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I want to spend more time with Quinn, but I won’t act on that thought.
“I’m sorry, again,” I say after the gallery empties out and it’s just Quinn and I.
I feel the sudden urge to ask for forgiveness for my dickishness again. Although I meant what I said in the elevator, I’m a better man than that, and Quinn deserves a genuine apology.
She deserves a lot more than me.
Even Silvio is gone now, allowing me to lock up after I requested a few final hours with my artwork before it’s all packaged and shipped out after the exhibition ends in twelve weeks.
We’re sitting against the wall opposite the centerpiece, staring at it, a half a bottle of champagne in. Well, Quinn’s a half a bottle of champagne in. I’m driving, so I haven’t had a sip, even if I do need the liquid courage because my heart is threatening to beat out of my chest now that we’re alone.
My gaze falls on Quinn’s shoes at our feet. She’d kicked them off as soon as the last person left the building, before I even had a chance to lock the door behind them, complaining about her aching feet screaming from her dreaded heels.
I can feel her looking at me, watching me. I let her get her fill, find her words before turning my head to meet her gaze. Her hazel eyes are the perfect mix of green and brown, a thick forest of color, honest and raw.
“You’re sorry?” She questions in disbelief.
I nod. “Yes.”
Quinn huffs, nearly knocking over her glass when she throws her hands out, gesturing to the room. “I’m finally getting a real apology out of you and there’s no one here to witness it?”
A smile cracks my lips and her breath catches. I didn’t realize how close we were sitting until now, our shoulders brushing with each inhale. Her cheeks burn and she ducks away, turning back to the drawing in front of us.
“I was an asshole that night,” I sigh, tipping my head back against the wall. I drain the water in my glass that Quinn had filled, not wanting to feel like she was drinking alone.
“Yeah,” she giggles, and something takes flight in my stomach. I fight the urge to lean in and taste the laughter on her tongue. She looks smug, like she might scream that I’ve apologized from the rooftops. “You were.”
I don’t know why I offer, but something inside of me forces me to blurt, “Would you care to know why I was such a dick that night?” It’s said softly and I immediately want to take my words back when her smile disappears.
She swallows hard and I wipe my suddenly shaky hands down my trousers.
“If you want to,” she says, just as quiet. Like it’s some secret that will be shattered if either of us dare to speak up.
I don’t need to do this. I don’t need to explain anything to her, but after how tonight has gone, I want to. I want to tell her everything, be honest about the parking, my failed apprenticeships, the strained relationship with my father, what happened to my hands. Everything.
Fuck it, I tell myself. I so desperately want to reach over and snag the bottle of champagne, down it all in one go because my confidence has withered into a fucking puddle. My tongue darts out to wet my lips and Quinn tracks the movement, her pupils wide and fixated.
Taking a deep breath, I try to explain, but the words stick in my throat as the memories are drudged up.
Slowly, gently, but with intention, Quinn takes my hand and intertwines her fingers with mine.
I don’t flinch at the contact. The only reason that I had in the car is because I wasn’t expecting it, and my mind flashed back to my father’s hand when he grabbed my shoulder to haul me around into his fist.
My breath is officially caught in my chest as I stare down at how perfectly her hand fits in mine. She’s as warm as I thought she would be, dainty but strong as she squeezes, encouraging me to speak and accepting me if I’ve changed my mind.
“Sometimes,” I start, and have to clear my throat of the thickness lodged there. I can’t look at her, but I stare at our hands, my fucked-up fingers twisted with her unblemished ones. “Sometimes, when I drink, it feels like my hands aren’t even connected to my fucking brain. Which is kind of why I was such an ass the way we met.” I can sense her confusion and continue. “Not because I was drinking, but because of my hands. I was at an interview for an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor. They told me that my lines were too shaky and turned me down. It had been the third opportunity I didn’t get because of this fucking mess.” I gesture to the scars on my wrists, the skin grafts creeping up my forearms. My skin is still pink, some of the worse spots a faint purple from where they had to cut back into my skin for a second surgery.
My chest heaves with the deep breath that I take. Anger burns in my chest. I shouldn’t be touching her, not with my fucked-up hands, skin stretched too tightly over my muscle and bone.
In a sudden panic, I try to pry my fingers from Quinn’s, but she holds firm, consoling me. “Hey. Knox, stop it.”
With the way she says my name, I go still.
I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.
“You don’t get it, Quinn,” I croak. “All I’ve wanted to do with my life is become a tattoo artist and now my dream is completely fucked because of my step-brother and father.” I can’t help but spit the words, disgust and hatred lacing my tone. “My step-brother ratted me out to my father about me being an art major instead of the business major he wanted me to be.” My voice is thick, wet, and a tightness forms behind my eyes. “I tried to leave before things could get out of hand, but it happened anyway. My father pummeled me into the floor in his foyer, and when I could stand up long enough to flee, I took my bike. It was late and I was terrified, unsure of where to go. Blood was falling into my eyes from a cut in my eyebrow and I lost control. The bike slid out from underneath me before I could right it.”
Quinn looks devastated. Tears fill her eyes and I hate myself all over again for doing this to her. But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.