make you miss me • q. hughes

51

Quinn and I move around my room in a perfect method. A perfect routine as we get ready for bed. Not once do we get in the other's way. It's something I'm sure some couples spend years getting the hang of. Makes my heart skip a few beats thinking about that.

We're settled in my bed, under the quilt my grandmother made me when I was 10. I'm looking through photos on Facebook from the party, the only reason I have or use the app. Every so often when there's one with Quinn, I show it to him and he smiles. Until the one that has him, Hayes, Atticus, and me.

I shut off my phone. "What happened?"

"You never told me you can play piano," he says. Either a subject change or a setup. I'm not sure.

"I used to." Every syllable is cautious. Testing.

"Jem told me," he explains. "And— Why'd you stop?"

My brain takes the words in. It swirls them around like mouthwash. Considering. Thinking. This seems to be a setup. It reminds me of the day he and I watched my old hockey videos. We fell asleep, woke up to the FaceTime, and he admitted he didn't hate me. We spiraled into an argument and he asked why I quit hockey. I know what answer he's expecting. I know he knows what the answer is.

I'm incapable of biting my tongue. I'm not going to hold the answer back even though I can feel the setup. "It got boring."

"Of course." Next thing I know, he's up and out of bed. I get up too. I don't like the feeling of him looking down at me. Not in this way.

The clutter of this room is pissing me off as I huff and join him on the other side of the room. "What's that mean? What are you pissed about?"

"You quit hockey 'cause you're bored. You fuck with me on the boat 'cause you're bored. You read those self-help books because you don't mind not finishing them when you get bored. You stop playing an entire instrument because you're bored."

I shake my head. He keeps going.

"You haven't even worn so many of your clothes or shoes in months because you wore them one too many times, now they're boring. You— You stop dating Hayes because he got boring." Quinn shakes his head too. "Who's to say you won't do that to me? Throw me out because you get bored?"

"We've gone over this," I state, unsure of what I can possibly tell him to make him relax.

"No," he shoots out. "We went over the fact that you didn't stop hooking up with me because you got bored."

"Yeah, because I fucking fell for you instead, asshole!"

Quinn chuckles with no amusement in it. "You fell for him. You dumped him out. It wasn't exciting. Again, who's to say you won't get bored of me? Who's to say you won't get bored of sleeping next to me every night? What if one night you decide it's been one too many times and leave me to go find something new and exciting?"

"Me! I'm to say," I argue. It feels so hopeless though. He's so convinced and he's so stubborn. We're both so stubborn.

"Then say it," he begs.

"I like a routine. I like a set thing. I love the stability of us. I love you. I love it all."

"How do I know that won't change?" Quinn's eyes take on that doe look. "How am I supposed to know you won't turn on a dime like you've done so many times to so many things?"

There's a loss of words. I don't know how to phrase what I need to say. I love you isn't enough. Not getting it through his thick skull isn't an option. I have to do something. But what? What can I possibly do?

"Come on," I say, already moving for the door.

He stutters a few unintelligible words before settling on, "I'm shirtless, Scout."

"Come on." I throw the door open. "Follow my steps exactly."

He does. Not a single creak comes from the old stairs. Or the set down to the first floor. The basement ones don't need to be quiet but I still make sure to step perfectly where they won't. Just in case. I fling open the closed double doors down there. The only separate room from the main part.

A piano. One that's been here as long as we lived here. Mom's the one who taught me how to play it. The basics, at least. Once Quinn's in the room, I close the doors behind me. The room's mostly soundproof. After a few too many times of me playing it at weird hours, it was a necessary renovation to make for everyone's sanity.

"What are we doing?" He asks.

I take a seat on the bench. "Showing you something."

Quinn takes the spot next to me. I'm not sure how in tune this thing will be. I'm not sure if Mom maintains it at all. A question is mumbled at me. I ignore it in favor of lifting the wood covering of the keys.

"At one point, I was making my own little arrangements. Did Jem tell you that?" When he shakes his head, I sigh. "Well, that's a surprise. He loves telling people that the night before he left for college, he had to pick me up from a party. Crossed out of my mind. I cried 'cause of how much I'd miss him and then showed him something I made just for him since I couldn't get the words out."

"Yeah?" He whispers. Not to keep quiet.

"Mhm."

His shoulder bumps into mine lightly. "Gonna play me something?"

"Gonna play you what I played him," I say.

The only sound that follows is him sucking in a sharp breath. I take it as my cue. It's not the most intricate or difficult thing ever. I'm sure I'm not the first person to play these notes in this exact order and speed. But it's what loving someone so much that even after years of being around them, you could never stop felt like to me. The piano's not super in tune.

It doesn't matter. My heart is. Was that cringe? I don't care. Because right now, I'm trying to show Quinn how I could never get bored of him. That I'll miss him whenever we're apart. I couldn't get tired or bored of the amazing person next to me. That the routine we have is perfect. That he'll never not be exciting.

The instant I'm done, I close the cover again. Quinn's silent. I lace my fingers together and rest them on the wood. Was that good enough? Did that get through his thick skull?

"I love you," he says.

"I love you, too," I say back. "But maybe next time we don't fight over some jealous idiot spewing bullshit."

A dry, embarrassed chuckle falls from his lips. "I know. I'm sorry. But you have to admit, he did a good job hitting a sore spot."

"His best friend is Atticus," I say. "He's gotta be able to dish it or he'd be roadkill by now."

"Is that why you're the way you are?" Quinn jokes.

I bump my shoulder into his. "I'm the reason Atter's the way he is."