Parker (The Stewarts of Skagway #5)

Chapter 6

Parker

I said “yes” to Rick to piss off Quinn, but I have no idea why I said “yes” to Quinn.

Liar, liar, pants on fire…yes, you do.

His emerald eyes ( that used to be pond scum green ) distract me when they sparkle. And they sparkle all the damn time here. That’s the thing about Vegas— everything sparkles, everything’s dusted with a little bit of magic, everything’s possible. You make decisions you’d never make anywhere else on earth. You say, “Sure,” when you’d be far better off saying, “No, thanks.”

It’s that very same “Sure,” that has me walking down a hotel corridor toward Quinn’s hotel room an hour after the convention ends for the day.

Dressed in brown boots, straight-legged jeans, and a cream-colored, cable-knit, cowl-neck sweater, I hope I don’t look fancy. The vibe I’m aiming for is casual, but neat. That’s why my hair’s up in a no-nonsense ponytail, I’m not wearing jewelry, and my makeup is minimal.

I knock on Quinn’s door at five p.m. sharp, and he opens it before I can knock twice, stepping out into the hallway in boots, jeans, and a T-shirt.

Boots and jeans. Both of us.

We’re dressed like genuine Skagwegians, and it makes me smile.

“Back to our Alaskan duds tonight, huh?”

He smiles at me as we walk back toward the elevator. “I’ve been wearing dress pants and a button-up shirt for two days straight. I deserve a night off.”

“Amen,” I say, stepping into the packed elevator when it arrives.

When we turn around, we’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, and so close to the doors, my breath mists the metal when I exhale.

“Should I schedule an Uber?” whispers Quinn.

“Taxis are easy to find downstairs.”

“Did you eat yet?” I feel his breath against the shell of my ear and grazing the soft, tender skin on the side of my neck. It’s distracting. It’s nice. “Park?”

“Um…nope, but there are, like, thirty restaurants at the Mandalay Bay so I thought I’d grab something after the aquarium.” When he doesn’t say anything, I glance up to find him looking down at me, eyebrows raised in an unspoken question. “Yeah. You’re welcome to join me.”

His eyes are warm, and his smile is pleased. “Sounds good.”

You know what I like about this version of Quinn Morgan? He’s not talking loudly and making a spectacle. He’s not embarrassing me, acting like a lunatic Golden Retriever tonight, jumping up on strangers with dirty paws and slobbering all over everyone. I prefer this calmer, more mature side of him. Where is it when we run into each other in Skagway? Because I sure haven’t seen much of this Quinn Morgan there.

“Hey,” he says, “Not that it’s any of my business, but I noticed that Rick Jones had a fist-sized apple around his eye this afternoon.”

“Yep. Sure did. And you can bet he deserved it.”

“I figured. Gonna be a nice shiner by tomorrow.”

“Good. It’ll serve as a warning to other girls.”

“You ever need my help, Park, just let me know. I’ve got your back.”

I’m about to laugh in his face and demand, Since when? but then I remember his heartfelt apology and my acceptance of it. It’s going to take me a little while to get used to this new peace between us.

“I can handle myself,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says. “I know you can. Just think of me as backup. If you ever need a little backup, just call me, and I’ll be there.”

My brothers taught me how to defend myself, and I’m darn good at it. I don’t need Quinn Morgan fighting my battles for me…though…if the offer is sincere, which it appears to be, I guess it’s not a bad thing.

“Okay. Thanks.”

As for Rick Jones, he’s a twerpy little fucker who got what was coming to him.

For the record, he was handsy from the moment we sat down at lunch, pulling out my chair but ruining the chivalry of the gesture by running his fingers up my back as I sat down.

I ordered a burger, and at one point, I got a little mayonnaise on my lip. I didn’t necessarily need, or want! for him to reach across the table and wipe it off with the pad of his thumb. He could’ve just told me it was there, and I would’ve wiped it off. Touching my face without permission felt way too intimate and made me uncomfortable.

But the straw that broke this camel’s back? As we left the restaurant, we were each given a small paper cone with a cloud of cotton candy on top. Nice. Cute. Anyway, a bit of candy fuzz floated down to my chest, landing on my breast. Before I could brush it away, Rick Jones took the liberty of leaning down to eat it off my shirt, his slimy pink tongue snaking out to lick at it. When he straightened up, grinning at me like he was the cutest thing God ever made, I drew back my free hand, fisted it, and smashed it into his eye.

