“Psssh. Do I have candy?” He walks past me with his sad pumpkin in his arms and a cocky smile on his face.
I follow him outside, putting my pumpkin on the other side of the steps so they frame his door and snap a quick picture before going back inside after him.
“Is this candy good enough for you?” He’s standing next to his pantry door and when I make it next to him, I get my first look at what might be the entire candy section of Costco.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, taking it all in. “You’re like the fucking king of Halloween! Your house is so going to be the winner. A Mustangs player and an assortment of every full-size candy they could ask for!”
Dad and I were always generous with our handfuls, but there’s just something extra special about getting a giant candy bar in your trick-or-treat bag.
“Did you just call me a king?” Mischief lights his dark brown eyes and I regret my words almost immediately.
“The king of Halloween. Not the king of like . . . life or anything.” It’s not my best comeback, but his thoughtfulness mixed with an overabundance of sugar has knocked me off my game.
“Say whatever you want, but a king is a king and I’ll wear my crown with pride.”
Oh god.
The pleased smugness in his eyes confuses me. I don’t know if it makes him look hotter or makes me want to slap him.
Both.
Definitely both.
“I’m not doing this with you tonight.” I grab the box of Milky Ways to be helpful, but also to snatch one when he isn’t looking. “Do you have a big bowl we can dump these in?”
“No,” he says behind me. “But I do have this.”
I turn to see what he’s talking about and he’s pulling a fucking cauldron out of a giant dark red Target bag.
“You did not.” I feel like my jaw is about to hit the floor. Every time I think he can’t go any further with this Halloween surprise, he pulls something else out and shocks me again. “Why would you buy that? Don’t you have a mixing bowl or something?”
“I don’t cook much and I’ve never baked in my life, so I’m not sure.” He walks toward me with the cauldron that covers his entire midsection. “Plus, the king of Halloween had to be prepared.”
I brought this on myself. I had to open my big mouth.
“It’s pretty dope, though,” he says as he drops it in his entryway. “I think I’m gonna bring it to the locker room. Fill it with protein bars or something.”
“That’s weird, but also nice.” I tear open the box of Milky Ways and dump them into the cauldron. “I’m sure everyone will appreciate that.”
He shrugs off my compliment. Something he does often. Even with his foundation, he always deflects praise and directs it toward the charities he’s giving to. As a human, it’s endearing. As a publicist, it’s infuriating.
His doorbell goes off before I can point it out, though.
Quinton’s eyes widen and an almost childlike smile lights his face. “They’re here!” he whisper-shouts to me before swinging open the door and presenting the cauldron that still needs to be filled. “Happy Halloween!” he says, greeting the trick-or-treater.
The sun is still out and it’s pretty early for trick-or-treaters, which is probably why the mom clasping the hand of her toddler outside Quinton’s door is here. If I ever have kids, I’ll want to hit the houses before the mad rush of sugar-hungry children starts busting down doors too.
“What do you say?” she asks her toddler, who is painfully cute dressed up as a dinosaur. The headpiece is falling over his face and he yanks his hand out of his mom’s grasp to lift it out of his eyes.
“Twick-o-tweat!” he yells, raising his pumpkin candy basket in the air.
“Here you go, little man.” Quinton reaches into the cauldron and when he pulls out the giant candy bar, the little boy’s eyes get so round, I’m worried they might pop out of his little head.
Quinton drops it into his basket and it barely makes it in before the dinosaur is sprinting down to the sidewalk, where the man I’m assuming is his dad and not a random creep is recording it all with his phone.
“My gotta a BIG one!” he yells, ignoring his mom chasing after him shouting, “Don’t forget to say thank you!” When it’s clear there’s no way her son is going to do anything except try to eat the candy bar on the sidewalk, the mom turns and waves. “Thank you!”
Quinton waves back before he closes the door and turns to me. “Fuck,” he says, his smile even bigger than it was when he opened the door. “I get it now. This is great!”
I wish I was the kind of person who could refrain from saying “I told you so,” but I am not.
“Told you so.” I head back to his pantry to grab more candy while he looks out of the window next to the door, waiting for the next trick-or-treater.
I know he did this all for me—the thought still makes my stomach flip—but seeing how into it he is almost makes this feel like an equal partnership.
And even though Halloween will never be the same, Quinton has made it so the ache in my chest and the urge to cry are long gone. Just like the little dinosaur’s candy bar.
Twenty-seven
“I can’t believe how many trick-or-treaters you had.” I peel open a Reese’s cup and lean back on his stupid comfy couch.
I don’t know why, but because his neighborhood is so fancy, I thought he wouldn’t get many coming through. But I forgot that people drive to the fancy neighborhoods in hopes to find
