I DIDN'T THINK Quinn would sleepover based on my behavior last night. In fact, I don't know if it was out of pity either. His hands are sprawled on my waist and I almost have a heart attack when I trace the hands to him.
"You had a hangover, so I decided to stay the night," is his reason. I don't quite believe it. But after he leaves I find the Chardonnay half empty.
I'd like to think Quinn drank half of it and I convince myself of it too.
Are you free tonight? He texts me.
Why? So you can drink more of my wine?
Are you joking? He texts. I stare at the screen blankly. Of course I'm not. Why the fuck would he think I am?! I told you that you did.
I shake my head in laughter. Yeah, right, I think, but I don't let him know that.
✤✤✤
QUINN DEFINITELY CARES a lot about how other people perceive him, though. He knocks on my door a couple minutes after our text conversation or whatever looking really frantic.
He looks relieved at first, but then, "What the fuck? I thought something happened to you—why didn't you reply to my text? Aarya." He looks at me with this blank look. But his tone is completely furious, so it doesn't make sense.
"It's not that big of a deal. You didn't need to show up." I simply put it.
He scrunches his eyebrows. "What? I thought something happened to you."
"Yeah, well, clearly you have a very big imagination. And stop scrunching your eyebrows—it's annoying."
He scrunches his eyebrows. "That's just how my eyebrows work. It's something everyone does."
"Not me."
"You've done it subconsciously plenty of times."
"That's weird: you've noticed how many times I've scrunched my eyebrows."
"Yeah, it's just something you notice. Look, that's not the point. Why aren't you replying to my texts?"
"Because it's the—I thought it was the end of our conversation."
He sighs. "Well, it wasn't." I don't know what else to say. It's like he's pulled every ounce of courage from me with that sigh of his and it makes me mad. It's not fair that he's allowed to have that much power over me.
"Can I make something?" I don't even notice how long he's been staring at the kitchen.
"Uh."
"My kitchen's being remodeled and I'm starving."
"Yeah." I'm not sure why I relent. But a part of me feels bad that he came here and is starving. "But what do you want? Cause I don't really have much."
"It's fine. I'm just hungry."
I wasn't really looking for his approval. I saunter over to the kitchen before he can. "I have pasta."
He chuckles. "Okay." I'm not sure if he wants me to make it―I don't want to―so I'm relieved when he says, "I can make it." He doesn't hesitate at preparing the pasta, so I decide I should stop standing in the kitchen and relax.
I turn on the TV and start window shopping on my iPhone. And I guess around the time when the pasta's boiling, Quinn gets bored of just staring into space. "Do you want any?" I look at him. "Pasta."
I shake my head. "No."
He stares at the screen, then. "Why not?"
"I'm just not hungry."
He gestures to the TV. "So do you like The Middle or are you just watching it because it's there?"
"Oh, no, I love it." I start beaming then. "Why would you think I'm just watching it becau―basically, the opposite?"
"Because you seem so invested in your phone."
"I was just looking at some stuff online."
"To buy, right?" His eyes widen.
"Yeah. Why?" I draw out.
"I've seen all your packages downstairs. Did you forget to get them or something?"
"Really?" I scrunch my eyebrows. "They didn't say delivered."
"Oh, well, they're downstairs. If you want to get them."
"Right now?" I mistakenly ask and his ears perk.
"Sure. If you want."
"Uh, but what about the pasta?"
"I mean, it'll only be a couple of minutes."
But it isn't. Because we spend about an hour waiting for the mail carrier to arrive and hauling the packages up to the apartment because of the "lack of space in the elevator."
It's then when we make our last stop, I realize we could've used the stairs.
"It's fun this way anyways," Quinn says. He gazes around the apartment. "Wow. You got a lot of packages."
I can't help how my mind interprets his voice. It's almost like a critical voice―like Arjun's―and it makes me want to beat myself up for talking with this guy.
"So should we start unpacking these packages?"
"No, I actually have a class early in the morning tomorrow."
"Again?"
I refrain from being defied. "It's every weekday."
"Damn," he says. "Well, when are you free?"
I scrunch my eyebrows. "Why?"
"I want to spend time with you." He chuckles as if that's funny. I remain serious.
"Don't you have work?"
"Yeah, but it's good to have fun."
"I do have fun."
"What? Buying all this stuff?" And that's what makes me slam the door in his face. And for the first time in what seems like years, my positive voice is coming out and supporting me.
