Lilly
QUINN'S PROPENSITY TO run hot and cold was beginning to become too much. There was something about him, something I saw in him that drew me to him, kind of like a kindred spirit. I could see the pain, still fresh behind his eyes, and knew we shared that in common, but I was getting whiplash from his mood swings. He'd been texting all weekend, asking to talk, but the first time I saw him after arriving home from Denver, he acted like a jackass.
Fuck him.
As I puttered around my apartment with a glass of wine in hand, trying to keep myself from calling Eliza and laying all my problems on her shoulders, that sense of loneliness began to creep back in. I wanted my best friend. I wanted to bitch and whine to her about all the bad shit going on in my life, but I knew that wasn't fair. She was happy, pregnant with her and her husband's first baby. She was finally in a good place after so many years of sitting stagnant, she didn't deserve for me to heap all my problems on her.
Maybe I just needed to cut my losses with Quinn, accept that we couldn't be friends and just move on. But every time I considered doing that, my heart physically ached. It wasn't the attraction to him that kept me holding on. Sure, that was definitely there, but it was more. After the night I danced for him, I couldn't help but feel a connection. I'd opened up to him, sharing pieces of myself that I hadn't shared with anyone but Eliza.
He'd been so easy to talk to, and with him listening, there had been brief snatches of time where the loneliness was beaten back. The question was, were those brief snatches worth the other times he made me feel undeserving? Less than important? He had the uncanny ability to make me feel on top of the world one second and lower than pond scum the next.
I knew he regretted every time he hurt me, it was written all over his face. But wasn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome? I kept expecting for Quinn to shed the rough exterior, stop letting me close only to shove me away again, but every time I thought I'd made progress, he reverted back to his usual asshole ways.
Was that insanity?
None of the answers I was seeking came to me as I paced my apartment, so I eventually caved and turned on the TV after refilling my glass, flipping from channel to channel in the hopes of landing on some mind-numbing show that would help to turn my brain off for just a little bit. I stopped when I landed on an episode of Vikings, a wave of nostalgia washing over me. I wanted to watch, see what my girl Lagertha was getting up to, but the damn show reminded me too much of Quinn.
"Damn it!" I shouted, turning the TV off and throwing the remote across the room. "What's wrong with me?" I shouted at the ceiling. Before I got an answer, there was a knock on my door.
I stared at the door for several seconds, long enough for a second, more insistent knock to follow. "I'm coming," I called out, as I stood from the couch and headed for the door. The wine had affected my senses just enough that I forgot to check the peephole, and once I opened the door, I instantly regretted my decision to imbibe.
"Quinn?" Yep, it was Quinn, all right. And he looked like he could breathe fire at any moment. Looked like Angry Quinn was in full force tonight. "What are you doing here?"
"What the fuck was that, today?"
My head shot back and I had to hold onto the door to keep my balance. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"Yeah, I did," I snapped. "And the last fucking thing I need right now is your attitude. I haven't done anything to warrant you being a jackass … just like I didn't deserve it every other time. So do me a favor and take it somewhere else."
I moved to slam the door in his face, but his booted foot shot out, stopping my progress. I frowned and demanded, "Move your foot."
"We need to talk."
"Like hell we do! I'm sick and fucking tired of the way you bounce from happy to asshole in the blink of an eye. I'm not doing this. You need to leave."
I gave the door another shove, but his hand came up at the same time, and since he was much stronger than I was, the door flew all the way open and he waltzed into my apartment like he owned the place.
"Oh, please. Do come in," I said dryly, as I slammed the door closed and stomped in after him. So he'd invaded my personal space. Whatever. Didn't mean I had to talk to him. I'd had just enough wine that acting like a bratty child sounded like the perfect idea, so that's just what I did. Snatching my wineglass from the coffee table, I clicked the TV back on and began flipping channels again as I took a huge gulp. He wanted to talk? Well he could talk to his own damn self. I had no interest in listening.