“Don’t ever do that again!” I cried, dropping my cotton candy on the floor and hightailing it back to the convention center alone.

I probably should have said something when he touched my back or left the table when he touched my face so boldly. But licking food off my breast? Nope. Just…no. I’d had enough.

The elevator doors open to the lobby, and since we were the last ones on, we’re also the first off, walking across the marble floor to the revolving doors. We step outside, into the cool evening air of Las Vegas and slide into the back seat of a waiting taxi.

“Mandalay Bay,” says Quinn.

“Aquarium entrance,” I add.

The taxi pulls away from the hotel.

Unlike Rick Jones, who would have had his hand somewhere on my person by this point in the ride, Quinn maintains a respectful distance from me, staying on his side of the back seat and looking out the window.

The lights of Vegas shine brightly as we head south down the strip, passing the MGM Grand, the Hard Rock Café, the roller coaster, and Statue of Liberty outside of the New York, New York hotel, and the turreted red and blue towers of Excalibur.

“I’ve never been to New York,” Quinn murmurs. “Or seen a real castle.”

“Me neither.”

“But you’ve been to other places,” he says, still staring at the spectacle out his window. “I’ve never been anywhere…besides Alaska.”

“I haven’t traveled that much. A few times to Vegas, once to Germany, once to Florida, and once to Memphis, Tennessee,” I tell him as we pass the pyramid and sphinx at the Luxor.

“Germany?” he asks, turning to face me. “They got castles there, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so. But I didn’t see any. I was in Frankfurt for a travel show. Business only.”

“When was that?”

“Last spring.”

“Huh. I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?”

“I pay attention,” he says, but then adds softly, his tone endlessly gentle, “to you.”

My breath catches. My cheeks flush.

His words surprise me, but maybe what surprises me more is my reaction to them. I’m touched by them. I find them endearing. I didn’t realize he kept track of where I went and what I did. I wonder where it fits into the context of our shared past, when he was always coming up with new and awful ways to tease me.

“Last spring, huh?”

“Yeah. Weren’t you crabbing last spring?” I ask.

“I was. For Dungeness. Over by Kodiak.” A tiny smile lifts the corners of his lips. “ You keeping track of me, Park?”

“Not on purpose,” I answer honestly. “I guess I just notice when you’re not around.”

His grin disappears. “Because you get a break from me bugging you?”

I don’t have to say “yes.” He already knows the answer to his question, but I’m not prepared for the hurt and shame that squeeze his features. He looks down at his lap for a second, working his jaw, which tightens and releases. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are dark and roiling. He scans my face tenderly, then takes a deep breath and leans forward, like he’s got something important to say—

“We’re here,” says the driver. “Shark Reef. That’s twelve-fifty.”

We roll to a stop in front of the aquarium entrance, and the moment is broken.

Quinn takes a five and a ten from his wallet and hands it to the driver, then thanks him for the ride as we exit the car.

Once inside, we grab our tickets in a bland-looking lobby and are directed to an escalator. This is where things start getting fun. Jungle-theming, such that I would imagine at a place like Disneyland, surrounds us on both sides, with hanging plants above us and animatronic alligators grinning down at us as we ascend.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” asks Quinn, a boyish smile, one I remember from our shared childhood, taking over his face. “It’s cool, huh?”

“It is!” I agree.

We enter the first exhibit, which features a Johnson crocodile resting on the bottom of a pool in a small enclosure.

“See him?” asks Quinn, pointing at the massive reptile through the glass. “Tha’s a croc, mate!”

“Were you a fan of the Irwins growing up?” I ask him with a giggle.

“Wasn’t everyone?”

A Komodo dragon stares at us from its perch on a boulder. Quinn eyes it warily before reading a placard posted near the glass.

“Komodo dragons were responsible for five fatal injuries to humans between 1974 and 2012. Can you believe it?”

“And here’s me,” I quip, “wanting to adopt him.”

“Really?”

“No! Not really!” I say, hitting him lightly on the arm. “You know how I feel about snakes. Why would I want a reptile as a pet?”

“Well, you love turtles,” he points out.

“True. But you wanna know how many human fatalities there have been because of turtle attacks?”

“How many?” he asks.

“None!” I say, making a zero with my thumb and forefinger.

“Speaking of having a wild animal for a pet…” Quinn nudges my arm. “Remember when you told everyone you wanted a sea lion?”

