eyes are misting, and I hope it’s too dark for Quint to see. He can’t know—he can’t possibly know—how good it feels to hear those words. To know he means them.
“Also…” Quint loudly clears his throat and adjusts his legs, crossing one ankle over the other. “I have enormous eyebrows.”
I snort and clap one hand over my mouth. “What?”
“I do. In case you hadn’t noticed.” He leans toward me and points at one eyebrow. “You can come closer if you need to verify.”
“Um. I’ve seen them, thanks.”
“Yeah, exactly. Everyone’s seen them. Aliens on Mars can see them.”
I laugh. “Quint—”
“No, don’t try to tell me they’re not that bad. I own a mirror. I know the truth.” He sighs dramatically and leans back against the cabinet. “When I was a kid, I once asked my mom to help me pluck them.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did. She refused. Gave me some you’re-perfect-just-the-way-you-are mom nonsense. So I sneaked into her bathroom and got ahold of her tweezers and pulled out one hair—just one. It hurt so bad I cried. Seriously, why do girls put themselves through that?”
“I often wonder the same thing.”
“Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to pull any more, which made me cry even harder, and then my mom found me and was like, what the heck is wrong with you? They’re just eyebrows! But the thing is—they make me look so mean. I was worried everyone would think I was some bully and no one would be my friend.”
Sympathy squeezes my chest.
“And when I told my mom that, she said … all I have to do is smile. Because you can’t look mean when you’re smiling.” His lips turn up, but there’s a sadness, recalling this story. “Anyway, I took those words to heart. Ever since then, I’ve tried to be, you know. The guy that smiles. It’s better than being the guy with the mean eyebrows, anyway.” He chuckles, a little self-deprecatingly.
While I sit there feeling like the biggest jerk, remembering how I mocked his eyebrows when he came to karaoke all those weeks ago.
And now I can’t even remember what made me say such awful things. I like his eyebrows. I like how expressive they are. The way they quirk up when he’s teasing. The way they furrow when he’s annoyed. Though I like them less when he’s annoyed at me.
I want to tell him this, but the words are stuck. My throat is dry.
“Anyway,” says Quint, “I guess we’re all self-conscious about something.”
“I guess so.” My words are barely a croak.
He meets my eye and there’s a second—an hour—an eternity—in which neither of us looks away. He has that crooked half smile on his face. My brain falters, leaving me suspended, breathless, trapped.
His attention dips, ever briefly, to my mouth. My insides clench. The distance between us feels like a mile.
Quint inhales and I can’t move, waiting for him to speak, to say my name, to say anything—
But when he does speak, his tone is clipped and brash. Nervous. “Should we talk about something else? The gala? Or biology? Or—school field trips, or something?”
I lick my lips. That does sound safer, and it seems clear neither of us will be falling asleep anytime soon.
“We still need to figure out our raffle prize?” I suggest.
“Good. Right. Something priceless, but that we can actually afford.”
We spend a few minutes pondering. Quint throws out a few ideas—Ari could write them a personalized song? Or the winner could invite some of their closest friends to the next animal-release celebration, like a private party? They’re all good ideas, all possibilities, but nothing seems quite right …
I’m looking around the break room, hoping inspiration will strike, when my attention lands on the photo of the sea turtle caught in the netting and debris.
I gasp. “Quint!”
“What?”
I jump to my feet, tightening the blanket around my waist as I cross the room. “These! Your photos!”
He stands up too, but less enthusiastically. “My photos?”
“Yes! What if we made a series of limited-edition prints showing some of the center’s patients? You could sign each one and number them. They’re so beautiful, and they do such a great job of capturing what the center is all about. People would go nuts for them!”
“Shucks, Pru. That’s mighty kind of you to say.” Despite his joking tone, I can tell he’s embarrassed by the praise. “But come on. They’re too sad. No one would want them.”
I consider this. “Yes, they are sad. But lots of great art is sad. And these pictures, they