Page 30 of The Late Hit
“You’re such a perv,” I say, appreciating the distraction.
And this is what I love most about our relationship. Quinton can read me like a book. He knows what I need to get out of my head. Somehow, he has a way of knowing if I need a laugh, if I need to go to a party to drink away my thoughts, or if I need a movie day in bed. I didn’t come with a manual, yet somehow, Quinton is able to figure me out. Which is saying something, because half of the time, I don’t even know what I need.
A few minutes later, our flight is announced. The perky attendant greets us, taking our boarding passes from our outstretched hands as she scans the barcode.
“Have a wonderful time in Chicago,” she says, handing our boarding passes back.
Quinton thanks her for the both of us. His hand finds my lower back. And dammit, there are those flutters again. What is happening right now? Guiding us into the jet bridge, I feel the movement as Quinton’s hand moves from my back and finds my hand. His fingers intertwine with mine. My eyes snap to our connected hands. Quinton squeezes before leaning down, his lips finding my temple.Swoon.I could melt into a puddle at that simple gesture. Quinton is going to make a fine husband someday and, whoever the lady is, well, she’s damn lucky.
Because that’s the thing about Quinton Boyd. If you have the good fortune to find yourself in his close circle, you’re truly one of the lucky ones. Quinton doesn’t let a lot of people in. But when you’re in, you’ll be loved hard and cared for.
Climbing into our first class seats, I buckle my seat belt before resting my head against the window.
I’m coming home, brother.
The flight from Austin-Bergstrom to O’Hare goes off without a hitch. Thank God. Flying is not my favorite. I always break out in a stress sweat. Quinton spends the three-hour flight studying and watching a30 for 30documentary while I zone out and watch a few episodes ofSchitt’s Creek. There’s nothing like a little bit of Alexis to forget the world. I mean, seriously, the Roses are so dysfunctional, yet hilarious.
After gathering our bags from baggage claim, we make our way outside. My parents have sent a private driver to escort us to the house. Walking outside, we are greeted with the crisp air of Chicago in the fall. I take in a deep inhale. Being in Texas for so long, I have forgotten what it is like to be in the Midwest in the fall. The air is cool and crisp, there’s a sense of calm—yes, even in the crazy Chicago environment—leaves are falling, and life is hibernating before it is born again in the spring. The weather is starting to cool, summer has faded away, and there’s always a breeze, especially closer to the lake.
I feel at home.
I feel at peace.
If only the rest of my trip could be spent reminding me of the love I have for my city. Instead, I’ll be forced to fake a smile, hide my grief, and be the prim and proper daughter my parents hope to have raised. This weekend isn’t for me. Hell, it’s not even for Bryce. It’s for my parents. It’s for status and image. It’s for showboating. It’s sickening. And I’ll have to endure it all. A part of me really wanted to skip everything this weekend. I debated multiple times on just saying “screw it.” But I’m doing it for Bryce. He would’ve told me to suck it up, to be the bigger person. So, that’s what I’m doing. It’s not for my parents, that’s for damn sure.
But at least, I’ll have Quinton next to me.
My head whips from one direction to the other, scanning the cars. I spot the blacked-out SUV with the driver standing next to it, holding a sign that reads “Miss Brinley Wilder.”
“Looks like we are over here,” I tell Quinton, pointing toward the Tahoe.
“Damn, didn't know I was hanging out with royalty,” Quinton jokes, nudging my shoulder as we wheel our suitcases.
I ignore his comment. Out of the two of us, he’s more “royal” than I am. His dad is a well-known professional athlete, his mom is known because of his father’s celebrity, and he’s on his way to being a first-round NFL draft pick. I’m no one. I’m the daughter of a crooked politician and an unfaithful surgeon. Hell, both of them are unfaithful—vows mean nothing to Mr. and Mrs. Wilder.
“Miss Wilder?” the driver asks.
“Hi, I’m Brynn. This is Quinton. Thank you for picking us up.”
Our driver opens the back door before placing our suitcases in the back. Fastening my seat belt, I inhale and exhale a deep breath.
Forty hours until I can head back to Texas.
Afteraquickstopat the house to change, Q and I are back in the car heading to my high school for the tribute. Our stop at the house was quick. We only had twenty minutes to freshen up and change into warmer clothes before we needed to head to the stadium. Nights in Chicago are a lot cooler than nights in Texas.
Friday nights in the fall are liable to get very cold, and after checking my weather app, I see that tonight won’t be an exception as temperatures drop into the fifties. As much as I’d love to wear a pair of leggings, a hoodie, and sneakers, I don’t want to deal with the disappointment of my parents right off the rip. So I choose to dress up, opting for a pair of black jeans, black booties, and gray sweater, topped with my camel trench coat. Warm, cute, and not overdressed for a high school football game. I’m seriously so jealous of Quinton since he can wear more casual clothes—black ripped jeans, a black hoodie, sneakers, and his olive utility jacket with a flat bill on. Q’s hoping to go unnoticed, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that there’s no way he’s going unrecognized. He’s too damn attractive to fly under the radar.
Our driver pulls into the parking lot of Lincoln High, and everything comes rushing back. The memories are flooding my head. Oh god, the memories.
My breath becomes rapid. I can’t seem to get enough oxygen.
Is the car spinning?
An elephant is sitting on my chest. Air can’t get into my lungs, and I’m about two seconds away from a full-blown panic attack.
Why did I think I could do this? I could barely bring myself to come to Lincoln to finish out my last two years of high school. I begged my parents every day to let me transfer, to take online classes, anything to prevent me from coming back to this place.
Oh god, I can’t do this.
