MOTION Read online

  I laughed at her discontented scowl. “Then, oh well; I guess I’ll never have great sex.”

  She huffed again then pulled me to her for a hug. “I love you, Janie, and I could give you great sex, but I’m just not into girls.”

  I smiled into her shirt. “Well, let me know if you ever change your mind.”

  She withdrew and held me at arm’s length, her face and tone serious. “If you don’t want hot Wendell sex then, I have to tell you, you need to be careful with this guy. He’s being honest with you when he says he doesn’t date. You should believe him.”

  I nodded and tried not to betray the sadness I felt. “I do. I do believe him.”

  She watched me for several moments, considering me. “What did he say after the no dating comment?”

  I swallowed, my fingers drifting to my lips of their own accord. “Then he kissed the hell out of me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I finally responded to my sister’s email on Saturday afternoon after a great deal of procrastinating.

  I slept in ‘til nine thirty, then laid on the futon for another twenty minutes thinking about Quinn Sullivan’s lips of magic and mystery. I decided, on an odd whim, to go for a run along Lake Michigan. The weather was still nice, especially for late September, and the wind felt clarifying. I distracted myself with sights of Millennium Park, the Aquarium, the Natural History Museum, and I reflected on my city.

  There is something really special about Chicago.

  Chicago is the proverbial middle child of large U.S. cities. Some might consider this analogy only in reference to Chicago’s geographic location in the middle of the country. However, the analogy is multifaceted; like most middle children and like books between elaborate bookends, Chicago can sometimes be easy to overlook. It is smart and genuine, but it is always compared, for better or for worse, to its older and younger siblings, New York and Los Angeles. It’s the less notorious but smarter sister to New York; it’s the less ostentatious but considerably more genuine sister to Los Angeles.

  It is breathtaking and beautiful and yet somehow caught in the blind spot of popular consciousness.

  I’ve always wondered if Chicago prefers to shy from the onerous and usually dysfunctional limelight of notoriety. I hypothesize that it is more than content to be smart, genuine, and breathtaking, without attracting the attention that plagues cities that are notorious and ostentatious.

  On my way back, I picked up coffee from Starbucks and indulged in my incessant Quinn Sullivan obsessing. Eventually, I stopped outside of Utrecht Art Supply and accomplished window-shopping. When I arrived home, I found Elizabeth cleaning the kitchen. I felt a little disappointed; I had been planning on spending time procrastinating by tackling that exact chore. Instead, I took a shower and shaved everything that could be shaved. I plucked my eyebrows then decided to give myself a pedicure.

  Elizabeth eyed me with suspicion as I sat on the couch and propped my foot on the coffee table. I attempted to ignore her pointed gaze.

  After a period of tense silence, she said, “So, what do you need to do that you don’t want to do?”

  I huffed, liking and disliking that she knew me so well, and confessed. “Jem sent me an email.”

  “Jem?” Elizabeth didn’t suppress her surprise. “When?”

  “On Thursday.”

  “What does she want?”

  I uncapped the nail polish remover and applied a liberal amount to a cotton ball. “She wants to visit.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m guessing me. She said she wanted to see me.”

  She shook her head. “This is so strange. She doesn’t even like you.”

  I shrugged. “I know.”

  It was true. My own sister didn’t like me. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along; Jem just didn’t seem to like anyone. Sometimes she pretended to like people but only for as long as was necessary to obtain what she needed from them. I felt that there was a distinct possibility that she was a sociopath.

  Abruptly I placed the cap back on the nail polish remover and pulled out my laptop. I needed to rip off the Band-Aid of fretfulness and just answer her damn email. I responded:

  Jem, I’m in town all next week, but will be gone part of the week after for a business trip. When do you plan to arrive? How long are you staying? Do you want to see or do anything in particular while you are here? Let me know the details when you are able. Talk to you soon, Janie

  It seemed benign enough, but I was pretty sure it would annoy the hell out of her. She didn’t like confiding her plans even when they directly affected someone else.

