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“He’s not even my type. And guess what? I’m not his.”
“And yet you came in here looking like you were about to break into song. Don’t kid yourself, Quintin, you’ve clearly got it for him.”
“No, I don’t.” I avert my eyes.
Vann smirks, comes right up to me, and shakes his head. “Even you don’t believe that.”
My face is going red. Whether with embarrassment or frustration, I can’t say.
He pats my shoulder. “Let’s have a redo, alright? Get out of those clothes. Take a shower. Freshen up. I’ll take you to the Rivington Art Gallery and show you around, okay? Maybe it’ll give you some ideas.” He points at me. “But no more Adrian, got it?”
Chapter 10 - Adrian
“He’s holding me hostage.”
That’s what the text says.
I stare at it and can’t make sense of the damned words. I went back and forth already, trying to figure out why Quin can’t shake himself free from his friends tonight. Didn’t we have a great time last night? This morning? He said he wanted to hang out some more.
And now it’s all sorry, I can’t.
And it’s all I’ve got plans tonight.
And he’s holding me hostage.
“He was probably told.”
I give Erick a look. We’re wiping down all the tables. Thalassa just served its last customer of the night. Other than the noise of a vacuum cleaner and the chatter from the kitchen staff in the back, the place is quiet.
And Erick won’t leave me alone.
“Told what?” I ask.
“About you. Not that I’m agreeing with it,” Erick adds quickly, lifting his hand, wet washrag dangling from it. “I just suspect that might’ve been what happened. Someone told your guy about your reputation, ‘warned’ him so to speak, and now he’s dodging your texts.”
I continue scrubbing, then shake my head. “Nah, that doesn’t make sense. He would’ve ghosted me, then. Not answered my texts at all. But he did answer. He asked how my day went.”
“He’s just being polite, then.”
“Polite …? He said his friend is holding him hostage. It’s the friend that’s the problem.”
“Maybe.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek—a habit I thought I dropped ages ago, but now seems to have resurfaced in the face of all the weirdness I’ve been feeling since yesterday. What is it about this weekend?
My phone buzzes. I pull it out and take a look.
QUIN
We’re going to the fair tonight.
The Hopewell Fair …
“Also, he did tell you you’re not his type.”
I look up from my phone. “I told you he said that?”
“You’ve been rambling all night about you two.” Erick adjusts something on the table, the perfectionist he is, then sighs. “Hey, I know this might be hard to hear, but maybe he’s just not as into you as you think.”
“He just told me where he’d be,” I say with a wiggle of my phone. “He wants me to meet him.”
“Did he say that?”
“No.”
“So how do you know?”
“Why else would he tell me where he’ll be tonight? This is a rescue mission,” I insist, jabbing a finger onto the screen of my phone like I’m poking Quintin himself. “His overprotective friend is holding him hostage. He tells me what they’re doing tonight. Obviously he wants me there.”
Erick bites his lip, unsure. “You’re always so confident about everything.”
I type out a reply: “Challenge accepted.” Then I smirk, pocket my phone, and resume finishing up my tasks.
After driving home to clean up and change into a tank top and shorts, I head off on foot toward the northern pier, where the loud music and bright, blinking lights of the Hopewell Fair paint the night sky in countless colors. The guy at the ticket booth doesn’t charge me, because I’m me, and Finn’s my pal, and Finn’s dad owns the fair, and that’s basically how it goes with most of us locals. The fair is pretty crowded, and it’s the only place on the island where you’ll find families and straight couples and children. They rush here from the mainland for the Ferris Wheel, the Merry-Go-Round, the Thunderhead, the Poseidon, and all of the cotton candy you can possibly ingest. Every child runs around here looking like they’re flying high on lines of cocaine. It’s as adorable as it is terrifying.
But I’m not here for any of that. As I walk down the busy pier, I keep my eyes open for Quin. Discordant chime fanfares ring out from the winning of another stuffed shark or polka-dotted octopus in the games area. The warbling music from the Merry-Go-Round drowns out the screams from the Thunderhead rollercoaster, which creaks as the train roars by. A juggler on stilts casually strolls along while kids gather around a table to take pictures with a guy in a pirate outfit, hired for someone’s birthday party.
I come to a stop next to a pretzel machine when my phone buzzes. I pull it out and read.
