Page 63 of No Turning Back
An hour later, there’s a knock at my door.
I reluctantly crack open the bathroom door facing the hallway. Sam slips in, awkward as ever.
“Relax,” I mutter, smearing a gooey layer of face mask across my cheek. “I’m not naked. You can open your eyes.”
He clears his throat, closes the door behind him, and leans against the counter. In the double mirrors, I can see him watching me wrestle with the sticky, slimy mess on my face.
“How long are you gonna hide?” he asks.
“I’m not hiding.”
He gives me a look. The one that says,yeah, right.I groan and give up, peeling the half-dried sludge off. Pretty sure it expired two years ago anyway.
I press my palms to the counter and meet his eyes in the mirror. “Why would you invite them without asking me?”
Before he can answer, I keep going. “I get that this is your house, but I thought you’d at least-”
“Quinn.” He cuts me off, firm but not unkind. “This is your house too. And I didn’t invite them, alright? I’ve been doing everything I can to keep them away. They just showed up, ten minutes before you walked in. I didn’t think you’d be back so soon. I was going to get rid of them before you even saw them.”
I exhale slowly. He actually sounds… genuine.
“Look,” he says carefully. “I know you don’t like Martinez. And you have every right not to. But you loved Parker. Just come down for him. They’ll leave as soon as we eat.”
I stare at him in the mirror for a long beat, arms hanging loose, face still blotchy from the mask. Every bone in me wants to stay put, lock the door, and make Sam deal with his surprise guests.
But Parker… damn it.
I let out a sharp breath. “Fine. I’ll come down. But only for him.”
Sam nods, relieved, and slips out of the bathroom.
I take my time getting dressed, trading sweatpants for jeans, tossing on a clean shirt, even brushing out my hair. It feels ridiculous, like suiting up for battle just to eat reheated leftovers, but if I’m going to face Martinez across a dinner table, I need every scrap of armour I can get.
When I finally step off the last stair, the sounds of low voices drift from the kitchen. Parker’s laugh, Martinez’s deeper murmur, Sam’s awkward hum.
I steel myself, roll my shoulders back, and head toward the smell of food like I’m marching into enemy territory.
We sit down to dinner and it’s… brutal.
The four of us, stiff and uncomfortable, like strangers forced into some social experiment. Forks scraping against plates, the occasional clink of a glass, Parker’s polite little cough.
No one’s saying what we’re all thinking.
Finally, Sam clears his throat and blurts, “Remember the Thanksgiving we tried to make a turkey?”
Parker lets out a laugh, quick and eager. “Oh my god. How could I forget? You bought that thing half-frozen and insisted it would cook faster at double the heat.”
Sam grins sheepishly. “Still don’t understand why it turned into charcoal on the outside and was raw in the middle.”
Parker shakes his head. “We ended up eating mashed potatoes and canned cranberry sauce.”
“Don’t forget the Pop-Tarts,” Martinez adds quietly, surprising me. “Burnt turkey smell in the air, Pop-Tarts on paper plates. Classy holiday dinner.”
Parker elbows him, smiling. “Best Pop-Tarts I ever had.”
I force a small laugh, but inside, my chest is tight. They’re sliding so easily into old stories, the ones I should’ve been part of too.
The silence drags once more until I finally blurt, “So… how did the two of you get together?”