  That issue settled for now, I decided to email Jon about dinner. Even though Steven couldn’t make it, I felt compelled to keep my dinner arrangements with Jon, especially after cancelling two times in a row. As I began composing an email, something in my vicinity began to chime.

  I stopped typing and looked to Elizabeth in confusion. “What is that? It sounds like an ice cream truck.”

  Elizabeth paused loading the dishwasher, holding a dripping plate. “It actually sounds like a cell phone. Is that your new phone?”

  I started, remembering the phone, and began ransacking the living room trying to find the blasted thing. At one point, it stopped ringing, but then seconds later, it began again. I was cussing and was mid-single-syllable, four-letter word when I found the cursed contraption.

  I answered breathlessly. “Yes! Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  Outwardly, my body stiffened; inwardly, my bones dissolved. “Oh, hi-hi-hello! How are you?”

  “Good. How are you?” Quinn sounded like he was smiling. An image of him smiling flashed across my consciousness, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to prickle.

  “I’m well. It’s, uh—” I glanced over at Elizabeth. She was making suggestive gestures with her still wet hands. I gave her a dirty look then turned completely away. “It’s good to hear from you.”

  “Even via cell phone?”

  I smiled despite myself and responded, “It would be better if it weren’t via cell phone.”

  “I agree. I’m calling about dinner. What time should I pick you up?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yeah, dinner.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes. Dinner. Tonight.”

  “Um…” I frowned and glanced at the message still open on my laptop that I’d been typing Jon.

  “Janie? …Are you backing out?”

  “No—no. I’m not backing out. It’s just that I can’t tonight. I already have plans.” Movement from Elizabeth caught my eye, and I found her glaring at me and mouthing, What the hell are you thinking? I shooed her away.

  Quinn didn’t respond immediately, so I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen, attempting to decipher if I’d hung up on him. None of the symbols seemed to indicate anything of value, so I spoke into the phone again. “Quinn? Are you still there? Did I hang up on you?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.” I heard him sigh. “These aren’t the same plans you made yesterday with your ex, are they?”

  Inwardly, I cringed. Then, outwardly, I also cringed. “Yes.”

  His response was silence.

  “Quinn?”

  “I’ll come too.” It didn’t sound at all like a request.

  “Uh, what?”

  His voice was business-like and brusque. “You and I will go out tomorrow. Tonight I can meet your friend Jon.”

  “You want to meet Jon?” Instinctively my gaze searched for Elizabeth, and I think I must have looked as stricken as I felt. She just stared at me with wide eyes.

  “I want to see you.”

  His words made my heart skip; I had difficulty forming a coherent thought. “Well, I guess— I mean—I suppose it’s—I mean it’s not like— maybe we could—I just don’t think that…”

  “Where are we going? What time are we meeting him?”

  “I was just emailing him to work out the details.”

&nbs
p; “Ok. How about Chez Jean? I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock.”

  “No, I’ll meet you at the restaurant.” I didn’t want to arrive with him. It would feel too much like a wheelbarrow date: two wheels and a kickstand.

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “It’s a block west of Al’s Beef, right?”

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “Your landmark is Al’s Beef?”

  “How can you miss Al’s Beef? It’s yellow and black and has a giant plastic cup in the center of the sign. I think they have franchise opportunities available.”

  He laughed. “I’ll see you at seven o’clock.”

  His laugh made me smile like an idiot. “Ok. Seven it is. I’ll see you then.”

  When the call ended, I stared at the cell phone without seeing it for several moments. I felt light, as if my feet weren’t touching the ground and I could cloud-hop if the desire so struck me. I felt like running through a field and spinning around while an orchestra played in the background. I felt like clicking my heels together and sliding down an impressively large and steep banister. I felt like picking apart a daisy while reciting, “He loves me…I love him…he loves me.”

  Elizabeth’s concerned voice brought me out of my meandering reveries and a bit closer to reality. “You’ve got it bad. I’ve never seen you like this.”

