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There’s a ten-second pause before Scarlett responds. “Jeremy said you filed for divorce.”
“I did.”
“But you’re also dating her?”
I stare out the window at the city, not really seeing any of the buildings or cars we’re passing by. “Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“What about Arthur’s offer?”
“I’m not taking it. I’m done jumping through his hoops.”
“And you wouldn’t have married Quinn, if you’d metherdrunk in Vegas.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but I answer it anyway. “No. I wouldn’t have.”
Regardless of what addled my decision-making that night to the point of marriage, my memory of meeting Hannah in that bar is completely clear. There was an immediate spark—an interest—that wasn’t there when I met Quinn. That’s never been there with anyone else.
“I appreciate everything you did to help with the divorce, Scarlett. I hope you know that.”
“I involved Jeremy because I thought a divorce was whatyouwanted, Oliver. If it’s not, then…”
“A divorce is what’s best.”
“That’s different from—” There’s a sudden commotion on Scarlett’s end of the line, followed from a sigh. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I've got to go handle something.”
“It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There’s a pause, where it sounds like Scarlett might be considering saying something else. But all she adds is a goodbye before hanging up.
The car pulls up in front of the corner coffee shop a few minutes later.
I spot Quinn as soon as I step inside. There are plenty of open tables at this hour. I’m not sure if this was the best choice of venue for this conversation, but I didn’t want to have it over the phone, and this was the best I could think of.
Quinn is sitting toward the back. Posture perfectly straight, her hands cupped around a mug.
She looks up and smiles as I cross the small coffee shop. “Hello, Oliver.”
“Hi, Quinn.”
I unbutton my jacket and take the seat across from her.
Her painted nails tap the side of the porcelain as she stares at me, bergamot-scented steam curling up from the cup of tea in front of her. “You’re not getting anything?” she asks, tilting her head to the right.
“I can’t stay long, unfortunately.”
Quinn nods, something knowing growing in her gaze.
“Are you feeling more settled in the city?” I ask.
“I am, yes.” She grabs the tag of her teabag and lifts it out of the mug, dropping it onto the saucer. I watch the brown liquid pool around the base of the cup. “There’s a new Monet exhibit at the Met, have you heard about it?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I have tickets for tomorrow morning. I was going to invite you, but I’m now realizing that would make this even more uncomfortable.”
I exhale. “Quinn…”
“What’s her name?”
