Page 73 of Roommate's Guide to Love

Quinn nods. “Normally, yes. See, the locations or activities might change of said date, but it doesn’t matter if you’re going out with a coworker, a guy you met online, or a stranger from the grocery store, no matter what, the questions are always the same. It’s why I call them first dates interrogations.”

“Interrogations? I know I haven’t dated in a while, but I feel like even then I was doing it wrong if this is what it’s supposed to be.”

“Oh, it shouldn’t be. They just are,” Quinn clarifies. “First dates are interviews. You’re trying to feel each other out if you have enough in common, or can answer the basic enough questions, to get you to date number two. It’s like interviewing for a job. The first interview is always the basics because they need to weed the applicant field down.”

“That sounds awful,” I say. “Both the dating and the interviews.”

Especially the picture I’m getting in my head of Quinn on dates with other men.

Oh God…is she going to try to date while she’s living here? How did I not even think about that possibility?

“Wait!” Quinn’s exclamation breaks the image of some asshole kissing her goodnight on my front porch. “Have you never been on an interview?”

“No. I worked at the bar in high school bussing tables and washing dishes. I mowed lawns and did odd jobs for some extra cash, but none of them needed a resume, let alone an interview. And then I took over the bar. The rest is history.”

“Fascinating,” Quinn says. “Well, if you are curious on how to make a resumé, I’ll be updating mine soon.”

That takes me back. “Really? Why?”

“Because I can’t work at the bar forever, Porter. I have a degree. I’m a teacher. Or…at least I was.”

Quinn gets up from the table and quickly makes her way into the kitchen, pulling an assortment of vegetables out of the refrigerator before taking out a cutting board.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I follow her. “I didn’t mean to sound like that. I know the bar isn’t going to be the rest of your life.”

She shakes her head, but doesn’t look up at me. “You’re fine. The problem is that I don’t know whatisthe rest of my life. I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure.”

I lean against the counter and look at Quinn, who’s doing her damnedest to not make eye contact as she whacks at the cucumber. And I know why. I might not know her favorite potato chip flavor or what her first concert was, but I know when she’s trying to hide her vulnerability. She tries to retract in herself. She’s probably thinking of some sort of joke she can make to take the heat off of her having to open up at all.

And maybe before, I’d let her. I’d know that I only had one night with her, so in the rare case when she was a little sad, I’d let her handle it her way.

But not anymore. Because for as much as she’s helping me with Grace, trying to help her work out this stretch in her life is the least I can do.

“Hey,” I say, walking over and tipping her chin up, our eyes meeting. “Talk to me.”

For a split second, I see her try and reinforce her determination. Her eyes narrow a bit and her cheeks start to redden. But I don’t let go. I don’t waver. I tighten my grip. Because if knowing Quinn has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes she just needs pushed out of her comfort zone.

“Don’t put this off, Quinn. Don’t let it fester. Though I have a feeling you already have been.”

Her resolution only lasts for a second before she drops the knife and her walls start to break.

“I miss them.” Those three little words are enough to send her into tears as she falls into my arms. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I went to the principal’s office, got in a fight with parents, and walked out with my middle finger in the air. My kids didn’t deserve that. I’m not mad about quitting or leaving that toxic school district, but I regret every day doing it in a way that hurt them.”

“Let it out,” I say, rubbing slowly up and down her back. “I’ve got you.”

And she does. For minutes we stand in my kitchen as I hold a crying Quinn. Every once in a while she’ll say a little something about problems she was having at the school, and I think at one point she starts talking at penises, but I could be mishearing things against the sound of her tears.

The way she’s crying in my arms, I have to think this is the first time she’s truly grieved what she lost in Arizona. She’s been here for more than a month. Has she really not dealt with this at all? By the way she’s crying, and the confession she just made, I don’t think she has. At least fully.

“I want to teach again,” she says as she starts to pull back from my hold. “I want to be around that environment. But I just…I don’t know where. I don’t know how.”

“But you know what you want,” I say, leaning down a bit so I’m eye level with her. “And that’s the first step.”

She nods. “You’re right. Thank you, Porter.”

“Anytime, Hurricane,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze before turning back to Grace, who has started babbling something as she plays with her blocks.

“What you got there, baby girl?” I kneel down next to Grace, but as soon as I’m crouched down, I hear Quinn’s scream.

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