WORK IN PROGRESS: Dinner Disasters: Drake and Quinn

Chapter 2 (Quinn): The Tears Finally Arrived

*** TW for body image issues/language ***

I went home after the humiliation at the restaurant, insisting Drake go back inside the bar to make sure everyone had a safe ride home. Once I made it home, I stripped out of my clothes (that I'd probably burn) and got into my softest pair of pajama pants and pulled on an equally soft tank top. My hair I put up into a messy bun, many of the curls spilling down the sides. Then I scrubbed my face, brushed my teeth, and put on my moisturizer. One thing I had was flawless skin, and since it was my second-best feature after my hair, I planned to take care of it.

Crawling up onto my bed, I shoved and pushed my many pillows into place to make a comfortable back rest. Then I stretched out my legs in front of me, crossed at the ankles, and I braved a look at my phone.

Text after text from Drake were still rolling in. I refused to open the thread, so I missed all the ones that came in while I was driving home. I'd known they were nonstop, though; chime after chime from the passenger seat let me know that Drake was trying to get in touch with me.

The tears I was so sure I'd cry once I escaped from the restaurant never materialized. Sometimes things are just beyond tears because the blow you've suffered hits so far down inside of you that it's a dry well, a place where there's nothing left to spill out, not a single drop of moisture. It's just dusty, filled with the ashes of your dreams that were crushed.

That could explain why my eyes felt gritty. They were filled with dust that had billowed up when Drake's deceit had dealt me the killing blow. At this point, tears would have been welcome, but since they wouldn't come, I watched the texts from Drake, one after the other.

Please let me know you got home safely at least.

I love you, Quinn.

I'm so sorry. I'm so damn sorry.

I'll do anything to make this up to you, anything to prove to you how much I love you.

I'm going to drive by to make see if your light's on.

I'm so worried about you, Quinn. I need to know you're OK.

If I knock on your door, please answer. Please.

I'm heading toward your place. I'm seven minutes out.

That last one made me smile a little. OK, it wasn't exactly a smile but the corner of my mouth twitched. Drake was always so precise. I'm seven minutes out, Quinn. I always teased him that if he started giving me a countdown while he was fucking me, I'd leave him. Then I'd lower my voice and say, "Quinn, I'm two minutes out from coming."

Drake would laugh, throw me over his shoulder, toss me on his bed and whisper, "It'll be a lot longer than two minutes, baby."

Then he'd show me that he took much, much longer than two minutes.

While he was driving over to my place, the texts stopped. Drake wouldn't even use voice texting in the car, nor would he accept an incoming call much less make one. He saw too much in his job, and I didn't blame him for exercising extreme caution. Now, I was just glad for the break from the relentless texts.

And that was simply because I was so tempted to reply. What I wanted to ask him was simple: why?

Why did you agree to a bet? Why did you start us under those circumstances? Why did you do that to me? Why would you do that to any human being? Why did you keep seeing me? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you make me think you loved me only to crush me?

If I hadn't heard it myself, if Drake hadn't admitted to it, I would never in a million years have believed that Drake was capable of something like making a bet about me. About anyone, really. He was, without question, the best and most decent man I knew. I'd witnessed some incredible acts of kindness from him to strangers, and he never once called attention to his good deeds or told other people what he'd done. He was genuine, caring, considerate, helpful, sweet...and he was a complete and total lie. A mirage that my lonely heart and hopeful eyes had conjured.

I should have known he was too good to be true for me. Someone who looked like Drake belonged with the Jessas of the world. All his friends knew it; after all, they'd picked me out of a sea of women at the bar that night because I was most unlike his previous girlfriend.

In other words, ugly. Or if that was too harsh a term, not attractive would work.

"Stop it," I said sternly to myself. "That's bullshit thinking. The outside doesn't matter like the inside does."

Life Lessons from Grandma 101. My mom's mom had lived with us when I was growing up and she was my best friend. She'd always taken my face in her hands when I'd run crying to her after school about someone in my class making nasty comments about my looks. Turning my face this way and that, she'd study me for a minute before she'd proclaim, "You look beautiful to me, Quinn. And just remember, the outside doesn't matter like the inside does anyway. Work on that. Not enough people focus on the inside."

Then she'd smile at me and add, "Let's not have a Quinniption about some terrible words that some mean-hearted children said."

And I'd smile because I loved when she made up words using my name.

So deep was I in my thoughts that I jumped when I heard the soft knock on my front door. I padded out to the foyer and stood right behind the door. Drake knocked, then he knocked again. In the back of my mind, I appreciated that he wasn't trying to use the key I'd given him to my place to just walk in. I'd have to remember to get that key back from him when he dropped off my things tomorrow.

"Please, baby, open the door."

Knock knock.

"Please, Quinn, talk to me. Just give me five minutes. Please? I love you so much. I'm so sorry."

Once again, he knocked, and I placed my palm flat against the door, as if I could connect to this man I loved so much right through the wood door. As if it was the last contact we'd have.

But that wasn't true because he was coming over in the morning to bring me my things I'd kept at his place and to take away his. Idly, I wondered how big a box I'd need because he kept a lot of his clothing and things here. I'd always gotten a secret thrill seeing Drake's shirts and jeans hung up beside mine in the closet or seeing his socks next to mine in my dresser drawer.

He'd wanted to move in with me when his lease was up in three months, but I'd never given him an answer because it seemed so fast. Where I was more tentative and cautious about our relationship, Drake was full speed ahead; that was his M.O. and always had been. Over the course of our time together, we'd had to learn to negotiate that so one of us wasn't always frustrated with the other.

Now we were over. No more negotiations. No more teasing. No more talking. No more anything.

"Please, Quinn. If you're there, if you're OK -- and I know you're not OK-OK -- please just knock back so I know you're safe."

For ten seconds I debated, but then I knocked back once because even though he'd decimated me tonight, I still didn't want him to worry.

"Thank you," he said, the relief evident in his tone. "I'll be back at nine, Quinn. With your things. And I'll hope we can talk then."

The one knock was all he was getting tonight.

"Good night, baby. I love you."

At that point, the tears finally arrived.