. More than just having sex. A relationship meant the development of an emotional connection. I teetered on answering him immediately, but reined in the urge. I needed to be one hundred percent sure, and that meant thinking through the repercussions should things turn out horribly in the end.
What would it mean for our friendship? Would this beautiful thing vaporize before my eyes, leaving me alone, grappling at thin wisps in the air?
And then there was Hunter. Quinn and he had been friends forever. Hunter’s allegiance would, and rightly so, be with Quinn.
I’d be back to Liam Davis, reporter for Scribe, with no friends outside of the magazine.
