Page 17 of No Turning Back
“Ms. Quinn?” a tiny voice interrupts from behind.
I swing around, startled, phone still at my ear. “Babe, I have to go,” I say quickly.
“Love you,” Markus says.
“Love you too.” I hang up, sliding the phone into my pocket as I give him my full attention.
“Yes, honey?” I ask gently.
“Can I… uh… get that sandwich now?” he mumbles, eyes not quite meeting mine.
“Yes,” I say, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “You can have two!”
A small smile flickers at the corner of his mouth as he steps into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island.
I move like a headless chicken, fumbling through the fridge and pantry. I throw together three sandwiches, two for him, one for me, grab an opened bag of chips, and pour drinks for both of us. It’s simple, chaotic, and a little over the top. But it feels right.
When I set the plate in front of him, he mumbles a soft, “Thanks,” before digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“You’re welcome,” I say quietly, settling beside him with my own plate.
Between bites, I add casually, “So, I’m gonna swing by your school tomorrow and grab your coursework. My friends, Aiden and Kate, have offered to let you hang out at their place while I’m at work. They’ve got two boys, so it won’t just be boring adults.”
Jordan takes a sip of his drink, one sandwich already gone, and says hesitantly, “Can I go back to school?”
I pause, surprised. “Of course. But are you sure? You can stay home if you want. No pressure.”
He shakes his head slowly. “I wanna be with my friends.”
I nod, understanding. “I get that. When my dad died, I wanted to be with my friends too.”
He stops mid-chew and looks over at me. “Your dad died?”
“Yeah,” I say, softer this time. “Twenty-eight days ago.”
His brows knit slightly at the way I phrase it, but I just give a tired shrug. Honestly, I’ve been counting the days.
Tomorrow, I’m giving my mom one last chance to come clean… before she doesn’t have a choice anymore.
Chapter Five
Quinn
My mom watches Jordan through the kitchen window, her face soft as he throws the ball and Melly bounds after it, tail wagging wildly.
“He’s so sweet,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “A little quiet, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”
She slides a glass of juice toward me. The familiar clink of glass on the countertop stirs something nostalgic in me. My mom’s always been the freshly squeezed juice and raw almonds for snacks kind of mom. Probably why I’m 5'6" even with Turner Syndrome. Though, to be fair, hormone therapy helped.
I don’t say anything. I just stare into the glass like it might give me answers.
“You alright?” she asks, her voice gentler now.
I inhale. “Mom, tomorrow I’m going to the lawyer’s office to get the letter. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me whatever it is before I open it?”
Silence.
I throw my hands up, frustration bubbling. “Is Aiden right? Am I not Dad’s? Even though I have his eyes? His nose? His shoulders?” I add with a bitter little laugh.
