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My gaze meets his, silently demanding he explain what’s wrong. He arrogantly tips his beer my way in salute before downing the whole bottle.
Polly and Tristan turn to see what’s captured his attention, and when they see it’s me, they both give me puzzled looks. I only shrug in response because I’m just as clueless as them.
“Okay, dinner is served. Come sit,” Cynthia says, gesturing to the table, which is filled with a Christmas feast to feed a small army.
“Smells great, Mom.”
“Thanks, honey,” Cynthia distractedly replies as she’s looking at Quinn because he’s still glaring at me.
“Mia?” she asks with a hint of confusion.
Giving Quinn one last look, I turn to meet her worried eyes.
“Thanks. It does smell great,” I say, trying to forget our screaming match only hours ago.
I take a seat across the table from Polly, and Tristan is the next to move. When he pulls out the chair near me, I try not to cringe, as I have a sneaking suspicion that Quinn is acting insane because of Tristan.
He’s made it more than obvious he’s jealous of our friendship, but I just wish he would talk to me about it instead of acting like a two-year-old.
His boots thud on the wooden floor as he pulls out the chair next to Polly, who gushes, elated that Quinn is sitting near her.
This dinner is already giving me heartburn.
“I hope you enjoy it,” Cynthia says, sitting at the head of the table.
We politely reach for what’s closest and start filling our plates. We do this in silence, and I know Quinn closely watches every movement I make.
I don’t understand his problem, but whatever is his deal, I wish he would quit. This dinner is awkward enough.
Flicking my eyes to meet his, I silently demand he tell me what’s wrong, but he leans back in his chair and sips his beer, giving nothing away.
Ignoring him, I pass Tristan the ham.
“Thanks.”
He’s either ignoring Quinn, or he’s totally oblivious to his hostility.
“So, Mom,” Polly says, tearing her bread roll in half. “Have you spoken to Dad?”
That captures the entire table’s attention, and we all turn to watch Cynthia pale. “Not yet, honey. I’m hoping tomorrow. You know we have no cell reception or a phone line out here.”
Before I have a chance to tell everyone I received a text from Abi, Quinn decides now is a good time to speak. “I’ll drive into town.”
“That would be great, Quinn, thank you. By now, I’m sure Chandler will be beside himself,” Cynthia says with a strained smile.
“You think?” Polly scoffs, reaching for her drink.
“Of course he is.”
“Well, why isn’t he here, then?” she demands, narrowing her eyes.
I watch their exchange with interest, as I have no idea where this is headed.
“Because he’s in Europe. You can’t expect him to magically appear overnight,” Cynthia replies, the strain in her response clearly evident.
Suddenly, Polly’s fork smashes down onto her plate, and I jolt at the abrupt, loud noise. “He should have been here in the first place. It’s Christmas! But no, of course work comes first. Just like it always does.”
“Pollyanna! Watch your tone,” Cynthia snaps, her mouth agape.
