Today she’s wearing cream-colored leggings with a pale pink fringe cape, and light suede over-the-knee boots. Her long dark hair is pulled back, except for a few curly tendrils that frame her face.
She looks like a fashion model.
I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing an old pair of denim jeans with more frayed holes than I can count, a blue Pagosa Spring t-shirt, shearling winter boots that have seen better days, and an old army jacket that is three sizes too big.
The only thing that saves me from looking homeless is the thousand-dollar stroller I’m pushing and the Prada tote I’m using as a diaper bag.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I was having breakfast with the guys and Bric told me you’re not at the gallery anymore.”
“No.” She laughs, wrapping my hands around her arm and pulling me to a table in the back where there are no workers. “I quit about six months ago, after I talked Bric and Smith into this tea room idea.”
“I heard. Pastry chef? I had no idea, Chella. None.”
“Well,” she says, beckoning me to take a seat. I do, and she does the same, sitting across from me. “You know how you think about doing things, when you’re little and stuff, but it’s so impractical?”
I laugh. “You mean like… playing guitar at street fairs and poetry bars?”
“Yes,” Chella says with a big smile. “I guess you know all about that. Well, to be honest, I was kinda jealous of you for that.”
“Me?” I ask, pointing to my chest and laughing. “How could you ever be jealous of me?”
“You always had your dream. And you just went for it. So one day Smith and I were just sitting around the house and I was watching some bake-off show on TV. And I said, ‘I could do that.’ And he said, ‘So do that.’”
I look around at the tea room. It’s not done yet. There are a dozen people here working on things. But I can tell it’s going to be fabulous. It’s got Chella written all over it. Everything is very rustic, yet modern. Not how you’d picture an old-fashioned tea room in movies and books and stuff. Her style. Her taste. Her dream. “And you did it.”
“Yeah, Bric has been great about it. He gave me the space and just said go for it.”
Bric seems to be great at everything these days.
“Do you see Quin much?” I ask.
“Oh, all the time,” Chella says. “We meet for lunch every Tuesday. We were meeting at the Club this past Tuesday when you called. That’s why everyone came over to your hotel. We were already together.”
“Oh,” I say, almost wistfully.
And it’s in that moment that I realize—I have missed this life. These people. Even Chella, who was also part of my world back then. But separate. She’s probably the closest friend I’ve had in like… ever. Which is sad because we only knew each other for six months before I disappeared.
“He called me this morning,” Chella says.
“He did?” I ask. “When? He slept at my new place last night. But then he disappeared early.”
“I know,” Chella says. “He told me.”
“What did he say? Did he talk about me?”
Chella frowns and nods. “He said you had a fight.”
“We didn’t fight,” I say, more defensively than I should. “He was just… mad at me.”
“I know. He told me that too.”
“What exactly did he tell you?” I’m kinda pissed off that Quin is shutting me out and sharing everything with Chella now. I was that girl last year. I was Chella. And now… I have no idea who I am anymore. I can’t even say, Well, you’re Adley’s mother. Because Bric and Quin are here too and it’s almost like they are taking some of that identity away from me. Before I came back I was all she had. Now she has two fathers. I feel… left behind.
“He just said he was confused. I mean, look, Rochelle, you did disappear. And have a baby, which might be his. And you never called.”
I did call. Yeah, it was six months later, but I did call. And I can’t even tell him that because stupid Bric kept it a secret. And I can’t out Bric and cause trouble between him and Quin, because let’s face it—Bric is the only one in my corner at the moment.
I realize Chella is still talking. “And he asked if Smith and I wanted to go to dinner with him tonight.”
“Hmm,” I say, instantly angry. That jerk. “Bric and I invited him to eat with us tonight, but he said he was working.”
“Oh,” Chella says. “I didn’t realize it was a secret. Well”—she waves her hand—“Smith won’t go to dinner. So it will just be Quin and me. Smith doesn’t like to have the three of us together too much. He thinks Quin wants…” She blushes. Shakes her head.
“Quin wants… what?” I prod.
“You know. Smith thinks Quin misses me.”
“You?” I ask. What the fuck is happening?
“Not me. Us, I guess.” She blushes again. “You know. The whole quad thing. But without Bric. Tuesday was the first time they talked in… hell, months.”
I feel like I’m having a stroke. Like I’m hearing her words and they make no sense.
“It’s weird too,” Chella continues. “Quin’s never like that when it’s just him and I together. He doesn’t want me, Rochelle. It’s like he wants…”
“The us,” I say, filling in the blank.
“Yeah.” She nods. “I think he misses that. The us.”
So there you go. That’s where I’m at.
The us.
I can have Bric, or Bric and Quin, but not Quin alone.
These are the new rules, I guess.
It’s just another game to them.
That’s all it’s ever been—a game.
“I have something for you,” Chella says, bringing me out of my horrible realization. “If you let me drop you off at home, I can swing by my house and get it on the way.”
“Sure,” I say. I wait patiently as she does a little business, then we get in her car and drive over to the Little Raven house. Adley fell asleep in her seat, so I wait in her car. A few minutes later she comes back with a box I know very well.
“Here,” Chella says, handing it to me as she gets back in the car. “I can’t keep it. Not after reading what Quin wrote to you in there.”
I take the lid off the box and unwrap the book. It feels heavy in my hands. It feels right. Perfect. I open it up and read the inscription.
Dear Rochelle,
Mistakes are measured in wasted time
Falling to your knees, asking for another chance
Longing’s just an aching mind
Giving in to circumstance
The future is closer than your past
And loving you is not a crime
So if you don’t want to turn back
We can handle the aftermath.
Love,
Quin
The book is filled with inscriptions, but not all of them are from Quin. It’s like this book has been passed around between lovers for decades. And each time it changed hands, the person giving it away wrote something about their longing.
Quin wrote in this book a lot over the time we spent together. Every now and then he’d see it in my closet, or on my shelf, or my bedside table because I was reading it. But I’ve never seen this poem before.