Page 11 of The Breaking Point

I say, “I have no idea,” and I mean it.

Then I turn, leave the hotel room. The door clicks shut behind me. And just like that, I’m out.

Maybe I should text Quinn. Markus could be home. Last thing she wants is me showing up mid sex-a-thon, dragging my baggage, literal and emotional, through her front door. But I don’t text. I don’t call. I don’t warn. I just climb into the cab, slam the door harder than necessary, and tell the driver where to go. When he mentions the surcharge for rides after midnight, I tell him fine. I agree. Happily. It’s worth it. Every penny. Getting away from Aiden is worth everything right now.

The ride doesn’t take long. It’s the middle of the night, that strange in-between time when even the highways are empty. No traffic, no horns, no people in the crosswalk pretending not to see red lights. Just streetlights, the occasional truck, and me, trying to keep it together in the back seat of a Prius that smells faintly of old fries and cherry air freshener.

Quinn lives about twenty minutes from my house. I’ve made that drive plenty of times. But the hotel we booked for our fucking anniversary, ourten-yearanniversary, is farther. Farther than Quinn’s. Farther from home.

God, for someone who barely swore for sixteen years, since Jackson went through his parrot phase and I decided to be the kind of mom who said “oh no” instead of “shit”, I’m sure making up for it now.

The cab pulls to a stop in front of her house, it’s one of the cozy, beige brick places with a wide porch and a backyard. I pay the driver, tip him more than he deserves, and he peels away without even pretending to care what kind of mess he just dropped off.

I drag my overstuffed suitcase behind me. The wheels thump against the path. Something in it rattles, maybe a bottle of conditioner or that pair of heels I packed for the dinner I’ll never eat. I walk up the steps, throat tight, chest burning.

Then I pound on the door. Not a polite knock. Not a friend-knock. Ipound.

For a second, nothing happens. The porch light flickers above me. I hear a creak inside, then a click. The door cracks open just enough to reveal Quinn in a faded tank top, sweatpants, and bare feet. Her hair is in a lopsided bun, and her arm is extended down to her side, holding a gun. It’s lowered, but still very much there.

In a scratchy voice, she says, “I almost shot you.”

That’s all it takes. I break. Right there on her welcome mat.

All the tears I’ve been holding back. The scream trapped in my ribs. The ache in my chest that’s been stretching since the moment Eli opened his fucking mouth. I sob. Not the quiet kind. The ugly, snotty, hiccupping kind that makes you forget how to breathe.

Quinn doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t tell me to stop crying. She doesn’t say a word. She steps forward and wraps her arms around me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. After a moment, she ushers me inside. Leaning down she picks up my suitcase without a word, dragging it across the hardwood until we’re both safely inside with the door locked.

“Is Markus here?” I ask between hiccupped sobs, trying to dry my cheeks with the back of my hand.

She glances over her shoulder. “No. Still a few months left on his tour.”

Right. I knew that. Of course I knew that. I was there when he left. I held her when she pretended to be okay, kissed her cheek, told her to call me any time even though she never does.

“Of course,” I mutter, feeling stupid.

She doesn’t answer, just heads straight to the kitchen. The living room and kitchen are open concept, one big room with an island separating them. I sink into the sofa, watching her pull down two wine glasses without looking at me.

“Bring the bottle,” I say when she starts to move.

She pauses only for a second, then nudges the bottle into the crook of her elbow, balancing all three items. When she hands me my glass, I don’t sip. I don’t pause. I chug the whole thing.Grant being decent earlier distracted me from my one-woman drinking binge.

Quinn sits down next to me, one knee curled under her, hair frizzing out of the bun. Her eyes scan me quietly, then she says, “So I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”

I laugh, but there’s no joy in it. Just a hard, tired sound scraping its way out of my throat. “Aiden cheated on me.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Today,” she says after a beat. “On your anniversary? That son of a bitch-”

Before she can reach for the gun, I suddenly remember she had earlier, I hold up my hand. “Not today. Well. Ten years ago. The night of his bachelor party.”

She freezes. “And he just told you now?”

I shake my head. “No. Eli opened his big mouth and I cornered Aiden until he confessed.”

She exhales sharply. “Fucking Eli.”

We sit in silence for a second. She sips her wine. I reach for the bottle and pour more into my glass, till its full.

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