Instant Karma - Marissa Meyer Page 0,133

from Guadalajara, which she brings up every time I visit. I think it might her way of bonding with me. Like—hey, you rescue animals? Me too!” He shrugs. “I mean, she’s trying.”

“Do you like your stepmom?”

“She’s not bad.” He chomps through another handful of popcorn. “I can tell they really love each other, her and my dad, so I’m happy for them.” He pauses to side-eye me. “You’re fishing for that childhood trauma story, aren’t you?”

I squeeze one eye shut, feeling like he caught me. “You were just so adamant before that you’re totally cool with your dad being remarried, living in San Francisco … It just seems like maybe you’re hiding something.”

“Well, maybe you can meet them someday, and then you can decide for yourself.”

My heart jumps, and Quint, as if realizing what he just said, immediately looks away. “My dad is actually kind of unhappy with me right now.”

“Oh? What for?”

“I usually spend the last two weeks of summer vacation with him. But I called him yesterday and told him I didn’t think it was going to work out this year.”

It takes me a second to realize … “Because of the gala?”

He nods. “I want to be here to help you with it. It didn’t feel right to leave.”

“Oh, Quint! I didn’t know. Nothing is decided yet. We could postpone it until—”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s fine, really. My dad will get over it. We’re already planning some long weekends during the school year, and he’ll get me for pretty much all winter break.” His face softens and he looks almost uncomfortable as he adds, “I don’t want to go to San Francisco right now.”

The way he says it, there’s something else implied there.

Don’t overthink, Prudence.

He clears his throat and looks around. “We should probably go,” he says, and I realize we’re the last two people in the theater. We gather our things and stand up. “So, other than your distaste for my namesake,” he says as we slip between the rows of chairs, “you liked the movie?”

“Ha! Speaking of being traumatized!” I joke. “I’m glad you took me snorkeling already, because that’s probably the last time I will ever go into the water.”

“Give it a few weeks. The fear will pass.”

“Nope. Never. I do look like a seal, you know. From underwater? I’d be the first to go.”

His smile fades slightly as he peers at me. “We all look like seals from underwater. At least, to a shark we do.”

“And thank you for confirming why I am never swimming in the ocean ever again.”

“We’ll see about that. I can be pretty persuasive.”

I grunt, unconvinced, though a part of me can’t keep from imagining what he could do to lure me back into the waves. I shiver as a number of possibilities float unbidden through my mind.

“Speaking of snorkeling,” says Quint as we leave the auditorium. “I have something for you.” He reaches into his back pocket and produces a glossy photograph. It’s a little warped from being in his pocket all day, and the printing quality isn’t the best, but my heart still leaps when I recognize the sea turtle.

My sea turtle. The one I spotted when we went snorkeling. He captured it with its head raised, looking directly at the camera, waves of light flickering over the sand below. It’s beautiful.

“Sorry it got a little bent,” Quint says, uncreasing one of the corners. “I can print another copy if you want.”

“I will cherish it always,” I say, cradling the photo in my hands. I mean for it to sound like a joke, but I’m not sure that it is.

“I’m holding you to that. When you die, I want you to be buried with that picture.”

I laugh and tuck the photo into my notebook. “Thank you. Truly. I love it. And … okay, maybe someday I’ll go snorkeling again. Maybe. We’ll see.”

His grin widens. “See? Persuasive.” He starts heading for the doors, but I stop him and make a beeline for the concessions stand instead.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m going to ask to speak to the manager. See about getting this place booked for the gala.”

“Now? We can’t do it tomorrow?”

“No time like the present!” I chirp.

But when I start to talk about event space rentals and community events, the boy behind the concessions stand gives me a perplexed look and tells me the manager isn’t in, and I should maybe try calling or something?

“Told you so,” says Quint as we head to the exit

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