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Would she ever kiss Quentin again?
She was beginning to crave it. She couldn’t kid herself any longer. He was becoming interconnected with her time in New York, becoming the very oxygen she breathed and the thoughts she formed.
And she was going to make herself sick with lust for him.
14
Quentin worked diligently in Morgan’s bedroom, packing her backpack for the following day and feeling the approaching tide. Kate was on her way. Sleepy-eyed, his daughter collapsed upon her bed, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest.
“I don’t want to go to Mom’s,” she murmured once more, rolling her sad little eyes.
“I know, baby,” Quentin murmured, stuffing her Ramones sweatshirt into her backpack, just to irritate Kate. “But your mommy really wants to see you. And we have to play along with that, even though it sucks sometimes.”
“Whatever,” Morgan said tartly. “Hey. I really like Charlotte. She’s so pretty! She looks like a model, like Mom did when she was younger.”
“Ha. You think?” Quentin asked, his stomach stirring. He wanted to dance as far away from this topic as possible, without giving her cause for alarm.
“I mean, Mom’s still really pretty. But she doesn’t smile as much as Charlotte,” Morgan said, sounding astute. “And my teacher says a smile is the best fashion you can have.”
“Well, then, you must be the most fashionable girl at school,” Quentin said, leaning down and lifting his daughter by grabbing her beneath the armpits and twirling her, causing her to squeal.
“Again! Again!” she cried out, laughing hysterically.
Quentin twirled her the opposite direction, causing his own head to begin a wayward spin. He saw black and red dots flurry his vision, and he couldn’t help but give her a crazed smile, allowing the stress of the day to fall from his shoulders.
The doorbell always rang at the wrong time. He set his daughter back on the carpet, still giggling outrageously, and then walked casually toward the front door, mentally preparing himself for his ex-wife. He pressed his lips together evenly and then cracked the door, looking sternly toward the tall, blonde, bone-thin woman before him, whose cheekbones seemed like knives.
“Hey there, Q,” Kate said softly, tilting her slight form. Her gaze danced behind Quentin’s back, assessing the apartment. “I smell Chinese.”
Quentin opened the door a bit wider, his heart lurching with anger. “I made sure she didn’t have anything bad or fattening. She just ordered fried air.”
Kate entered, her heels tapping on the hardwood floor. She was sculpted from clay, maybe, with refined leg muscles, peeping beneath a leather skirt. Quentin couldn’t blame himself for being so head-over-heels for her, as a younger man. But now, to him, she reeked of something off-color. Something evil.
“Ha,” she laughed, waiting. “Honey? It’s Mom.”
Morgan stomped into the room, then, with her coat unzipped and on, and her backpack bouncing. She frowned, her eyebrows coming together in the center. “Mom, did you get the piano tuned yet?” she asked, sounding outrageous and tired.
Kate turned her head swiftly toward Quentin, her eyebrows rising. “She always gets this way when you feed her bad food.”
“Ugh. That means no,” Morgan sighed, rushing toward her. She gave her a lackluster hug and then collapsed in a dining room chair, her legs bouncing up and down.
“Honey, I told you I would get it done soon, and I meant that,” Kate said, sighing. “I have a lot going on right now. And it’s only slightly out of tune.”
“You don’t have an ear for music,” Morgan said, sounding snotty.
Secretly, Quentin’s heart soared with pleasure. He promised himself to take Morgan out for ice cream again, next time he saw her. But he pressed his lips together, creating a show. “Hey, now. You know you can practice on that piano. This isn’t the end of your life. And your mother’s doing the best she can.”
“I’ll never survive being the non-musician between us,” Kate said begrudgingly. Turning her head swiftly toward Quentin, she asked, “Hey. Do you mind if we talk privately for a few minutes?”
“Oh. Of course,” Quentin said, swiping his arm toward the bedroom, guiding her. As an aside, he told Morgan, “Watch TV till we’re back, squirt.”
“No! It makes it difficult for her to sleep,” Kate sighed, already giving up. She watched as Morgan raced into the television room, her tennis shoes squeaking against the hardwood floor. “Damn, Q. You really do win the cool dad award.”
“Ha,” Quentin said. He sat on the bed, drawing comfort and looked up at his ex-wife, trying to find some kind of recognition in her eyes. Did she remember that they’d fucked all night, when they’d first met? Did she remember that they’d actually created that human out there together, that this hadn’t always been the plan?
But how could it be any other way? Kate was cold, almost calculated in her parenting scheme, and although she usually took Quentin into account when deciding things for Morgan, she often did it with a grimace, as if she couldn’t understand why on earth he was still around. Shouldn’t he have died of a heroin overdose by now? Shouldn’t he have married some dimwit model and gone to live on a tropical island? Why on earth was he responsible? These were all things he imagined she thought about him, daily, as he continued to complicate her world.
