ON SUNDAY, QUINN drove to her parents’ place for brunch. A command performance, since she’d managed to skip out on the past two weekends in a row due to working overtime.
She hoped like hell it wasn’t an ambush birthday party. Her birthday was still several weeks away, but her mom couldn’t keep a secret to save her own life and had let the possibility of a party slip several times. Quinn didn’t like birthdays.
Or surprises.
She parked in front of the two-story Tudor cottage that had been her childhood home and felt her heart constrict. She’d learned to ride a bike on this driveway, right alongside her sister, who’d been a far superior bike rider. So much so that Quinn had often ridden on Beth’s handlebars instead of riding her own bike. They’d pilfered flowers from the flower gardens lining the walkway. Years later as teens, they’d sneaked out more than a few times from one of the second-story windows, climbing down the oak tree to go to parties that they’d been grounded from attending—only getting caught when Quinn slipped one year and broke her arm.
Beth hadn’t spoken to her for weeks.
Once upon a time this house had been Quinn’s everything. But now coming here made her feel hollow and empty. Cold. And deep down, she was afraid nothing would ever warm her again.
It’ll get easier.
Time is your friend.
She’ll stay in your heart.
Quinn had heard every possible well-meaning condolence over the past two years and every single one of them was a lie.
It hadn’t gotten easier. Time wasn’t her friend. And as much as she tried to hold on to every single memory she had of Beth, it was all fading. Even now she couldn’t quite summon up the soft, musical sound of her sister’s laugh and it killed her.
Shaking it off the best she could, she slid out of her car and forced a smile on her face. Sometimes you had to fake it to make it.
Actually, more than sometimes.
Late April in Southern California could mean hot or hotter, but today was actually a mild eighty degrees and her mom’s flowers were in full, glorious bloom. Quinn ducked a wayward bee—she was allergic—and turned to watch a flashy BMW pull in next to her, relieved to not have to go inside alone.
Brock Holbrook slid out of his car looking camera ready and she couldn’t help but both smile and roll her eyes. “Suck-up,” she said, gesturing to his suit and tie.
Brock flashed a grin. “I just know where my bread’s buttered, that’s all.”
He worked for her father’s finance company and no one could deny that Brock knew how to work a room. He was good looking, charismatic, and when he looked at her appreciatively, her entire body hummed with anticipation. Or it used to.
But these days she didn’t feel anticipation for anything. She sighed and Brock tilted his head at her, eyes softer now, understanding.
He knew. He’d been there when she’d found out about Beth’s accident. But his understanding didn’t help.
She wanted to feel again, dammit. The thrum of blood pounding through her veins in excitement. Happy butterflies in her belly . . .
The front door opened and Quinn glanced over. Both hers and Brock’s parents stood in the doorway, the four of them smiling a greeting at their chickens coming home to the roost, where they’d be pecked at for every little detail of their lives.
Quinn loved her parents and they loved her, but brunch promised to be more invasive than a gyno exam on the 405 South at peak traffic hours.
Brock took Quinn’s hand and reeled her in, smiling as he planted a kiss on her lips. It wasn’t a hardship. He looked good and he knew it. He kissed good too, and he knew that as well.
It had been two years since they’d slept together, two years since she’d felt the zing of sexual awareness or desire, and she didn’t feel it now either. Still, the kiss was nice, and normally she’d try to enjoy it—except he was only doing it for show. So she nipped at his bottom lip.
Hard.
Laughing, he pulled back. “Feisty,” he murmured. “I like it.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“You should.”
“Pray tell why.”
“It’s been so long . . .” He tugged playfully on a strand of her hair. “I’m worried you’re depressed.”
This was just uncomfortably close enough to the truth to have her defenses slam down. “I’m not depressed.”
“Not you,” he said. “Your vagina.”
She snorted and yanked free. “Shut up.”
“Just keep it in mind.” He took her hand back and held it as he led the flight-risk chicken up the front path.
“I should’ve bitten you harder,” she whispered, smiling at the parentals.
“Feeling vicious today, I take it?”
“Annoyed,” she corrected.
“Ah. I guess turning old does that to a person.”
He was nine months younger than she and for just about all their lives—they’d met in kindergarten when he’d socked a boy for pushing her—he’d been smug about their age difference. She nudged him with her hip and knocked him off balance. He merely hauled her along with him, wrapping both his arms around her so that by all appearances he’d just saved her from a fall. His face close to hers, he gave her a wink.
And suddenly it occurred to her that this wasn’t about her at all, but him. His parents must be on him again about giving them grandbabies. And she got it, she did. The truth was, everyone expected them to marry. Brock had been her middle and high school boyfriend, and they’d gone off to college together. During their freshman year, they’d had a wildly dramatic and traumatic breakup involving his inability to be monogamous.
Oh, he’d loved her, she had no doubt of that. But he’d also loved anyone who batted their eyes and smiled at him.
It had taken a few years, but eventually they’d found their way back to each other. He’d grown up a lot and so had she. They were best friends—at times friends with benefits—and at others mortal enemies. But after Beth’s death, their physical connection had fallen by the wayside . . . and that was all on her.
They’d eventually had the hard discussion about their different needs, and as a result, they’d gone from lovers to friends. She knew Brock would go back to lovers in an instant if she showed the slightest interest.
But she didn’t feel interest, and was starting to be afraid she’d never feel it—or anything—ever again. “You’re only making it worse for both of us,” she said quietly as they moved toward the mother ship.
“If they think we’re working on things, they’ll leave me the hell alone.”
She had to concede the point as they hit the porch and were enveloped into the fold.
“Still not used to it,” her mom murmured to Quinn, clinging to Quinn for an extra minute. “It never feels right, you here without her . . .”
She didn’t mean it hurtfully, Quinn knew that. Her mom wouldn’t hurt a fly, but as always, a lump the size of Texas stuck in her throat. “I know, Mom.”