Chapter 21

TWENTY-ONE

On Monday, Sutton comes to work with me. We clean the place and head back to his place, where he blows me against the front door, and I return the favor with him lounging on the living room couch, golden body on full display for me, willing me to do anything I want, try anything I want.

And I stop trying to pretend my heart isn’t about to pound its way out of my chest whenever I see him.

On Tuesday, he meets me on campus, and we grab lunch. He’s dressed in a very proper pair of khakis, and a light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The side of his foot seeks mine out while we eat.

I stop going to the library.

Instead, I take my books and notes and my laptop straight to Sutton’s after my last lecture of the day is done. I lay them all out on his dining table and catch myself looking at him while he makes dinner.

He starts bringing his camera with him when we’re out and about, and I try to fight through the discomfort I feel whenever he aims it toward me. He asks me if he should stop, and I say no.

We go to the park, and he takes photos of blue jays and robins and starlings and crows and sparrows, and later, he shows me how to develop the photos and grabs my ass in the darkroom and kisses me in the red glow of the safe light.

He never comes straight out and tells me anything about himself without being self-deprecating or straight-up cruel to himself, but I learn things about him by some strange form of osmosis. All those tiny details and small quirks that make Sutton, Sutton.

I know he has a favorite mug—the blue one with the chipped handle. I know that even though he says he doesn’t have a favorite side of the bed, he gravitates toward the left. He used to swim competitively. He has exactly one houseplant—a philodendron he saved from a trash can when he’d just moved into his place. He rolls his eyes when I christen the plant Phil, but I know he secretly likes it because I’ve caught him smiling when I do it. I know he’s caught on to the fact that I like it when he touches me, because he does it all the time now and seeks me out whenever I try and tell myself not to become too clingy. I know he likes it when I call him Sutt. I know he seems all suave and sophisticated, but on the inside, he’s a bit of a dork.

He’s obsessed with documentaries about the history of British monarchs and has a crazy number of factoids about all those events that took place hundreds of years ago. He can solve the Rubik’s cube in under nine seconds, and he’s adorably proud of that fact. He has an endless supply of dirty jokes stored in his brain, and sometimes he can’t properly tell me the joke because he’s already laughing so hard about it.

I know that with each passing day, I’m falling more hopelessly in love with him.

The only thing I don’t know is if there’s even a remote possibility that he feels the same.

It’s because I catch a cold that the real world starts making its way back in.

My nose is running like it’s trying to liquefy into snot, I have an annoying, dull headache in my temples, and I’m running a fever. It’s highly annoying.

It sneaks up on me on a random Wednesday afternoon. It starts with feeling cold, even though it’s already over seventy degrees outside and the sun is blazing in the sky. By the time I finish my last class of the day, I’m sneezing and my eyes are watering so much that Sutton, who’s waiting for me on the steps of the building, takes one look at me, drags me to the street, and flags down a cab.

Once in his place, he makes me go to bed, despite my protests. I call out from work, and the rest of the evening is a blur of sneezing and feeling pathetic while Sutton makes me chicken soup from scratch.

Thursday follows in the same vein.

On Friday, I start to feel more human again, even if my voice is barely more than a whisper due to the persistent sore throat, and my nose is so blocked it might as well be filled with cement. Sutton is out, trying to score me some nasal spray so I can use my nose for its intended purpose again.

I’m on the couch, doing my best to concentrate on linear systems and catching up on everything I missed while I was out of school, when there’s a knock on the door.

I look up and frown, but then I drag myself off the couch and head to the hallway.

I flick the lock and pull the door open.

“Did you forget your key…”

My voice dies when I see who it is.

On a scale of one to ten, just how awkward is it when you open the door dressed in boxer shorts and a sweatshirt that don’t belong to you, in an apartment where you don’t live, and then come face to face with your boss? The answer, by the way, is at least ten thousand and counting.

“Uh… hi?” I rasp in my barely audible voice.

I’m not sure if it counts as a silver lining that Quinn looks about as gob smacked at me being here as I feel about facing him.

“Wren,” he finally says after a painfully long moment of staring at me with wide eyes. “Hello,” he adds. “This is a bit of a surprise.”

“I’m…”

A barrage of excuses about why I’m here fly through my head. All useless. I really don’t know how to talk myself out of this one. Unless I tell Quinn Sutton hired me to clean his apartment? In which case I’m also a hella unprofessional employee, seeing that I’m in my underwear and most likely look like I haven’t showered in two days. Which is a lie. I haven’t showered in three.

It gets even worse when Quinn takes me in, because I realize he’s taking in my scar collection, which is blatantly on display on my legs right now. The only tiny silver lining is that he doesn’t act all shocked and freaked out. Instead, something like understanding dawns on his face.

I swallow, which hurts, and step aside.

“Would you like to come in?” I croak.

He sends me a funny look and takes a step inside.

I point to my throat and say, “A cold,” as an explanation.

He nods, takes off his shoes, and heads toward the living room. For an insane second, I debate taking off and then pretending this never happened until Quinn is sure he hallucinated me. Then my reasonable side takes over, and I follow him instead.

