I felt wanted for only a few minutes before it felt almost compulsory, this thing to get over with so both of us could check something off a list. So both of us could take a sip during Never Have I Ever.
“This shit is strong,” Harun says, and wow he is right. “We should call it. Who has the most fingers left?”
“Gotta be Quinn,” Bryce says. On a related note, he becomes my least favorite of the group. “She drank, what, three times?”
“Four,” I say in a small voice, wagging my remaining six fingers, and I am declared the winner.
Turns out, it’s not the kind of game you feel awesome about winning.
Lady Edith meows from my bed as I tiptoe into my room and gently shut the door behind me.
“I know, I know, it’s late,” I whisper, kicking off my shoes and sliding onto the bed next to her, reaching out a hand to scratch her head. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you didn’t have to wait up for me.”
Her purr lifts some of the weight from my shoulders as I swap my slacks and blouse for a T-shirt and pajama shorts and rub a makeup remover wipe over my face. I smell like a campfire, but I’m too exhausted to shower right now. As I slide between my sheets, I realize I’m not quite ready for sleep. All my cells are on alert, like I’m back at the beach and waiting for the next question. My mind trips over what I learned about Tarek, what he learned about me, and then I’m entirely too charged to fall asleep.
So I pick up my phone and do something reckless.
I call him.
“Hello?” Tarek says when he picks up after three rings, voice thick with sleep. “Quinn? Is everything okay?”
Shit shit shit. Why the fuck did I call him? “Yeah, all good,” I chirp back, too high-pitched to my own ears.
“It’s”—a pause—“after two a.m.”
“Sorry.” I wince, even though he can’t see me. Edith gives me her most judgmental look. “I—um. Couldn’t sleep.”
“I could read you one of my Philosophy 101 textbooks.”
“Please,” I say, but then I hear the soft creak of bedsprings, like he’s about to do that exact thing. “Wait—I was kidding.”
“Oh.”
“That was, um. Fun tonight,” I say. “Fun” isn’t the right word. Dancing at the wedding, that was fun. But what happened on the beach…
“Was it?” he asks. Maybe he feels just as unsettled about it as I do.
“I don’t know. I felt a little… young. Like I was crashing some big-kid party.”
“You weren’t,” he insists. “I assure you, you don’t suddenly become an adult as soon as you eat in a dorm cafeteria or get your first pair of shower shoes.”
“My parents have treated me like an adult for years,” I say. “And I guess I got it in my head that I had all this maturity. But… I clearly don’t.”
It just slips out. I wasn’t planning on talking about it, least of all to him. I thought he’d tell me good night and hang up, leaving me in the dark with my uncertainties and swirly thoughts. This conversation is a nice surprise.
“There are probably a thousand ways to be mature other than those game questions.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m just not in the habit of talking about any of that. My parents’ sex talk was basically ‘This is a condom, always use one, any questions?’ ”
“Ah.” More rustling on his end of the line, and I wonder if he’s sitting up in bed now. “Did I ever tell you what my parents’ sex talk was like?”
“You did not.”
“I need to preface this by saying that when I was little, I really wanted a brother or sister. I was ten, and my parents sat me down at the kitchen table and gave what I’m sure was a very comprehensive, age-appropriate speech, then encouraged me to ask any questions I had. I told them I completely understood, but that it would be super helpful to have a visual aid. So”—he breaks off, muffling a laugh—“I politely informed them that they could go make me a sibling, I could watch, and then I’d know exactly how it was done.”
“Well, sure. You were just trying to be thorough.”
“They proceeded to tell all their friends about it for the next five years of my life. They still bring it up at parties sometimes.”
Now we’re both laughing. We’ve never talked like this, and the mere fact that we’re talking again is something I’m still processing.
“Why are we talking about this?” I say. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Maybe because we’re friends.” He singsongs the last word, breaking it into two pieces. “Wait. I don’t want you to get in trouble for waking anyone up.”
“I won’t. I’m up in the tower.”
“The tower,” he says thoughtfully. “Right, how could I forget? The first time I met you, you said, ‘I’m Quinn and I live in a castle.’ ”
“I can’t imagine introducing myself any other way.”
“I always wanted to see it,” he says, and I might be imagining it, willing it into existence, but the weight of his suggestion hangs between us for several long moments.
“Well, let me give you the grand tour.” Before I can overthink it, I’m finger-combing my hair and switching the call over to video, and after a few more seconds, there he is, a little fuzzy in the dim lamplight. His hair is sleep mussed, his T-shirt rumpled, and he’s wearing glasses I’ve never seen before, a pair of simple black frames. I didn’t even know he wore contacts. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in a T-shirt in a very long time. There’s this sense of coziness, like I could slip through the phone and fall asleep right there in his bed.
“All right,” he says, a smile curving his lips. It’s a really good smile. “I’m ready. Are those llamas on your shorts?”
“Or alpacas. I’ve never been sure.” I turn the phone on my cat, who’s glaring at
