make you miss me • q. hughes

48

To say I'm nervous would be an understatement. An extreme one. Quinn's eyes are focused out the window, watching fields of cows and crops pass by. It's making me realize how far out my childhood home truly is. The dirt and gravel roads never really fazed me until I had Quinn next to me.

Like, imagine your girlfriend inviting you to come home for her mom's birthday and she drags you out to rural Ontario. When you know her best friend's from Toronto. It's insanity. I'd be concerned she was dragging me out to kill me or something and she is actually from a real city. Not the very outskirts of a small town.

"Finch keeps telling me we're late," Quinn says.

"We're practically there," I assure him. "Besides, who cares? We're VIPs."

"Are we?"

"Only daughter bringing a boyfriend home? Hell yeah, we are." It's the pure, honest truth. He still seems a bit anxious. Which is weird because I'm the one who hates being anything but exactly on time. "Tell him about the traffic we hit. Even though we're maybe a mile out."

Quinn nods. And soon after, just like I said, we're pulling up the long, dirt driveway. The barn sits further back. The spot our backyard rink takes up still with the makeshift poles marking the edges in front of it. I tell Quinn to leave our bags in the car for now.

He fixes his hat, looking at the house in a little bit of awe. "Have you ever heard country songs talk about a farmhouse with the wrap-around porch and swing and— You know what I'm talking about, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"This house is one of those houses," he says. "You grew up in a goddamn country song."

I shrug. "Minus the southern aspect, sure."

"Are you sure your dad will like me?"

"Babe, if he doesn't, he's outnumbered. You win!"

When I try to walk up the porch steps, Quinn grabs my hand and keeps me in place. "It's not about winning. It's about— It's about your dad liking me like mine liked you."

"Since when did you become such a people pleaser Mr. Argues With Girls In Bars?" I tease. But his face remains unamused. My free hand presses against his chest. "Quinn, he'll love you. I promise."

"Okay."

"Yeah?" It doesn't matter what he says in response, he's letting me pull him up the steps and into the house. I halt and he goes running into me. "Shoes off. Mom doesn't like dirt."

He laughs while we slip our shoes off. "Does she know where she lives?"

"My dad grew up here," I explain. "She was the one who convinced him to raise us here too."

"But she hates dirt," he says.

With a shrug, I continue us back to the kitchen. Everyone's on the patio. Figures. Once even a hint of summer weather comes around, it's hard to get Dad away from his grill. The man loves that thing.

"Fear not, everyone. Likable people are here," I announce. Quinn lets out a sharp laugh. I spin around and poke his chest. "Hey, I'm likable."

"I know, babe," he says.

Finch laughs obnoxiously. "Don't lie to her, Hughes."

I spin back around and point at my youngest brother. "Don't call him Hughes. That's my thing."

"That's a lot of people's thing," Finchy says, sending me a little salute.

Mirroring the salute before I sit down next to him, I ask, "When's the big guy getting here?"

"The wife said early tomorrow morning," he answers. His face shifts into a confused frown that he's probably very used to. "Why are you hovering?"

Quinn huffs. "I'm not hovering."

"Well..." To be fair, my boyfriend is by definition hovering. He's standing slightly in front of me and kind of looking out into the backyard that's more of an unfenced-in field.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Quinn glares at me for being on the side of the person I've known longer than him. Also known as my brother.

"Go talk to Dad," I suggest.

His face shifts into a confused frown similar to Finch's a few moments ago. "Alone?"

"Do you two do everything together?" Finch says. Then he hisses in a breath. "Yeah, I don't actually want to know. The thought of you guys in love still freaks me out."

"Dude—"

"Don't 'dude' me," Quinn says.

I smack the front of his thigh gently. "Babe, go talk to my dad. It'll be better if it seems like you aren't getting dragged into it by little ol' me."

"But—"

"Please?" I ask.

He lets out a sigh that's more of a very quiet groan. "Fine. You owe me one."

"Gross," Birdy whispers as Quinn walks off to join Dad at the grill.

"How was that—" I'm cut off by the boisterous laughs of my dad and boyfriend. That was so fucking fast. What the hell? What could they possibly already be laughing about? Jesus. That's the guy who was so worried about Mr. Schuyler not liking him.

"Do you when Atter's gonna be here?" Finch asks.

I scoff. "Am I not enough for you? He has never once bought or snuck you alcohol like I have."

"That's what I respect about him," he says.

"Well, what do you respect about me?"

There's an appalling amount of silence after that. There's an upsetting amount of thinking being done for a kid with a severe lacking of brain to think with. I mean, come on. I'm plenty respectable.

Finch hums. "You're... efficient?"

"Oh, I am so never doing anything nice for you ever again," I say. He protests as I stand up and start backing away from him and the table. "You're going through Mom's party sober."

"I would hope my underage son would go through my party sober," Mom's voice comes from behind me. Almost comically, I point a thumb over my shoulder. Finch nods solemnly. Mom laughs. "Please, I've known since he was fourteen just like I knew Jem was sneaking all sorts of things to you and Atticus."

Slowly, I turn around and throw a glance over at Quinn who is so clearly trying not to laugh at me. Since he's an asshole, he fails. "I would never do any of that."

"Just like that time you had Lya help you with that condom—"

"Mom!" I snap. More because my father and youngest brother are present than Quinn. But also because Quinn is there. There are some stories that he doesn't need to know quite yet.