snatch back the laughter as soon as it’s out. “I mean, I’m sure he’s … I just really think it will look better for my project if I can talk to the…” I glance down at the card. “Owner and director. Not, you know. Her son.”
“Well, be that as it may, I know your biology teacher was very supportive of Quint’s time here. If you do decide to come back, maybe we can talk a bit about those volunteer opportunities you mentioned. Honestly, it’s been a long time since we brought in new help, so I’m not entirely sure what I’d do with you. But with some training, it might actually be nice to have another set of hands.”
“Right,” I say, tucking the card into my pocket. “Volunteering. Yeah. I’m really sorry no one is around to … train me? I’m sure that really takes a lot of time and effort. You know, I should probably just let you get back to work. But I’ll email you some questions for sure. Thank you.”
Her eyes wrinkle around the edges when she smiles, and it’s odd how she can look simultaneously too young and too old. I find myself searching for a resemblance to her son. Her hair and skin are darker, and her eyebrows are reasonably tamed … though I suppose that could be maintenance as much as genetics. She’s a beautiful woman, and I can see vestiges of her youth. I think she might have looked more like Quint at one point. But she also seems tired, stressed. Like there’s a weight on her shoulders that hasn’t been lifted for a long time. Whereas Quint exudes a carefree confidence, like there isn’t a thing in this world that could worry him.
“Thanks for stopping by,” she says.
“Of course.” I tip my head gratefully, backing toward the door. “I’ll just let you—”
My back smacks into something and I stumble. A hand grabs my arm to steady me.
I glance over my shoulder and freeze.
So does he, his hand still gripping my arm.
“Oh. Quint,” I say, daring to smile. “Wow. What a small world!”
FOURTEEN
“P-Prudence?” Quint stammers.
He’s wearing a yellow T-shirt, too, and now I can see the logo printed on the chest. The words FORTUNA BEACH SEA ANIMAL RESCUE CENTER surrounded by a ring of turtles and seals and dolphins.
“What are you doing here?” I say, even though I’m staring right at the answer.
He works here.
But that means that Quint Erickson has a job. Or, at least, a volunteer job. I wonder if his mom pays him to be here. Somehow, that idea seems easier to digest. Either way, though, the utter lack of responsibility he showed all year long makes it impossible to imagine him staying in anyone’s employ for long.
Maybe his mom just hasn’t had the heart to fire him.
Quint lifts an eyebrow and his hand falls away. He walks around me, into the lobby, which is suddenly cramped with the three of us standing there. “I work here,” he says. Then his eyes narrow, first skeptically, and then into something almost smug. “You read the paper, didn’t you?”
I cross my arms. “Maybe.”
I wish his mom weren’t here so I could immediately start yelling at him. All my annoyances from the morning come storming back. How he went completely rogue on our project, without even bothering to inform me of the particularly relevant and might-have-been-helpful information that his mom runs an animal rescue center.
“So, what? You came here to critique my spelling?”
“That wouldn’t be my first comment, but since you’re bringing it up … you do know that Fortuna is spelled with an a, not an e, right?”
His jaw tightens. “Autocorrect,” he deadpans.
“Proofreading,” I counter.
“Okay!” he practically shouts. “This was a fun encounter. Thanks for stopping by.”
His mom clears her throat, drawing both of our gazes toward her. She looks expectantly at Quint.
His shoulders shrink into something almost like a pout, and he lazily gestures from me to his mom and back. “Mom, this is Prudence. Prudence, my mom. I think I’ve maybe mentioned her … a time. Or two.”
“Yes, we actually met a few minutes ago,” says Rosa. She smiles at me. “Quint has told me that you’re exceptionally dedicated to your schoolwork.”
Quint looks almost uncomfortable at this statement. We both know dedicated is not the word he used to describe me. Bossy, maybe. Or controlling. Or impossible to please. If he’s comfortable cursing around his mom, he might even have said worse.
I’m sure that whatever he’s told her, it definitely