Page 124 of Love Marks

“Maybe. Depends how good it is,” he grumbles, lifting his head. His expression is a scowl. “Everything fine with Luna?”

“Yeah, all good.” I suppress another dramatic sigh. “I talked to Mom. Did you know she’s moving to France?”

“Yep. She told me she’d send a postcard.”

I chuckle darkly. If he can sense that I’m working my way up to an apology, he doesn’t let on.

“I’m sorry for ignoring your calls. It had nothing to do with you. I just…had nothing to say. It’s just been a shitty few weeks.” I swallow, blinking back another round of fresh tears. Why am I suddenly turning on the waterworks every two seconds?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can. It really fucking hurts.”

Ben shrugs. “Want to try?”

So, I do. For the second time, I explain everything to Ben. The conversation outside the hospital. How Quinn forgave me but broke things off. I talk for what feels like forever and when I’m finished, my shoulders sag with the weight of all I’ve been carrying. I feel a little lighter.

“I don’t know what to do. Some days, I give up and tell myself it’s over and I need to deal with this new shitty reality. Other times, like today…I think I have to get her back no matter what it takes. Even if she keeps pushing me away, even if she hates me, I have to figure out some way to get her back. I just can’t imagine my life without her.”

Ben nods, his thoughtful, open expression unwavering. I expect him to jump into his advice, but he just points to the empty bottle in my hand. “Want another beer?”

“Sure.”

He comes back from the kitchen with two bottles and hands one to me. He takes a long pull from his and then sets it on the table and turns to me.

“Alright. I have an idea.” Ben smirks, an expression I have come to learn means nothing but trouble. This cannot be good. He licks his lips and clasps his hand on my shoulder.

“How do you feel about one more grand romantic gesture?”

Chapter 46

Quinn

Today’s the day. My mom is moving out of the apartment we’ve shared our entire lives. I thought I’d be able to keep the place for a few months without my mom, but I can’t afford to drain my savings, so I’ll be on my way at the end of the month.

Looking around at the half-empty apartment, it looks like a shell of what it once was. I told myself I wouldn’t get emotional today. I’m pretty sure even Joe is sick of my moping and sulking even if he hasn’t said anything.

I’m trying to move on. With everything.

A few days ago, I went to the hotel restaurant to give Rita my two weeks’ notice. I talked to Pierre and he’s willing to give me my old job back and I figure it’s better than running into Wesley every day, even if it was a dream job. The only problem is that Rita essentially refused my resignation.

I wasn’t sure how to handle it until she called me yesterday and told me she’s willing to accept my resignation if I agree to interview for a different position with one of her old friends. So tomorrow I have a job interview in the West Village.

My mom has been helping me search for a new apartment, but I can’t afford any studios, so I need to find a roommate. Hannah is letting me crash on her couch if I haven’t found a spot by the end of the month, but I’ll probably have to find some random online to live with. My mom continues to insist I should move into Joe’s place with her. There’s enough space for all of us comfortably but I can’t help but feel like this is an important step for my mom and me. Part of moving on.

“Feeling nostalgic?” My mom asks from behind me, leaning against the door frame. She’s looking a lot better these days, even with the threat of another surgery hanging over her head.

“How’d you know?”

She pushes off the wall and wraps her arms around me. “I know you.” She leans back and looks into my eyes. “Which is how I know you aren’t happy.”

I push slightly away from her. “Mom—”

“No, don’t say it’s nothing. I’ve been trying to give you your own space because it’s clear you don’t want to talk about it, but no more. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

I shake my head, already feeling overwhelmed at the direction this conversation is going. This is exactly the thing I can’t handle. It’s too much.

“I’m fine. I really don’t want to talk about it.”