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Gary’s the baby of the family at twenty and the closest to me in looks—he’s got the same bright red hair, brown eyes and freckles. But we couldn’t be more different when it comes to drive and sense. And that missing tooth he kept knocking out and finally decided to live without.
If he wasn’t my brother, I would have fired him six times already. But while I’ve been managing The Bike Shop for four years and have every intention of taking it over one day, for now, my dad stills handles the hiring and firing of family members.
Wiping the grease off my hands with the rag in my back pocket, I wave for him to follow me out to the back hall and down to our stockroom in the basement.
“You know which one you need?” I ask, waving to the racks at the far wall.
“Yeah, I got it.” He gives me a gap-toothed smile that has me rubbing the top of his head like a puppy. “Thanks, George.”
On the stairs, my phone lights up with a call from Nat. Swiping across the spiderwebbed glass, I answer, “Yes, I’m still planning on going to the game tonight and no, I haven’t decided about the Five Hole after.”
She laughs through the line. “Come on, it’ll be fun. We don’t have to stay long, but Rux is always so jacked up when they get back on the ice, he’ll probably be breakdancing in the back room. You don’t want to miss it.”
“Cammy and Margo coming?” I ask, turning back into the shop to see my second-youngest brother Ross helping a customer at the counter. He’s got this, so I drop back into the chair by my laptop.
“Matty’s got a fever, so Cammy’s out. And Margo’s got a dinner meeting with a client. Come on. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I’m not sure leaving her with her super-attentive boyfriend after his game constitutes leaving her hanging, but if she wants me to come, then I will.
Preseason isn’t quiteas intense as regular, but tonight’s game was great, and a win is exciting no matter how you slice it. And when Nat asks me to come to the Five Hole after, I’m too amped up to resist.
For years I let my fear of running into Quinn keep me from attending games or joining Nat when she was hanging out with her brother or the guys from the team. And what a waste. Because Ilovehockey. I love to play it. I love to watch it. I love to celebrate it with people who share my sentiments.
Edging my way up to the bar, I find the barest gap. Just enough to flag the bartender and signal four longnecks. The guy to my left signs for his drinks and, vacating his little stretch of the bar, leaves me staring into an all-too-familiar pair of sea-green eyes.
Quinn. Ugh.
His lips split into an aggravating smile that just reeks of sincerity and has every muscle down my spine tensing. We haven’t seen each other since that night at Belfast when I let my guard slip and showed this guy more than I meant to. I try so hard to keep him out, but that night, suddenly all I could think about was what it was like in Mexico. How every single thing about him from the first second we bumped into each other at the ice-cream stand until the last when he dropped me at my door had seemed so sincere. So genuine.
Even thinking back on it now, knowing what happened, I feel the echo of my racing heart and butterfly flutter in my belly. And for a beat of time, all I want to do is ask the guy I thought he was how I could have been so wrong. Ask him why he couldn’t have been real. Because somehow that guy who never actually existed feels like one of the greatest losses of my life.
And that’s maybe the worst part of this. Every time Quinn looks at me like he is right now, I see that guy. And I have to remind myself, no matter how real it feels… it’s not.
He knows I don’t want to talk to him. But rather than just being cool and giving me the jut of his chin or feigning interest in his phone, he slides into the open space between us.
I wait for him to ask me what I thought of his game, but instead he leans his forearms on the bar and says, “So, a bike shop, huh?”
“Yep.” The pop of that P and my cold shoulder are meant to signal the end of the conversation.
But this guy doesn’t quit.
“Vassar says you’re crazy about cycling. And I just think that’s cool. There aren’t enough people in the world who get to do what they love.”
I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But I can’t help it. My head cranks slowly around until I’m staring at him, searching for any sign that he knows what he’s doing.
But there’s nothing. He’s either the best faker on the planet, or Quinn O’Brian really doesn’t remember that he’s had nearly this exact conversation with me before. And when I say nearly, I mean that the first time he asked me what I planned to do after college, I’d been eager to answer, to engage with his spiel about people doing what they love.
What happened then shouldn’t matter. Just like whatever he’s after now shouldn’t either. But I’m still pissed, because ithurts. It hurts to think that for six and a half years I’ve been trying to put that night behind me—when it’s not even a blip on his radar.
“Look, I don’t know what your deal is, O’Brian, but I’m not interested. I’ve tried to be obvious about it, making sure not to be nice… But either you don’t get it, or you think I don’t. Either way, back off.”
There. I wait for the sense of relief that should come from telling this guy to take a hike. But it doesn’t.
In fact, that slight wince he gives up—the one that ought to be the most satisfying thing since bubble wrap—leaves me feelingwrong. Guilty. Like even after what he did, I’m the one with something to feel bad about. Which is bullshit.
Quinn nods, taking the couple beers he ordered and stepping back from the bar. Again, I wait for relief. Again, it doesn’t come.
But before I can think too much about it, he’s back, brows furrowed and those sea-green eyes as stormy as I’ve ever seen them.
