Chapter Four
Mal
I have no idea why I’m crying. I feel so stupid right now.
Quinn must be ready to run for the hills.
“Hey.” But Quinn’s voice is soft and reassuring as he hands me a handkerchief.
Normally I am not one to use handkerchiefs. In fact, I think the whole concept is disgusting. What do you do with a handkerchief after you use it? Give it back to the giver so he or she can stuff a soggy cloth back into their pocket?
But now is not the time for your inner monologue, Mal.
I wipe my tears, which keep coming. I dab at my nose, too. Good grief, I’m really letting loose now. My shoulders are shaking. I’m in full-body heaving sobs.
What is happening? I try to ask out loud, but no words comes out. I only sob louder.
I hear a chair get knocked to the floor. Next thing I know, Quinn’s big arms are around me and I’m folded into his chest.
“Come here,” he whispers. I can feel his lips on the top of my head. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong and I’m grateful for that because I barely know the answer.
He gives me a squeeze and my eyes leak some more. We stay like this, me sobbing, him stroking my hair and giving me small squeezes until my tears finally dry up and my breathing goes back to normal.
Without a word he lets go and brings me a glass of water.
“Thank you,” I croak. “I’m sorry, I don't know what happened.”
“Drink your water,” he urges gently.
“Okay,” I say, thinking I sound like a small child.
I down all of it, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am. It’s no wonder, how much coffee I drink. I basically go around dehydrated most of the day. It’s amazing I had anything in my body to produce tears.
“Thank you. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable. I know men aren’t used to tears.”
“But I’m your friend. Friends don’t run away when the tears come,” he says.
Quinn is becoming more and more difficult to friend zone than anyone I’ve ever met.
I stand up and put the glass in sink. “It’s late. I think I’m just tired.”
“Then let’s go to bed.”
I stare at him hard. “Quinn.”
“Not like that,” he insists, and I can tell he’s totally sincere.
“And you have to teach at school tomorrow, or have you forgotten? You’re free to go whenever you want and I won’t be mad.”
“Shush, let’s put you to bed.” He keeps his hand on my back between my shoulder blades as I make my way to the bedroom, which is just off the kitchen.
I go into my small master bathroom to change into my pajamas and decide to put on my bathrobe, for an extra layer of protection. If he tries anything, I won’t stop him. But I hang on to some bizarre logic that maybe if I have an extra layer of material on my body, it will buy us extra time to come to our senses.
My abbreviated skin care routine and teeth brushing gives me time to absorb the fact that there is actually a man in my bedroom. I’ve lived in this house for years and I’ve never once had a man in my bedroom. Not even a contractor or an exterminator.
My stomach does a little jump. But he’s just a friend and that’s it. A teacher at the school, one who could eventually become your child’s teacher.
For Pete’s sake, he’s practically a transient beat poet; this is not someone to build a relationship with. It’s hard enough when friends move away.