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In a moment of desperation, I pull my phone out and snap a picture of Winter looking forlorn and send it to Quinn with a comment that he misses him. I also ask if he’d like to take him for the weekend.
He can’t ignore this, right?
The thought of being alone for days makes my heart clench. I don’t want to be alone, but if this means I could see Quinn, could talk to him, I’ll be glad I did it. Even if it seems pathetic.
I just need to make sure he’s okay.
I lay my phone on my thigh and my eyes drift back to the TV. Then I pick up my phone and stare at it. It’s only been a few seconds, but the fact that my text still goes unread makes my heart sink. Ridiculous, I know. I’m thirty-three and yet, in this moment, I’m reduced to a fifteen-year-old boy desperately pining after his crush.
This is going to be a long-ass night if I keep this up. My phone will die soon if I keep checking it like I want to. Then what the fuck will I do?
I sit up and run a hand over my head, staring at Winter and then at the door.
I don’t know much about where Quinn hangs out, but I do listen when he speaks. I know where he works and that he takes art classes at the community center. So, what the fuck do I have to lose by doing a little stealthy drive-by? Winter could do with getting out of the house, and if Quinn happens to see me, I’ll have an excuse as to why I’m suddenly showing up where he is. Maybe Winter can lure him in with his sad eyeball.
Maybe I will be somewhat of an incentive, as well.
Goddammit.
Come back to me, Quinn. Or at least, answer my damn texts.
* * *
I drive around town for a bit, gathering the nerve to become a legit stalker. I need fortification, so I stop by the ice cream parlor and grab an ice cream cone. It ends up toppling onto my pants after two licks, and I don’t even have a chance to salvage it because Winter lunges and gobbles it down.
I stare at the white splotch on my pants and then glance over at Winter, who looks mighty pleased with himself. I mean, I would be too if I got a free scoop of ice cream.
His tongue lolls out of his mouth and then he leans over and laps at my pants, smearing the ice cream right into my jeans.
Well, if this isn’t just great. It looks like wet cum now. How the fuck am I supposed to properly stalk Quinn with dirty pants? What if he sees me and I have to get out of my truck? What will he think I’ve been up to? I look terrible. I look like Robert and his bird-shit shirt.
Oh fuck.
I glance at my face in the rearview mirror and see the dark circles under my eyes. I look like I just rolled out of a grave. Quinn will for sure want me now. What’s not to love?
I wince and pat Winter on the head and then start up the truck, realizing I have nothing to lose now. I’m at death’s door. So, I drive by his house first, and when I don’t see his car out front, I drive by his place of work. His car isn’t outside the pub either and I momentarily debate going inside and standing around like a real creeper, but decide against it. I have dirty pants, after all. At least my underwear is clean. I think.
I lean my head against the headrest and say to Winter, “At least you like me.”
He wags his tail and blinks at me. I guess that’s at least a maybe. He was probably won over by the free and unexpected ice cream.
“Guess I have nothing to lose,” I say, trying to convince myself, and then drive across town to see if his car is parked outside the community center where he takes art classes. I know that he’s mentioned it before and I’m hoping like hell that he’s here. I just want to look at him, to fucking see that he’s okay.
He left so suddenly. My broken heart just needs a peek, as a balm. Oh, who am I kidding? I need a full-on fucking body cast at this point.
But as soon as I arrive, I realize I’ve made a mistake of epic proportions. Because yeah, Quinn is here, but I don’t know what I thought I’d find.
Quinn utterly wrecked without me? Miserable and lonely?
It’s not what I find.
Not at all.
No, instead, I linger on the side of the street in my idling truck as I watch Quinn laughing and talking animatedly with another guy. A guy his age, by the looks of it.
He doesn’t look nearly as upset as I feel. Nope, he looks damn good, so fucking perfect in those jeans and that loose shirt. And his hair, which is falling across his shoulders, looks like someone ran their fingers through it.
I don’t know why I’m thinking it was someone else who rumpled him, but I hope like hell it wasn’t. I can’t…I can’t fucking breathe.