“I was nine!” I say, rolling my eyes at the memory. “What can I say? Dad took us to the Dyea Flats in April, and there were hundreds of them, and they were so cute! You could walk right up to them! I was sure if I could find a baby who’d follow me home, we’d be friends for life.”

“How’d that go for you, again?” he asks, his dimples deep and his eyes shining.

“Not good,” I mumble.

“And why was that?” he asks, on the brink of laughter.

“Because I found about twenty to follow me home!”

His control breaks, and he belly-laughs like the Alaskan mountain man he is. And I don’t mind. I don’t mind the teasing this time, and I don’t mind the laughing. Maybe because I feel like we’re sharing a memory. Or maybe because it doesn’t feel as mean-spirited as it’s felt in the past.

“I can still picture you with twenty barking pups at your heels, running toward the Jeep,” he says through chuckles.

“You and Sawyer were scared, too!”

“We were!” he agrees. “It was an army of barking babies!”

Little by little our laughter ebbs away, but our smiles remain.

“Why weren’t we more like this?” I murmur, my eyes locked with his.

“Like how?”

“Laughing together ? Instead of you laughing at me?”

His smile fades. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, Park. I feel—”

“Oh, I know! I know you are. I accepted your apology,” I rush to reassure him. “I just…” I shrug, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “I would’ve liked it, you know? If we could’ve been—”

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Out of nowhere, a small child barrels into my legs and buries her head in my crotch.

“What? I…” I place my hand on her head, and she looks up at me with shock. “Honey, I’m not your—”

“Amanda! I’m right here!” The child’s mother rushes over to us, and Amanda switches from my legs to hers. “Sorry! She got scared of the alligators on the escalator.”

“No problem,” I say. I’ve got a lot of experience with kids from the many tourists we guide every summer. I squat down in front of the little one. “Hey, Amanda.”

She rotates her head a touch so she can see me with one eye.

“Those alligators? They were just pretend. The real ones are behind glass. I promise.”

“It looked real.”

“I know!” I say. “It scared me too.”

“But you’re a growed-up.”

“Growed-ups get scared too, sometimes,” I tell her, standing up again.

As the mother and daughter head off to the next exhibit, I find Quinn standing behind me.

“You were really good with her,” he says, cocking his head to the side.

“We get lots of kids on our tours.”

We meander into the next exhibit, which houses some small fish, and the next, where manta rays glide across the water. I pause in front of the tank to watch them.

“You want to have kids, Park?” asks Quinn. “Someday?”

“Yeah, for sure,” I say. “Someday.” I remember going to Anchorage with Harper when she had her first ultrasound. “When Harper was expecting Wren, I went to a doctor’s appointment with her. It was pretty amazing. We saw tiny Wren on the TV screen, blowing bubbles in Harper’s tummy.”

“Blowing bubbles?”

“Probably gas,” I say. “But you could see them leave her lips. It was so cool.”

“She’s pretty cute. Wren.”

“Best baby in the whole world,” I say. “Until Tanner and McKenna have one.”

“Or Sawyer and Ivy.”

“Or Hunter and Isabella.”

“Or Parker and—”

“I’m okay being single right now.” I interrupt him, thinking about my crappy lunch date with Rick Jones. “Guys can be such assholes.”

“Present company no exception,” he says softly.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, turning around to face him. “Hanging out with you tonight is about a hundred times better than having lunch with Rick. No contest. I mean it.”

“What happened? Was he fresh with you?”

“I’ll say! He licked cotton candy off my breast!”

The change in Quinn’s face is instantaneous. His eyebrows disappear into his hairline. His eyes change from green to black. His lips thin. His nostrils flare.

“ What the fuck ?”

“It was dessert,” I explain.

“What was? Your breasts?”

“No! As we were leaving the restaurant, they gave us a little puff of cotton candy on a paper cone. A little of it drifted onto my shirt—on my…” I gesture loosely to my breasts. “…and Rick…well…he leaned forward and licked it off.”

I didn’t realize Quinn’s eyes could open wider, but they do. “I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him for touching you like that.”

“No,” I say, reaching up to put my hands on his shoulders. “You will not. I already took care of it.”

“The hell you did, Parker. He needs a beating.”

“Quinn? Look at me. Quinn!” His eyes find mine, but his chest rises and lowers quickly, with the quick, shallow breaths he’s taking. “It’s not your fight.”