Once in the living room, we both stand awkwardly opposite each other, neither of us seeming sure how to proceed.

“So,” Quinn eventually says. “You and Sutton.”

This is a terrible remake of the same conversation Sutton had with Remy while I was eavesdropping. If this is the kind of punishment that follows, I’ll never do it again. Lesson learned.

Quinn drags his fingers through his hair.

“Well, this is awkward,” he says.

“Very,” I agree. In addition to hoarse, I now also sound phlegmy. This is going so well.

There’s another knock.

“Oh thank God,” Quinn mutters and strides to answer the door.

There are voices, but neither belongs to Sutton.

Instead, Quinn marches his boyfriend into the room.

Oh, good. More people clued into this situation is just what we need.

“I can walk,” Steph is saying, eyes aimed over his shoulder at Quinn. “Jesus, what’s with the manhandling? Just a hint, you should really get me naked if you want me to enjoy it.”

In response, Quinn pinches Steph’s cheeks between his thumbs and forefingers and turns him toward me.

“What are you—” Steph says, just before his eyes land on me. “Oh,” he says, and follows that with an “Ooooh,” and another “Oh!” The first of the three ohs was the most measured one, before things apparently started to click.

I really wish I was wearing pants.

But Steph gathers himself quickly and sends me a wide smile and a friendly “Hey, Wren!” Like it’s normal I’m here now that he’s got all the ohs out of the way.

“Yes. Hi,” I rasp.

“Caught a cold?” he asks sympathetically.

“Seems so.”

“You should have something warm to drink,” he says. And he’s off. By the time I catch on to the fact that we’re having tea, Steph’s already in the kitchen, banging the cabinet doors open.

Quinn and I observe in still mostly awkward silence from the sidelines.

After a few minutes, Steph turns around and shakes his head.

“Who are we kidding? I don’t know where anything is or frankly even how to make tea.”

Quinn sends him one of those affectionate smiles he keeps exclusively for Steph.

“You were going to make tea?” he asks.

“It was the first warm drink that popped into my head.” Steph shrugs.

“I’m pretty sure Sutton doesn’t have tea anywhere in here,” I say.

“Bummer.” Steph looks around thoughtfully before his eyes land on me again. “What about whiskey?”

I point to one of the cabinets. Steph opens it and inspects the bottles for a bit before he grabs one.

“Lemon? Honey?” he asks me.

I point to another cabinet and the fridge.

“Can you boil me some water?” Steph asks Quinn.

“What are we making?” he asks while he pours the water into a pot.

“A hot toddy.”

“I haven’t had one of those in forever,” Quinn muses.

For a little while, I watch the two of them work. They move around each other with the ease of two people whose personal spaces have merged into one, and all the while, they tease and laugh and joke.

After about ten minutes, Steph slides three steaming cups onto the dining table and takes a seat. Quinn settles in next to him, casually throwing his arm over the back of Steph’s chair. And I take a seat opposite them, on the other side of the table.

I pick up the cup and take a sip. I’m not sure whether it’s the whiskey or the hot liquid, but it does make my throat feel less scratchy for the time being.

“It’s good,” I say as I place the cup back down. I sound like somebody who smokes a pack a day, but hey, at least I have my voice back for now.

“I’m a shit cook, but if there’s alcohol involved, I can generally pull it off.” Steph grins.

“Sutton’s at work?” Steph asks and places his own cup down. I frown at him. Work?

“He went out to get some nasal spray,” I say. “Breathing is a bit of a challenge right now.”

Steph nods.

“Mystery solved,” he tells Quinn before he glances at me. “So how long has this been going on?”

I almost choke on my drink at the casual straightforwardness of that question, and then I take another slow, measured sip to buy myself some time to think about what to say.

“A couple of months,” I finally say.

Steph tilts his head to the side. “Why do you look so grim about it? As far as I understand it, most people enjoy this whole song and dance.” He raises his brows at Quinn as if to confirm.

“Yes, Stephen. Unlike you, a lot of people do enjoy the song and dance of being in a relationship.”

Steph aims his gaze my way while motioning to Quinn.

“See? Straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“I don’t—” I still have no idea what to say. What I should say. Or maybe more importantly what I shouldn’t say. “It’s not… We haven’t really discussed anything,” I finally say.

I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not Steph simply shrugging and saying, “Okay.”

Quinn is still eyeing me thoughtfully, and the urge to fidget under his penetrating gaze becomes almost overwhelming.

Steph smacks his shoulder.

“Can you reel in the resting disappointed face a bit?”

Quinn snorts and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” he tells me. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I didn’t think it was,” I say.

He nods.

And keeps looking at me.

I feel like a bug under a microscope.

“It’s just that…” he eventually says. “It’s not going to be… easy.” It looks like he’s concentrating very hard to pick just the right words, and after he’s found them, he sends me an intent look like I’m supposed to get what he’s saying.

And I do understand why he thinks it’s complicated. He’s my employer, and Sutton is his friend. It’s not ideal.

It could be worse.

