Quinn? She’s easily the most social of all of us. She could befriend a paper bag if someone turned it into a puppet. Being friends with someone like me comes as easily to someone like her as brushing her teeth. I keep telling myself I need to remember this fact. Except…the more time I spend with her, the harder that becomes.
“And yet, what did you do as soon as I stopped?” Her eyelashes fan out when I finally fix my glasses.
Did she just hum?
Geez, I’m losing it.
I clear my throat. “Did you already forget how you barged into my room this weekend, whistle pinched between your teeth, the thing bleating in between demands that I get my mangy butt out of bed and drop to give you twenty?”
Quinn shrugs, not at all apologetic for her rude wake-up call. “You’re the one who asked me to be your love coach.”
I bark out a laugh. What the hell was I thinking? The entire dating endeavor was asinine to begin with. Directly involving Quinn? My scholarship should be revoked for such a blatant display of stupidity.
“I didn’t mean it in the literal sense,” I challenge. “I need help not scaring women off, not making the team.”
“You sure know how to ruin a girl’s fun, CK.” She pouts, the pucker of her lips calling me to claim them.
I wonder how she would react if I kissed her right here, right now.
Nope. That’s crazy.
Quinn’s exuberant personality may have led to her playing drill sergeant the other day, but all joking aside, her help is strictly a platonic venture. She’d probably laugh in my face if I tried to kiss her.
“Now…” She steps back, and I pointedly ignore the part of me that’s disappointed by this. “There are many, many things you do better than me”—Doubtful—“but you, sir, threw down the gauntlet with this note.”
After I banished her coach persona from my room—which took two thrown pillows and me rolling myself up in the covers like a burrito—we reconvened at a more reasonable hour to discuss a plan that wasn’t insane.
Once again, she tried to reassure me that first dates are awkward for the general population of the world. She reiterated how sometimes doing an activity one is good at instead of the traditional sit-down dinner could be an easy way to banish some of the nerves involved.
When I asked her for an example, she brought up how good I am at billiards. She suggested a venue like a pool hall could be an excellent alternative.
It hasn’t escaped my notice how often I’ve caught someone—including Quinn herself—commenting on how different I’ve been with her. Of course, I could try to claim it’s because our other roommates are gone, making Quinn the sole source of companionship around the apartment, but that would be a lie. Kay and the others may not be staying at the apartment, but both Quinn and I see most of them multiple times a week.
Hell, the night I had my date fail, she was with several of them at The Barracks.
So, no, that’s not it.
I know how my inclusion has evolved into this big, almost inside joke of our group, but like when I had a class with Kay, living under the same roof as Quinn is what created a situation I’m not able to run away from and gave her the opportunity to take her turn at forcing her friendship on me. That’s the change.
Unfortunately, unlike with Kay, Em, or G, I’m wildly attracted to Quinn. And getting to know her? Fuck! It makes that attraction all the more painful. I never expected to have so much in common with a girl like her. It’s a slippery, slippery slope.
In a few of the Post-its she’s left stuck in random places around the apartment, I could have taken the chance to hint at my feelings toward her, but I pussed out every time.
I’d rather suffer the pain of an unattainable crush than be crushed by her.
“Oh my god.” Quinn pops me on the chest before taking the front of my shirt between her fingers, lifting and stretching it out to see the graphic printed on it better. “You little shit talker.” Her gaze bounces between my face and my shirt, narrowing at the graphic of the original Nintendo console and the words Classically Trained circling it. “Forget the gauntlet. This is a declaration of war.”
I buff my nails at said declaration. “If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen, Red.”
We each suck in a collective breath at the spontaneous nickname.
Well…that’s new.
Quinn’s the first to recover, her tongue peeking out to slide across her teeth as she shifts her gaze to the kitchen beside us. “If you’re going to quote presidents to step to me, pick one of the other forty-five who didn’t use my domain in one of their famous phrases.”
“You know that phrase came from a president?”
She freezes at my question, but I don’t know why. I think it’s impressive as hell.
“Yeah, President Truman,” she says, her tone is clipped. “He also coined the phrase ‘The buck stops here.’”
I nod, filing the fact away for future use. “I didn’t know that.”
Again, Quinn seems…almost cold all of a sudden. A few awkward seconds hang in the air like a lingering fart before she shakes off the weird mood and is back to her usual sunny self.
“I should stop sharing my cooking with you.”
“No.” I jump from my seat and latch on to her arm, going as far as dropping to my knees to lend weight to my pleading. “Please don’t do that. I’ll starve.”
Okay…I wouldn’t starve. I make a mean bowl of cereal, and it wasn’t until recently that Quinn even had the time to cook, but her cooking is bomb. I may not be as over the top in my ass-kissing for it like Grant, but it’s also not something I’ll willingly give up if I can help it.
A divot forms in the center of Quinn’s cheek like she’s restraining a laugh. I’m so desperate for her to take back her threat, I don’t even care if it’s at my expense.
Whoa, if that doesn’t show how much power she has over you, I don’t know what does.
“Hmm…” She taps her chin, the corners of her mouth finally shifting up. “Careful, Superman, you just handed me your kryptonite.”
I’d be scared, but her statement has nothing on my previous thought.
“Now come on”—she jerks a chin toward the living room—“let’s go find out who the real M.D. is.”
“Boo-yah!” Quinn mic-drops the Nintendo controller. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call a sweep.” She body rolls and shoots me a wink.
Hanging my head in defeat, I know losing this round of Dr. Mario isn’t going to be the most painful part. Neither are the permanent rectangle and circle imprints my thumbs are sporting. No, that honor goes to how my loss—a tournament loss at that—means I’m now subjected to two of Quinn’s questions. She thinks she’s slick, sneaking in getting-to-know-me questions, but I’m well aware of what she’s doing.
You still answer them.
That’s true. I do.
Hands rubbing together, Quinn shifts around on the couch until she’s facing me, one of her knees knocking into my thigh when she refolds her legs beneath her.
Oh, great, she’s really settling in this time.
Cheeks flushed, a smudge of mascara under her left eye, hair sitting in a lopsided ball on her head from hastily pulling it up after the first hour of us playing Dr. Mario passed, she’s a mess. Not that she cares—pure joy from her victory radiates off of her.