He scans my face, then suddenly, without warning, he puts his arms around me and pulls me against his chest. Holding me, hugging me, I can feel his heart beating against mine like a stampede of wild horses. He’s furious. He’s protective. Of me.

Rationally, I know it’s Quinn Morgan holding me, and I should probably pull away, but it feels so nice that I release the breath I’ve been holding, lean into him, and close my eyes. My hands, which were resting on his shoulders, loop around his neck, and I sigh.

I like having his arms around me.

I want him to hold me.

So I let him.

***

Quinn

She’s in your arms.

Parker Stewart.

You’re holding the girl of your dreams in your arms.

My brain whispers these words, though my heart, which races like a runaway train, already knows them.

Several times tonight—earlier, in the taxi, for example, and again when we were laughing together about the sea lion pups—I wanted to tell her how I feel about her, how I’ve felt about her for as long as I can remember. But with cab drivers and lost children interrupting me every time, I have to consider that the universe is trying to tell me something, and it’s this. S low down . It’s the same advice my mystery texter gave me. Don’t move too fast or you’ll piss her off.

But our time in Vegas—only three more nights, including this one—is halfway over. And if we return to Skagway without my telling her how I feel, I fear things could revert back to how they were. I mean, I won’t start pranking and teasing her again, but being home might make her start hating me again. And after seeing her smiles, and sharing her laughter, and holding her sweet, sexy body in my arms? How could I bear that?

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t bear it.

While I’ve been in my head, I’ve also been enjoying our embrace, so it’s over way too soon. She pulls away, looking up at me, her expression as surprised as mine. I loosen my arms around her, remembering that she wasn’t too pleased with Rick Jones’s handsy ways, and I just pulled her into a full-body hug.

“Sorry,” I say. “I just—”

“It’s okay,” she says, taking a step away from me, though her eyes are bright, and her smile is sweet. “I needed a hug, too.”

“I swear, if he comes near you again…” I growl. I’ll fucking level him to the ground . “I’ll be watching, Park.”

“Thanks for that,” she says, “but I’ll be okay. I’m pretty sure that coming near me is the last thing he wants to do.”

We pass a sculpture of a five-headed cobra—more good theming—and finally come to the coup de grace of the whole attraction: the first of two shark tunnels. As if on cue, a sea turtle glides over our heads, eliciting a delighted gasp from Parker, who covers her mouth with one hand and points upward with the other.

“Quinn!” she cries. “Look!”

“Handsome beast.”

She beams at me, then back at the turtle, who swims out of view.

“This is the best,” she sighs.

I’m staring at her beautiful face. “Agree.”

We visit the blue-lit jellyfish tank, which reminds me of a piece of modern art, and at the sunken ship, Neptune’s Fury, with its many viewing windows. Sharks and fish of all kinds swim round and round the tank, but nothing comes close to grabbing Parker’s attention like the turtle did. Walking through one more 360-degree tunnel, we exit the aquarium into a small gift shop.

Directly in front of us is a three-tiered display of ceramic turtles in various colors and sizes. I choose one the approximate color of my eyes, place it in the center of my palm and show it to Parker.

“If I get this for you,” I ask her, “would you throw it at me?”

Her lips wobble for a second before she lets herself smile. “No.”

“No, don’t buy it? Or…no, I won’t throw it at you?”

“I won’t throw it at you,” she says softly. Her cheeks blossom a delicate shade of pink. “I’m going to find something for Wren.”

I watch her from a few feet away—her graceful strides, the way she squats down to see the stuffed animals on the bottom shelf, how she picks them up, gently inspecting them, before replacing them carefully.

How did I miss the fact that the girl I plagued so relentlessly was so soft and gentle under her barbed quips and angry retorts? No wonder she likes turtles. She sort of is one. Hard shell, soft heart. I smile as I head over to the cashier to buy her a souvenir.

“Hey,” says the young woman behind the counter. “How’s it going?”

“It’s going good,” I tell her. I place Parker’s turtle on the glass. “Just this, please.”

She grins at the turtle, then licks her lips slowly, lifting her gaze to me. “I would have pegged you for more of a shark guy.”

“That right?”

“Uh-huh,” she says, arching her back to show off her assets. “You’ve got that apex-predator-who-gets-what-he-wants energy.”

“And what is it you think he wants?”

