Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 355(@200wpm)___ 284(@250wpm)___ 237(@300wpm)
“There’s nothing little about your life, Quin. You don’t have to do what your dad says.”
“At first, I told myself I won’t let it happen,” he says. “But … it isn’t realistic. It’s a pipedream, to imagine I can find a decent enough job that would both pay my rent as well as my tuition. I can probably take out a loan, but then I’ll be paying off debt until I’m eighty. And for what? For my indulgent, self-serving art to sit on the wall of some doctor’s office?” He rolls his eyes. “There I go, letting my professor’s words fly out of my mouth. But maybe that’s the kind of artist I need to be. Someone who sells nothing but pretty sunsets. Not someone who changes the world.”
“Quin …”
Our energetic server returns with our orders. I give her a halfhearted thank you as Quintin stares at me through the steam rising off his plate. After she leaves, he peers down, lifts one of the tacos to his mouth, and takes a hearty bite. “Yep,” he mutters softly through his mouthful, chewing. “Fucking delicious, if I’m being honest here. Just don’t let my dear abuelita hear me say that.”
“I can help you out, Quin. You don’t have to face all of this by yourself.”
He swallows his bite, then seems to observe the taco, like he’s checking it for a secret ingredient. “No need to sweat it, Adrian. I gotta put my big boy pants on. Face the real world.”
“This is the real world. Your art is just as real as … as anything else.”
“I appreciate the thought, but—”
I get right up out of my side of the booth and slide onto his side, shoving him over and inadvertently interrupting him taking another bite of a tasty breakfast taco.
“Hey!” he protests through his mouthful.
I put an arm over the back of the seat and bring in my face, getting right in his. “Look, I may not be some … like, intellectual type who thinks he’s cooler than he really is and overcompensates or whatever. I don’t write poems about chemistry that mean something else. I’m just a guy who was born on the ratty side of a Texas beach town with too many brothers and no damned sense at all when it comes to sustaining a meaningful relationship. My past is evidence of that. So’s the stupid names they call me all over the island, visitors and locals alike.”
“Is this going somewhere?” he asks, mouth still full, chewing with tired eyes.
“But just because I’m not an artist like you doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m saying. My dad was sort of an artist. Well, a musician, to be exact. Guitarist. Kent, too. And maybe I don’t have a crumb of any of their talent, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about.” I peer straight into his eyes. “You gotta believe in yourself as much as I believe in you, Quin.”
He swallows his bite and smiles at me.
Then he pats my cheek. “You’re so adorable.”
I frown. “Don’t patronize me. I’m being serious.”
“Me too.”
“And if your dad wants to pull the plug on your life, y’know what? You need to seriously consider some other options. Other very obvious options. Such as …” I spread my hands. “Living with me.”
He gapes. “What?”
“Just until you figure out your own thing. Stay at my place and keep going to your art school. That covers your living situation. And we’ll figure out the tuition part. I’m sure there’s some kinda work we can find for you here on the island. I know people.”
“Adrian …”
“It’s an easy solution. How much is your tuition? No, never mind, we’ll figure that out later. First, you’ve got a hot breakfast you need to enjoy before it gets cold.”
“I can’t invade your whole life like that. I … We’ve only known each other … I’ve got to—”
“Look, it’s the least your boyfriend can do for you when you’re in a bind as serious as this one. Besides …”
“Wait, what?”
I stare at him. “What?”
“Did you just call yourself my boyfriend?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Did I just call myself his boyfriend?
I’m about to answer that when I notice someone at the front talking to the hostess.
My damned dad.
What in the fuck is he doing here?
Quin notices my staring. “Who’s that?”
“No one,” I answer, turning my back on my dad and facing forward, for a moment forgetting everything—even the fact that I just called myself Quintin’s boyfriend.
Is that what I really think of myself as?
Have I already committed myself to a real and serious relationship with Quin? Has my heart made some decision about this before my brain did?
“Adrian, are we … boyfriends …?”
“It’s my old man,” I finally confirm, though it also might be to dodge his question. I take a resentful bite out of a taco in front of me, glowering.