“It won’t affect my job,” I say. “Whatever happens. I mean, I know this whole thing between me and Sutton happened after you made him, you know, help me, but that’s been a whole separate thing, and we were both completely professional and?—”

“After I made Sutton help you?” Quinn says.

“Well, yeah. As punishment for breaking in?”

Quinn stares at me for the longest time before he nods slowly. “Right. Sure. I did that.” He sends me yet another long look. “That’s what he told you?”

I don’t get to answer because that’s when the front door opens.

“The traveling pharmacy is in town,” Sutton calls out. I can hear his shoes thump against the floor, and then his footsteps. In another second, he steps into view. He doesn’t see us all at first, since he’s rummaging around in the paper bag he’s carrying.

“Aha!” he says victoriously, pulling out a small white spray bottle. He looks up, then. And stops in his tracks.

“Quinn and Steph stopped by,” I say. Pointlessly, because he can clearly see them.

Sutton steps closer and hands me the bag before he pulls out a chair and sits down next to me. Whatever initial surprise there was, he doesn’t seem to mind that they’re here while I’m here.

“What brings you two by?” he asks.

“Mom’s gala,” Quinn says. “You still haven’t RSVP’d.”

Sutton frowns. “I haven’t? I could’ve sworn I told her I’d be there.”

Quinn rolls his eyes. “You still need to let the party planner know.”

“Okay, well, be a doll and do that for me, then?” Sutton says.

“Or here’s a novel idea, do it yourself,” Quinn suggests.

“What if I forget again?” Sutton blinks innocently.

“Then enjoy your last few days on this earth, because Mom will kill you.”

“I don’t know,” Sutton says. “She keeps telling me I’m her favorite child. Murder seems unlikely.”

“She keeps telling all of us that we’re the favorite,” Quinn says. “So I wouldn’t put all my hopes on that if I were you, because obviously she has four other favorite children to compensate for losing you.”

At that, Sutton pulls out his phone and starts typing.

“Although,” he says while he’s at it, “I’m not biologically hers, so logic dictates that if she says I’m her favorite, she means it because she’s not obligated to love me, unlike with you lot.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” There’s a sardonic note in Quinn’s voice.

Steph has been rummaging around in the cabinets, and he comes back to the table with apple slices and a jar of peanut butter.

“Help yourself,” Sutton mutters distractedly.

“Already did.” Steph sends Sutton a toothy grin before he aims his gaze my way. “Do you have a tux?” he asks. “It’s one of those parties.” He makes a face.

The idea that I might own a tux, or even a suit, is absurd enough that it takes me a moment to realize the question was directed at me. I blink at him. “Me?”

He chomps down one of his apple slices before he shakes his head. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We have a similar build, so you can borrow one from me because, yes, I’m now the kind of person who owns multiple tuxedos. The things people put up with for love.”

“You’ll survive,” Quinn says drily.

“Yes, but at what cost?” Steph shakes his head sadly before he looks at me again.

This is awkward to the highest degree.

“I don’t think—” I start to say.

“He can just as easily wear one of mine.” Sutton frowns at Steph.

Steph grins at him. “Easy there, tiger. It was just an idea.”

“Stop being a menace,” Quinn scolds with a sigh and tugs at Steph’s earlobe.

Steph points his apple slice in Sutton’s direction again. “He started it way back when. I’m just evening the score.”

“Are we five?” Quinn asks.

“You knew what you were getting yourself into.”

“That is just blatantly untrue. I had zero idea about what I was getting myself into.”

“And now you’re stuck and can’t even imagine life without me. Funny how that works.”

“Isn’t it?” Quinn says. They smile at each other, and Quinn gets up from his seat.

“We have to get going,” he says. “We have a reservation.”

They say their goodbyes and head out, and then it’s just Sutton and me again.

“How are you feeling?” he asks at the exact same time that I blurt out an, “I’m sorry.”

He sends me a curious look. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I’m… not really sure?”

“Then maybe don’t?” he suggests.

“I didn’t think you’d want your friends to know about this.” I gesture between the two of us, too wary to give it a name or assign a term for what we’re doing besides calling it “this” because I’m still firmly in the keeping-him-for-now camp.

“I really don’t care if my friends know.”

“Oh,” I say slowly. I don’t want to be an idiot. I don’t want to get my hopes up. But this… this is a good sign, right?

His fingertips move underneath my chin, and he tips my head up and plants a soft kiss on my lips.

“I’ll get you sick,” I say.

He shrugs. “For a worthy cause,” he says before he kisses me again.

“Idiot.” I can’t really hide the affection that accompanies that one word.

In response, Sutton pulls me up and maneuvers me so that I’m sitting in his lap. He hides his face in my neck, and I press mine into his hair and inhale.

“The gala is a fundraiser supporting art education for children of low-income families. Quinn’s mother is one of the patrons of the organization. It’s black tie, and there’ll be a lot of pompous people with very high opinions of themselves and overblown egos,” he murmurs into my neck before he pulls his head away and meets my gaze. “If you come with me, it’ll be much more bearable.”

I look for signs of reluctance on his face, but there’s just sincerity.

“You sure?” I ask.

“Very.”

So I nod.

“Okay.”