Suddenly Parker is standing next to me, a stuffed penguin in her arms. The cashier looks at her, then at me, then back at Parker, whose face is neutral, but…but she’s putting out an intense vibe. An energy. I feel it. And I’m sure as hell that the cashier feels it because she puts away her smile and her boobs.

When she looks up again, she’s all business. “That’ll be six dollars and ninety-five cents, please.”

I pull a ten-dollar bill from my wallet and slide it to her. She hands me a bag with the turtle, and my change.

“Thank you, sir. Have a great day.” She turns to Parker. “Just the penguin?”

“Yes, please.”

I turn away because I can’t quite believe what just happened. If I’m not mistaken, Parker just metaphorically pissed on my leg in front of the sales girl, purposely letting her think we were a couple. And the sales girl, younger and less confident than Parker, backed off immediately.

But did I read that right?

Did Parker just mark her territory?

And was I that territory?

“Let’s go,” says Parker, swinging the bag holding Wren’s penguin. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” I say. I am. For anything as long as it includes you. “Where to now?”

“There’s a place called The Border Grill nearby.”

“My treat?”

“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “This isn’t a date, remember?”

“Right.” Tell yourself whatever you want, Parker.

I follow her to an exit at the back of the aquarium, and we step outside, into a dark and surprisingly crisp night. A path to the left, moving guests between the aquarium and the pool is well lit. Not far from us, I see the yellow lights of the restaurant Parker mentioned.

“You seem to know your way around.”

“I do. I’ve stayed here before. And I’m a fan of margaritas and Tex-Mex. Hope that sounds good to you.” “If you like it, I’ll like it.”

“Then you’ll like it,” she says.

A few minutes later, we’re standing in front of the hostess stand.

“It’s quiet tonight,” she tells us. “You have your choice, in or out.”

Out has the moon and the stars, and heat lamps to keep us warm. Soft, jazzy Mexican music plays from overhead speakers, and the occasional splash of someone in the hotel pool makes the place feel tropical. Plus, there are no other outdoor diners tonight, so we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.

“I’d prefer outside,” I say, looking at Parker, “if that’s okay with you.”

She nods. “It’s my preference, too.”

We’re seated at a small square table, side by side in a corner. The hostess whisks away two pre-set place settings and disappears, promising the waitress will arrive soon.

“Here,” I say, taking the turtle from its bag and placing it on the table. “This is yours.”

She smiles at the little creature, then lifts her eyes to mine.

“Should I duck?” I ask.

“I said I wouldn’t throw it at you!”

“I know. I’m just teasing.”

“It’s super cute,” she says. “Thank you.”

A waitress arrives with menus and takes our drink order—a strawberry margarita for Parker and a regular one for me. We glance at the menus for a few minutes, choosing our entrees, and then sipping our drinks when they arrive.

“You know what I keep thinking?” asks Parker.

“What?”

“How much Sawyer would freak out if he saw us right now.”

I laugh at that. “Yep. He sure would.”

“Can you imagine? He’s staying at this hotel, strolling by, minding his own business, and when he looks left, there’s his best friend and his sister having dinner together without trying to kill each other.”

“He would faint.”

She giggles. “He would!”

“Hey,” I say, taking my phone out of my back pocket and leaning closer to her. “I have an idea. Let’s take a selfie and send it to him.”

“Yes! With no explanation!”

She shifts closer to me, until our shoulders are touching, then holds up her hot pink drink in a ‘Cheers’ gesture. I hold the camera as far away as I can and take a photo. When I show it to her, she places her hand on my arm.

“No, no, wait! We can do better! Let’s really mess with him!” Her chair scrapes against the concrete patio as she scoots it closer to mine. She takes a big gulp of her cocktail, then surprises me by laying her head on my shoulder.

“What do you want me to do?” I mumble, resisting the urge to rest my head on hers.

I can smell her perfume or shampoo or whatever it is, and it makes my heart pound with longing. Historically, Parker and I haven’t touched each other much, and yet I hugged her tonight in the aquarium, and now, at dinner, she’s got her head on my shoulder. Not gonna lie. I love it. I want more of it. I could get addicted to touching her if she’d let me.

“Umm…I don’t know. Maybe, um—tell me if this is weird—but maybe, like, put your arm around my shoulder? So it looks like we’re on a date? It’ll blow his mind.”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I reach out, placing my arm around her shoulder and drawing her close. Her head nestles into the curve of my neck, her hair tickling the skin of my throat. It’s intimate and warm, and feels the way “hope” sounds.

