He drops his face, his nose nuzzling into my hair, the kiss on my head speaking volumes. The tears that slowed pick up again, but before I can tighten my arms around him, he pulls away. Dropping his arms, he takes a step away from me and opens his car door.
“I can understand it, but it’s not something that I can bring into my life,” he says. Even after my dad died, nobody looked at me with the amount of pity that Quinton is looking at me with now. “I know this job is important to you and I’ll make sure you can keep it. I hope you can find whatever validation you’ve been searching for, Elliot, but I know that I can’t give it to you.”
He folds his large body into his seat and starts his car, pulling away without even glancing my way. Not that it matters. I’m rooted to the spot he last touched me, wanting to rewind time and tell him everything before it came to this. Questions without any answers run through my mind. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t do anything. All I do is stare after him, watching as his taillights get further and further away, until I can’t see him anymore . . . until he’s gone.
“Come on, sweetie.” Mrs. Rafter puts the strap of my purse over my shoulder and pulls my eyes away from the empty street in front of me. “Let’s get you home.”
I follow Mrs. Rafter out of the middle of the street and down the sidewalk until we reach my car.
Every step jostles me back to reality.
The reality where I had Quinton and lost him just as fast. The one where he took the liberty to try and tell me how and what I feel.
By the time we’ve reached my car, I’m so fucking pissed I can barely keep it in.
I mean, how fucking dare he? He has no idea how or what I think. And for him to tell me that I excuse racism is full-on bullshit. He has his opinions about people and just because I don’t automatically agree with him means I’m not only wrong, but that I have some deep-seated issues I need fixed? Screw that.
I can understand that he was angry because I kept the fundraiser from him. I really can, but the things he said were not only untrue, but unfair. But he was right about one thing—I can’t be enough for anyone. I can’t fit in anywhere. No matter what I do, I seem to be inherently letting half of myself down.
At least now I know trying is pointless.
Thirty-six
If there’s one thing I’m better at than most people, it’s hiding.
Whether it’s hiding my emotions from my coworkers or dodging Liv, Marie, and a gaggle of Lady Mustangs, I’ve been successful for the last two weeks.
I just wish I could avoid Quinton too.
Even though Paul is still clueless to the depths our relationship reached, there’s no way he couldn’t notice the difference in the way Quinton and I have been communicating since our Thanksgiving drama. Instead of weekly meetings, we’ve switched to emails. And by emails, I mean I send Quinton one with important information on Wednesdays and he never responds. I send him detailed itineraries of press conferences I set up for him during the week with statements and talking points that he never uses. I didn’t realize how much he trusted me before to use the materials I sent him. Now it’s like he thinks I’m trying to sabotage him.
But even though things are different between us, I still know I don’t have to worry about him dropping the ball when it comes to his foundation. It may have been my idea in the beginning, but it is fully his now. I know how personally invested he is, I don’t have any doubt that no matter how we turned out, we created something really special that will still be doing good years from now.
I wish the same could be said about my relationship with Mahler. Having to plan this event for Glenn Chandler is slowly ruining me.
It’s like when Quinton threw all of that garbage in my face, he triggered a part of my brain to become hyperaware of all the things happening around me. Everywhere I look, I swear I see Glenn Chandler. I look on social media? Somebody is sharing the latest offensive thing he said. I turn on the news? It’s a clip of one of his hate-filled rallies. I knew he wasn’t good before, but I didn’t realize he was this terrible. He must’ve gotten more confidence in the last couple of weeks and is getting more reckless. I want to believe Mr. Mahler has no idea what’s happening, so I asked for a meeting today to talk about Chandler’s recent antics.
“Elliot! Come sit,” Mr. Mahler calls me into his office when he sees me approaching. “How’ve you been, dear? How’s the big fundraiser coming?”
My heels tap against the plush rug as I enter the room, but the rush of nerves I used to feel coming in here is nowhere to be found. Maybe it’s because the wooden walls and folded newspapers on his enormous desk have become so familiar that the room has lost its ability to overwhelm and intimidate me. More likely, however, I’m just too tired to care. I’m tired of him calling me “dear.” I’m tired of acting
