“Where do you want to drive?” she asked happily.
“I want to drive back to my house, and I want you to take me for that ride you promised.”
“I won’t back out on my promise,” she said. “But we agreed from the beginning that we weren’t going to . . . ” Searching for a term, she gestured with her palms out.
He imitated her gesture. “Do it?”
“Right,” she said, relieved. “So what kind of ride are we talking about?”
“Let’s go upstairs and discuss it.”
“Okay.” She giggled in an unsophisticated manner as Quentin backed out of the overlook, without stomping the brakes this time, and drove smoothly across Birmingham. She’d acted angry the night before about Quentin asking Erin to flash him, and—well, she had been. But she’d wanted him to touch her anyway. If it hadn’t been for the prospect of watching Owen get stitches, she would have gone with him to his room then. Now she got that electric feeling again at the thought that he would drive her to his room and touch her.
And she was genuinely happy that she’d convinced him to drive. It was good for her job security that she’d broken through at least this one obstacle barring the band from healthy human relations. Moreover, it was good for her friend, Quentin. It was a hot and beautiful day.
He sped up the driveway of the mansion and skidded to a stop just shy of Erin’s Corvette. Holding Sarah’s hand, he led her into the house. She’d forgotten, and she suspected that he’d forgotten, too, that he’d cut out on a recording session for their date. The door downstairs to the studio stood open. As they came in, the band bustled up the stairs like sleepy parents after curfew.
“We had this session planned with the four of us, Q!” Erin squealed. “Where the hell have you been?”
He beamed at them. “Sarah got me to drive.”
Obviously this news had been a long time coming, because it took a few seconds of silence to sink in. Then, with the first genuine smile Sarah had ever seen on his face, Owen said, “Q, that’s great!” at the same time Erin bit out, “Sarah, you have no idea what you’re doing to us. Why would you put Quentin through that?”
Everyone watched Quentin, who gave Erin a withering look. “Stay out of it.”
Erin seemed unsure, her eyes darting from Quentin to Martin to Owen and back. But only for a moment. “I’m glad you’re driving, Q. But can’t you see that Sarah’s just shooting into trees to see what falls out? All I’ve done is hint at what happened to your mother, and you’ve gone stark white. That’s why we’ve never made you drive.”
Sarah asked Quentin, “What happened to your mother? Why wouldn’t you tell me what was going on?”
He turned on her. “And you’ve been completely honest with me.”
Sarah had just bared some of her biggest secrets to him—things she realized she should never have revealed, because now she seemed weak. She hoped the look she gave him showed him how hurt she was. But gazing into his black-green eyes, she knew he couldn’t see her pain. He wasn’t even in there.
“This is not about me,” she said quietly. “This is about you, and the fact that you left out a pertinent piece of information when I took you for a drive on the busy highway.”
“What’d you think I was going to do? Have a flashback, freak out, cross the median, and kill us both?”
“Q,” Martin said, putting a hand on Quentin’s shoulder.
Quentin shrugged Martin off violently. He turned through the open doorway and stomped down the stairwell, calling back over his shoulder, “I don’t want to talk about it, Erin. It was half my life ago.” The door to the sound booth squealed open and clicked shut.
The kitchen was silent again. Owen looked troubled, a moody Frankenstein’s monster with a row of neat stitches following the curve of his hairline. Martin looked sick. And Erin glared at Sarah, accusing and self-satisfied, defending her territory. She had managed to take a triumph for Quentin and turn it into trash.
Sarah forgot her job. She forgot Natsuko. In a wave of hatred for the chokehold all of them had on each other, and especially for the talons that Erin had in Quentin, a defensive little freshman on the high school track team stepped up and took over.
She yelled in Erin’s face, “Don’t give me that look, girlfriend. You’re the one who cheated on him. Don’t act like you give a shit about him now.”
She escaped into the garage and slammed the kitchen door as hard as she could, without her customary kiss good-bye from Quentin. She was certain she’d never get that kiss again.
Quentin looked forward to Sarah popping back in that day and startling him. She didn’t show. He downright pined for her to pop in that night. Still she didn’t show. When she didn’t pop in the following morning, he finally got the message. She was through with them. With him. Well, he wouldn’t let her get away with that. He drove to the Galleria and let himself into her hotel room.
The room was steamy and the shower vent still roared, which made it easier for him to sneak inside unheard. But she wasn’t in the bathroom. Wrapped in a bathrobe, she lay on the bed, facing the window, with her back to him.
He walked softly around the bed, aiming to startle her. He still wanted a little revenge for the phone to Owen’s nose and the jar of garam masala and, now, the copy of Clinical Immunology and Allergy Today.
She was curled in a ball, asleep. The morning sunlight streaming through the window lit her fair skin and glinted in her wet hair, still dark from her shower so there wasn’t much difference among the brown, blond, and pink strands. Fist under her cheek, she looked like a normal, beautiful girl. Except for the red scar under her chin, livid without makeup dabbed over it.
He longed to touch her soft cheek and caress her awake. But three enormous bouquets of flowers in vases on the dresser caught his attention. Several mornings ago he’d watched her run. It seemed strange to him that she’d nap instead at the same hour. The flowers might have something to do with it.
He stepped over to the first bouquet, blooms in vibrant colors. He found an envelope tucked among the stems and read the card, which he supposed was from Sarah’s pregnant friend.
You may be 30, but at least
you’re not knocked up.
Love, Wendy & Daniel
Ouch, her thirtieth birthday. That was rough for women. He was already planning to work a weeklong break into the tour on either side of Erin’s thirtieth birthday this fall so he wouldn’t have to be in the same state with her. No wonder Sarah had curled into the fetal position and given up on the day.