such a snot. It was a three-plane-ride day. I just want a hot bath, a ton of good food, and to watch the entire Real Housewives of New York season in one sitting.”
“Well, may you be blessed with all of that,” Arya said, planting a kiss on Dini’s forehead. “I’ll get out of your way, but maybe let me come back tomorrow and help with your unpacking and laundry?”
“Let me guess—need to get away from Bill for a while?”
“You can’t even imagine.” She paused at the door. “How are things with the nerd?”
“You’re going to have to learn his name sometime, Arya.”
“Really? Why? Because he’s sticking around?”
“Yeah,” Dini said. “At least I hope so.”
Her friend dispatched, Dini texted Quin: HOME. WILL CALL YOU LATER! thinking that of all the things she loved about him, maybe the most was that he would not call her until given clearance to do so.
She set the oven to preheat and took a quick shower to wash off the day spent with strangers. After, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, she drew herself a bath, telling Alexa to play her favorite music while she soaked. Love songs, one after another, the lyrics of each conjuring pictures of Quin. While she loved Arya for stocking her fridge with a favorite soda, bath time called for a chilled glass of wine, poured in a plastic cup for safety.
She supposed she should be happy. The exhaustion currently wrapped around her muscles was a symptom of success. This was the life her parents led, only on busses and trains instead of planes and rideshares. She was doing what she was born to do, fifth generation in the business of dazzle (as her father liked to say). He—her father—would have been so proud of her, as he was always consumed with procuring the next big booking. And her mother would have been here, filling in the quiet moments, padding them with bits of comfort meant to simulate a home. She’d done her best, making sure Dini always had her own bedding, her own special shampoo and soap, her schoolbooks and travel case of little tricks, packing and unpacking a normal life from town to town. And, really, if asked, especially in the long conversations with Quin late into the night, Dini had been happy. That was her life. That was her normal.
The difference—and perhaps this explained the emptiness after returning from what was arguably her most financially successful run of shows—is that all that time, all that travel, she’d been with a family. Tonight, as affectionately as she kicked Arya out of her bungalow, she felt the weight of loneliness descend. To combat it, she scrolled through her phone, holding it safely above the water, catching up on social media posts. Through the intimacy of Facebook and Instagram, she had been introduced to Quin’s entire family—parents and sisters Lauren, Cassie, and Jill—virtually attending the glitter ponies birthday party, and a few others since. She video-coached an eight-year-old nephew through a magic trick for his end-of-school talent show. Every post that featured this rambling family gathered in lakefront rentals and campsites got a like with a side of envy. Summer gone, she scrolled through all of their back-to-school pictures, one slideshow beginning with an adorable pigtailed, freckled girl heading to her first day of kindergarten, and ending with twenty-nine-year-old Quin ready for his fifth year of teaching. He stood on the same redbrick porch (must be the sister’s house), holding the same slate with his year written in chalk. Dini couldn’t even imagine that sort of commitment to tradition, and blamed the weird tears pricking at her eyes to a day of travel fatigue and the now empty glass of wine.
Food would help.
She dragged herself out of the tub and put on a thick terry cloth robe. She took the cheese pizza from the refrigerator and was about to cover it with the sliced Roma tomatoes and fresh basil Arya thoughtfully provided, when her phone sounded Quin’s text tone. Her stomach flipped exactly as it had during their first week together, and while that same stomach was grumbling with hunger, she abandoned her pizza and opened the message.
Instead of the usual blue conversation bubble, she found an image of a handwritten message. Tapping the picture to fill her phone’s screen, she needed less than a second to know what she was seeing. The color of an unripe peach, cadet-blue lines. It was a picture of a blank page from Carmichael’s