Crazy Eights (Stacked Deck #8) - Emilia Finn Page 0,121

where she sits. A single mirror-fronted closet door is the only thing that separates us.

Well, that, and her inability to love me enough to choose me over him.

“I know why,” she grits out. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with it. I’m not a child anymore, Will, so you having me packed up and shipped away is bullshit. What you should have done is talked to me about what you found, and then we could have come up with a pl—I know that! I know. But I was in his home, I had access to his private shit. Maybe me being on the inside could have been a good thing.”

She stops for a moment, and huffs. “I was taking care of it, Will. He wasn’t gonna kill me. He wanted to date me. To romance me. For as long as I kept control of that situation and let him buy me dinner, I could have—”

She doesn’t get it. Despite all of the information she now has, she just doesn’t get how dangerous her situation was.

“Well, it’s too late now anyway. I’ve been gone for a few nights already. No call, no communication. I’ve lost whatever access I could have had. And I lost a well-paying job, so thanks for that.”

Giselle lies down on the carpet beside me, and rests her chin on my lap. She’s been my constant companion these last few years. The only one I willingly invited into my grief. She’s the perfect friend, always here to listen, doesn’t try to tell me to date again. She accepts me, faults and all, and doesn’t suggest I sign up for Tinder. She hugs me as often as I need it, and never tells me to try looking for someone new to kiss.

“Have you been down to my studio?” she whispers to Will. “Are they mad?”

Her studio. A space she was squatting in, with students who would come in through the back door, and pay her in cash.

All she ever wanted was to teach, to choreograph. To have someone else dance her steps.

“I’m gonna come home, Will. As soon as this is done, I’m coming home to you… Jamie?” She sighs, even as Giselle’s ears perk up at my name. “He’s… He deserves better than this. Someday, he’ll thank me for leaving. He’ll find the one, he’ll kiss her,” Quinn’s voice cracks, “and he’ll be so relieved that I moved along without a fuss. I’m too messy for him, too much trouble, he just doesn’t realize it yet. He hasn’t looked anywhere else, but once he starts, and meets someone normal, he’ll…” She rumbles out what I imagine is an eyeroll. “Yeah, I’m special, I’m beautiful, I’m worthy, blah, blah, blah. I know, Will.”

In the silence I was trying to keep, Giselle sneezes loud enough that Quinn’s words come to a complete standstill.

“Shit,” she hisses. “I have to go. No, I’m fine. He’s fine, too. A little bruised up because of me, but like I said… too much trouble. Okay.” Clothes rustle in my closet, and an elbow bangs against a wall until she grunts in pain. “Shit. Alright. I have to go. Love you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Okay. Bye.”

I stay sitting against the wall, cross my ankles, and pat Giselle’s ears.

And I wait.

I wait for Quinn to face me. I wait for her to open the closet door. I wait for her to love me.

But I’m certain only the first two will come true.

“Come out, Q. I know you’re in there.”

“I’m sleeping.” She makes an actual snoring sound, her way of diffusing a tense situation. “I already told you about my time at Hogwarts, and now you’ve discovered me in a closet. I’m afraid you’ve discovered my secret.”

Shaking my head, I turn and nudge the door open until our eyes meet. “Your secret is that you are The Chosen One?”

“I’ve spent my whole life trying to live a normal existence,” she murmurs. “Telling people I’m a witch just isn’t conducive to normalcy.”

“Well…” I turn and study my bedroom. The large timber bed, the timber dressing table. A flatscreen TV on the wall, and the picture frames that surround it. “The bit about you and normal being incompatible is true. You comfy in there?”

“Ya know, I actually kinda am. And it smells nice in here. It smells like you.”

I turn back in time to catch her smile before she adds, “Wanna talk to me about this?” She pokes her hand out of the closet, and passes a wrinkled