  Goofy grin still in place, I sighed. I knew what I looked like and sounded like. A small voice in the recesses of my overactive brain screamed at me: You are infatuated! Infatuated I say!

  I’d never realized before how glorious infatuation could be. Perhaps I’d never been presented with the opportunity until Quinn came along.

  That night’s dinner began with one of the most awkward silences I’ve ever experienced in my life. I had to bite both my cheeks to keep from filling the black hole of unsaid words. After introductions were made, Jon sat next to me on the booth along the wall and glowered at Quinn. Quinn, from his chair opposite us, smiled at Jon.

  It was a smug smile tinged with a certain amount of swagger. I didn’t know how to feel about it, so I just ignored it for the time being. I just hoped that my excessive nervous swallowing went unnoticed. Finally, feeling as though I was going to burst, I excused myself from the table and half-bolted to the ladies’ room. I stayed there until I felt capable of reining in the overflowing list of factoids related to black holes that was running on a loop in my head.

  When I left the ladies’ room, I noticed for the first time how really nice the restaurant was. It smelled like garlic and roux, and the walls were a pale yellow except for the crown molding, which was a dark, natural stained wood. Windows were framed with sheer burgundy curtains. Beautiful oil landscapes, of what I assumed were the French countryside, added intimate elegance without making the place feel cluttered or like an art museum.

  The tables were covered in white cloths; rows of forks, spoons, and knives spread like petals on either side of a series of plates stacked one on top of the other; largest on the bottom, smallest on the top. A delicately folded linen napkin, which looked like a swan, spilled out of a water glass to the right of the plates.

  I was so distracted by the ambiance that I didn’t notice until I returned to the table that Quinn was sitting alone. I glanced around the small restaurant and saw Jon’s retreating form heading out the door. Without thinking, I followed him and called his name.

  He paused. He turned slowly and stepped back into the bistro. His eyes moved beyond me to where Quinn sat, and then he met my gaze again. His expression, usually so open and unguarded, was remote and sullen.

  “What’s going on, Jon? Where are you going?”

  He huffed, and through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m leaving.”

  “Why?”

  Jon’s green eyes looked into mine searchingly, and his expression seemed to soften. He shifted on his feet and took one of my hands in his. “Listen, Janie, no matter what he says, I want you to know that I love you. Just promise me that you’ll call me tomorrow; no matter what, you’ll call me tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

  I shook my head, befuddled. “Do you two know each other?”

  “No. We’ve never met.”

  “What did you two talk about?”

  “It was nothing…”

  “Then why are you leaving?”

  He squeezed my hand. “Just promise me, please?”

  I shrugged. “Fine, fine—I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow. This is too bizarre.”

  He smiled tightly in a way that didn’t reach his eyes, and released my hand. Swiftly, in one fluid motion, Jon leaned forward and kissed my cheek then turned and left. I stared at the door for several minutes.

  When I turned around, I found Quinn watching me. His expression was inscrutable, as always; and, as typical, his cerulean eyes seemed to be thinly masking a mischievous flicker. I walked back to the booth that lined the wall and my pace decelerated to a slow shuffle as I approached. I stared at him, perplexed, and then I slid into the booth opposite his chair.

  As though nothing were amiss, he motioned to the martini glass in front of me. “I ordered you a lemon drop.”

  My attention shifted to the whiskey-colored liquid in front of him and the glass in front of me. There were only two glasses.

  I frowned.

  I glared at Quinn, hoping to convey the intensity of my suspicion. “What did you and Jon talk about? Why did he leave?”

  Quinn didn’t even have enough decency to look ashamed. Instead he watched me with his up-to-no-good eyes and took a long swallow of his whiskey before responding. “You should ask him.”

  “I did. He insisted it was nothing.” My tone was flat and laced with the disbelief I felt.

