Page 32 of Roommate's Guide to Love

No, I just get in my car and drive to the one place I don’t want to go.

Because I need to admit defeat.

9

porter

“Hurricane! I’ve been waiting!”

Quinn holds up a hand that signals for me to stop before I go any further.

Which of course I’m not. It’s cute she thinks I will.

“Are we here to celebrate?”

I get my answer by the way Quinn plops down onto a barstool and drops her head into her crossed arms. George and Harry, faithful regulars and two of my dad’s best friends, look over to her then to me, clearly confused about Quinn’s dramatic entrance.

“Are you going to check on her?” George says.

“I heard she was a bull in a china shop yesterday over at Marv’s,” Harry adds.

“Y’all shush,” I direct, earning me some snickers from my ornery, elderly duo. If that did happen—I mean, I heard about it too—I’m guessing Quinn doesn’t want to relive it right now. At least, I know I wouldn’t.

Though I wonder if Marv has security video of it…

I stare at her for a few seconds to see if she’s going to make eye contact, but after nearly a minute, I’m wondering if she’s just going to stay there for the foreseeable future.

“Quinn?” I whisper, leaning down to maybe a see a sliver of her face. “You good?”

“No.”

The single word comes out muffled and a little sad.

“Want to tell me what happened?”

She lifts her head up just enough so I can see those big brown eyes that right now look like they’re fighting back tears. “I suck.”

In any other scenario, I’d be making some sort of dirty joke. Especially if we were the only two here. But I can read a room, and clearly Quinn is defeated. I doubt she needs me kicking her while she’s down.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I reach into the cooler and grab her favorite beer. “The job hunt not going so well?”

She stares at me, then looks over to the wall where the tequila rests, then back to me again. “Retelling the events of the last seventy-two hours is going to take more than a bottle of beer, Porter.”

I let out a laugh, because somehow, even when she’s likely at one of the lowest points of her life, Quinn Banks still finds a way to crack a joke.

“I think I can make that happen.” I grab a shot glass, the salt shaker, and a lime from the well and set it down in front of her. I barely have it on the bar before she shoots it back—no chaser—and directs me to keep the bottle in front of her.

“Shit…that bad?”

She shakes her head. “Whatever you’re thinking, make it ten times worse.”

Over the next thirty minutes, Quinn tells me, George and Harry, and a few other regulars, the two jobs and one interview she’s managed to fuck up. Every new person that walks into the bar joins Quinn’s story time, each of us hanging onto every word that she says.

Even if every word that comes out of her mouth is more unbelievable than the last.

Take that back—each one of us could believe how the bank turned out. We’ve all met Lacey.

But jaws were on the bar when she retold the furniture story. Apparently, her demolition through the bookshelves was worse than the guys had heard.

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