“Is this good?” I murmur. My lips might graze the top of her head, but I’d deny it under interrogation.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice soft and breathy.

She inhales, and I feel it against my side, the inflation of her lungs, the gentle press of her body into mine. My lips fall to her hair again— I can’t resist —a rest a moment on her head.

“Quinn.”

I lean up. “Yeah?”

“Aren’t you gonna…take the picture?”

The reason we’re posing like this in the first place . My fingers clench around my phone. “Yeah. Sure.”

I hold my arm straight out, staring at the camera, at the reflected image of Parker Stewart’s head on my shoulder, my arm around her, my face— Jesus, my face —which reveals everything I’ve always felt for her, everything I feel today, everything I’ll feel tomorrow, everything I’ll feel for her on the day I die.

I watch her face on the little screen, at the way she stares at us. Her eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise. And that’s when I hit the bright white circle, recording the image of us forever.

As I lower my camera hand, she sits up so fast, she bumps her forehead into my chin, then scrapes her chair, with a high- pitched wail, back across the concrete. Picking up her drink, she brings the glass to her lips and upends it, chugging the rest of her strawberry margarita. When she puts the glass back down on the table, she turns her wide eyes to me.

I’m sitting about a foot away from her, rubbing my chin because the rest of her may be soft, but her forehead is as hard as everyone else’s.

“Are you—” She gulps as her eyes nail mine. “Quinn, are you in love with me?”

It’s my turn to pick up my margarita and chug it. Which I do. But the minute my glass makes contact with the table, I look up at her and nod.

“Yep.” I nod some more. “Yep. I am.”

“Harper was right,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, grabbing her purse off the table and standing up so fast, her stupid chair falls backward. She scurries to pick it up, pushing it back under the table with another screech of metal on concrete.

I stay where I am, staring at her, waiting for her to meet my eyes.

“I wish you weren’t,” she whispers.

“Too late.”

“How long?” she asks, finally facing me. Her expression is stricken. She has her hands on her hips. Her breasts rise and fall swiftly under her sweater.

I shrug, but the gesture is all about surrender, not apathy.

“Always.”

“ Always always?”

I’m not really sure what sort of answer she’s looking for here, so I try to remember the first moment it occurred to me that I loved Parker. I think about the barking seals when I was eight and the camping trip when I was ten, but I’m pretty sure I still thought of her like a sister at those points.

Suddenly, I remember the ancestry presentation I gave when I was eleven. My heart surges in recognition. Yes. That’s when I knew.

I clear my throat. “You won’t remember this—”

“Try me,” she demands, crossing her arms over her chest, her face still waffling between furious and sick.

“At the end of fifth grade, I gave a presentation on my family’s ancestry. I talked about being from Ireland and how the Morgans were descended from lords. And when I was done, everyone was clapping, and I took a bow, and when I looked up at you, you were…” I stop for a second because her eyes, which were so severe only seconds ago, are filling with tears. She blinks them rapidly, her arms tightening around her body as she stares down at the ground. “You remember.”

She nods, a curt and painful jerk of her neck.

“That was the first time I knew for certain I loved you,” I confess to her. “That was the first time I really felt it.”

“Jesus,” she whispers, swiping away the wetness on her cheeks and working her jaw in a way that looks painful. “You put a snake down my back later that day.”

“Yes, I did,” I say, hating myself for it.

“Quinn! Why were you so mean to me if you…if you…”

Her words drift away, but I know what she’s asking, and I want her to understand. More than anything else on earth I want her to understand me so that maybe— just maybe —I’ll have a chance with her.

“The truth? I knew you didn’t see me like that, Park, but I loved you all the same. I couldn’t help it. And I guess I felt like your anger was better than nothing. It was attention even if it was negative. Knowing that you hated me felt better than being invisible to you.”

Her eyebrows furrow, and her lip quivers like she might start crying again, and fuck, if she does, I just might too. Because Parker doesn’t cry. I’ve known her my whole life, and I can count the number of times I’ve seen her cry on one hand.

The waitress returns with our entrees, looking between us.

“I’m not staying,” says Parker, backing away from the table.

“Want me to box it up for you, hon?” asks the server.

“No thanks,” she says, her voice about to break. “I don’t want it.”

Then she hikes her bag up on her shoulder and walks away, into the night, as far as she can get from me.