Running Away

chapter twelve: three's a crowd, but four's a party

Edited.

T W E L V E : THREE'S A CROWD, BUT FOUR'S A PARTY.

- Derek -

I could hear Miranda's shrill voice shouting at Warren, as soon as the elevator doors slid open on the sixth floor. But judging from the pitch and volume, it wasn't something that serious—had it been, she wouldn't have been screaming her head off at him, she would've kept dangerously quiet until Warren realized that he screwed something up.

I was able to decipher some of her garbled arguing once I got closer to my apartment. "Warren, we can't just do this to him. The kid's been through a lot in the past three years, and I don't want to spring another problem into his life. He's a sophomore in college—he ought to be getting drunk at football games and joining clubs, not trying to fix shit in our lives." She paused there, a series of deep breaths and smothered sobs filling the silence. After another minute or two, Miranda sighed. "I just don't want to cause him trouble."

By this point, I knew they were talking about me. They had to be. There wasn't any other college sophomore Miranda knew who had "been through a lot in the past three years." And I was sure of that, because she'd been through it with me. Even when I didn't confide in Devon or Warren, I always went to Miranda for help. But the excruciating amount of pity laced through her tone killed me.

"Look, Miranda," Warren began, calm and calculated, like he always was when he was at fault. "You're right, he has dealt with more than he should have, but doesn't that just mean he can handle tough situations? All I'm saying is," he stopped for a second, and I could picture the scene in my head; Warren stepping closer to Miranda, squeezing both her shoulders in his palms, holding her tight so that she was forced to listen to him, "he's strong, and I think he's the best person to go to right now. He's—he's a Quinn, Miranda."

A sense of pride washed through me, accompanied in full by a sense of sheer dread. Obviously, Warren trusted me, but that didn't mean whatever he was going to trust me with was good. Especially not if it'd caused a rift between him and Miranda, and especially not if I was their first choice on the matter.

Straightening up to my full height and gathering whatever shreds of courage I could find, I pushed the door open, plastering on the most clueless expression I could muster. But the scene I was met with quickly transformed the slight smile on my mouth into a decisive frown.

Miranda was on the couch, elbows on her knees, the fingers of one hand knotted into her reddish-brown waves. Warren was kneeling in front of her, grasping onto her free hand with both of his, like he was pleading with his wife for something. I scanned the room for Levi, but he was nowhere to be found, and when I raised a brow at the two of them, Miranda gestured toward the hall—he was asleep in my room. Pushing herself up from the rickety sofa, Miranda crossed over to where I was, still shuffling my feet on the threshold, searching for anything appropriate to say.

"Derek," she uttered, and I found myself avoiding her usually comforting hazel irises. When I didn't look at her, Miranda grabbed me by the arm, and shook me lightly. "Derek, I know you heard us."

"How would you know that?" I countered rather childishly, unwilling to confess that I'd been eavesdropping on their conversation.

Miranda chuckled, spinning on her heels to address Warren. "And this is the person you want to depend on during our financial crisis?"

My jaw dropped at her harsh announcement, and my stare immediately transferred from Miranda's back to Warren's face, which was oddly blank, like he was trying to hide something from me. Striding around Miranda swiftly, I confronted Warren, who had taken Miranda's seat when she'd gotten up. His gaze was trained on his shoelaces, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip out of embarrassment.