Page 111 of Maybe You

I nod because I have too many thoughts in my head to use resources to make words.

“I stopped by his office the other day,” Quinn continues. “He has a very chatty assistant. Just for future reference, if you ever happen to go there, prepare to spend twice as much time at her desk as you originally thought you would, because that woman has a lot of grandchildren, and a lot of photos of them.”

I stare at him. An office? An assistant?

“Anyway,” Quinn continues, “Gayle is a font of information. Apparently, there was a pretty sizable donation made to William Randolph Hearst Burn Center recently. And by sizable, I mean a fuckton of shitloads of money. Excuse my French.”

I’m not sure what part of all of this I should address first.

Quinn shrugs.

“I figured it might interest you,” he says. “Or have something to do with you.”

It feels like I haven’t breathed in a while and have by now forgotten how.

“I didn’t know,” I eventually say.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

I stare at the city lights for a little while, my mind whirring with questions, before I turn my gaze back to Quinn, who’s been quietly eyeing me the whole time. Waiting.

“And in that office of his… what, exactly, does he do there?” I ask.

If Quinn thinks the question is weird, he doesn’t show it.

“He runs the Holland Foundation.”

I nod. “What’s that?”

For the first time, he looks conflicted. “You should probably ask Sutton himself.”

“Will he tell me?”

“I’d like to think so.” He sends me a contemplative look. “It won’t be easy,” he echoes the statement from the last time I saw him.

I wait for him to elaborate.

“He’ll be scared shitless, and he’ll fight you.”

I wait some more, but Quinn remains silent.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to explain?” I finally say.

“I’ve already said too much.”

As if on cue, the door opens, and Sutton walks out.

“There you are,” he says. He comes to the sofa and sits down next to me, throwing his arm over the backrest. “Why are you two sitting out here?”

“There are so many people in there that it gets overwhelming,” Quinn says.

“Well, your boyfriend is looking for you,” Sutton says.

Quinn lifts his chin in acknowledgment before he gets up and heads back inside.

The door stays slightly ajar, and music filters through it. Sutton taps his foot against the floor of the balcony and hums along to the song softly.

I lean my head back and look at the dark sky above us. When I turn my head to the side, I find Sutton looking at me.