  Quinn shrugged. “Then it must have been nothing…” he said, his mouth pulled to the side in a barely-there smile, “…unless Jon was lying.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back to contemplate him and his dissatisfactory answer. He met my gaze steadily. At length I said, “You’re not being very nice.”

  “What have I done that’s not nice?”

  “I think you’re being kind of sneaky. And that’s why I think you’re not being nice.”

  His smile faded. “Sneaky isn’t on your four-quadrant scatter-plot graph personality matrix.”

  My eyes narrowed further. “Maybe it should be. Maybe I should add honesty as an axis and make it a 3-D model.”

  “Do you think I’m being dishonest?” His voice was level, but his eyes seemed to flare with challenge.

  “No, I think you’re being technically honest, which is almost worse.”

  All tangible expression left his features, and his steady stare burned with intensity. I felt my cheeks redden under his scrutiny but maintained eye contact even when my heart began to race and a twisting nervousness wrestled in my chest. After a prolonged silence, he stood from his chair; his towering form moved with panther-like ease and adroit grace. Quinn slid in next to me. He placed his arm behind me on the back of the booth, and his gaze moved between my neck, lips, and eyes.

  For a moment, I thought he was going to try to kiss me. Instead, he leaned close and whispered, “What do you want to know?”

  It took a moment for me to form thoughts. Words followed sometime after. “I want to know what you said to Jon when I went to the bathroom.”

  Quinn eyed me speculatively then sighed. “We did talk. And what I said is likely the reason he left. I’m not trying to be evasive, but it’s not my secret to tell.”

  “What do you mean it’s not your secret to tell?”

  “It means that Jon has something he should tell you. If you want to know what it is, then you should ask him.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me what it is?”

  He shook his head; his gaze was steady and his voice was matter-of-fact. “No. It’s not my place.”

  I chewed on my top lip, scrutinizing him, and finally decided I believed him. “Fine,” I said with decisiveness. “Thank you for bein
g honest.”

  He nodded once. “You’re welcome. Now I get to ask a question.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Are we playing this game again?”

  His smile was immediate and dazzling. “I like this game, and I definitely like playing it with you.”

  Before he could follow through with his question, we were interrupted by the waiter asking if we were ready to order. Quinn seemed to pull his attention from me with reluctance, but he kept his arm along the booth at my back. I picked up the menu to make a hurried selection, but for the second time in our short acquaintance, Quinn did that thing you see in movies but don’t ever experience in real life: Without asking for my opinion, he ordered for me.

  “We will start with the tarte aux champignons and two salade au chevrotin. The lady will have Gigot D´Agneau au jus et Romarin, and I’ll have Steak Grillé au Poivre, medium. We’ll also take a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, the 2005 Cuvee.”

  The waiter bowed slightly at the waist as Quinn plucked the menu from my hand and passed it to him. The waiter gave us a tight smile and said, “Very good, sir,” and left.

  Quinn turned his body back to me and bestowed on me his slow, sexy smile. It did strange things to my insides, like making them become a boneless mass of warm giddiness. My brain also felt hazy. I didn’t feel the annoyance at his ordering for me that I should have.

  Before he could follow through with his question, I asked one of my own. “Why are you always keeping score?” Wanting to do something with my hands, I pulled my napkin out of the glass; the swan dissolved into a plain, white, linen rectangle. I placed it on my lap.

  His voice was low when he spoke; his eyes caressed my lips. “In every relationship or interaction there are winners and losers. It doesn’t matter if it’s business or family or…” he paused for just a fraction of a second, his eyes burning a brighter blue, “…or involvement with the opposite sex. Someone always wins; someone always loses. I don’t like to lose.”

  His words were somewhat sobering. My insides congealed and my brain managed to catapult over the fog. “That’s an interesting theory.” And it was. It was an interesting theory. I saw merit in it, but I also felt it was fundamentally flawed. “And, I suppose if the relationship is between two people who are keeping score, then you are right—there will be a winner and a loser. However, if no one is keeping score, then no one loses.”