Quinn
Cash takes a nap while I clean his condo. With spring break ending and having to leave for Boston tomorrow morning, I want to ensure his place is spotless and his cupboards are full. With one final swipe along the countertop, I download every memory of this week. I try to enjoy the last few hours of ocean breeze and Cash's soft snores carrying across the condo as he sleeps. I think about how far we've come and how fate brought us back together.
When I open a cupboard, at least five empty whiskey bottles tumble around my feet and onto the floor. What the...? My heart feels like a wild drum beneath my ribs.
He's been drinking.
He's been drinking excessively and hiding it from me. I've smelled whiskey on his breath on two occasions, but I thought those were isolated incidents. I didn't realize it was this bad. The thought of him turning to alcohol again is painful—no, unbearable—when he could be turning to me. It makes me choke inside.
I feel my face flame with anger, and I stumble back to the kitchen table, suddenly feeling like there isn't enough oxygen anywhere. I stare at the empty bottles in front of me, pick them up, and stuff them back into the cupboard.
Why does it feel like my stomach has dropped out, leaving nothing but a hole filled with acid?
I am reeling. My heart splinters into a thousand pieces. Realizing he's still suffering from his addiction tells me he's not okay. His drinking is worse than I ever thought or expected. I blink and wipe my eyes as if I have something in them, not as if I am about to break down on the kitchen floor. He's given me so many chances to walk away, and I've been so sure of making us work that I didn't even comprehend why he would want to push me away. He's been struggling with his demons. I've been so blinded by what I wanted that I never took the opportunity to appreciate that he's been suffering silently, too.
I know what I have to do.
My stomach twists anxiously.
If there is one thing I've learned about falling in love with Cash, it is that you never turn your back on someone you love. You fight for them. You push them to be their best. And you don't let them fall.
___________
I timed it perfectly. Greg Callahan, a former NHL player and one of my father's closest friends, was driving from San Diego to meet us for dinner. Because it was my last night in Santa Anna, Cash and I decided to keep our tradition alive but switch it up by going out for Chinese instead of ordering in.
There is no sense in hiding in his condo now that the world knows we are together, including Lyndsey. After seeing the article, she didn't hesitate to call me this afternoon. She told me my photo was posted on the NHL Players/Girlfriends website. I thought Lyndsey would scold me and be angry like our father about the news, but she wasn't. Instead, she asked me if I was happy. And when I told her I was, she accepted my decision. I updated her on my plans to finish my semester at Harvard with the possibility of transferring to UCLA to be closer to Cash and, of course, her, which made her ecstatic.
When we arrived at Ling Lee's Chinese Restaurant, Cash opened the entry door for me. As we walk inside, my heart beats like a drum. I survey the restaurant for Greg, but he's nowhere to be found. I nervously chew on my bottom lip as Cash follows behind me with his hand on my lower back. The hostess seats us at a table for four in the back corner.
Cash opens a menu and says, "Should we order the usual, or should we go rogue on your last night?"
I smile at him, trying to ignore the twisting pain in my chest, knowing Cash will not be pleased with what I've arranged tonight. He sits across from me, eyes penetrating my calm exterior. Where on earth is Greg?
"Well?" he asks, lifting a hand and running it through his hair, completely ruining the pathetic styling job he attempted.
"Let's go rogue," I say, letting out a tense breath.
Over Cash's shoulder, I glimpse a tall, broad man walking into the restaurant. Greg is here.
The waitress approaches our table, and even though I know she's speaking to me, I can't speak. Greg quickly spots us, gives me a wave and walks toward our table. He looks like he lost weight, and although he is neatly dressed and clean-shaven, his clothes hang all wrong on his tall frame. He looks much different than I remember when I was a teenager, but I also know he's been through a lot these past ten years.
"Is another person joining you?" the waitress asks as Greg appears behind her.
I swallow, looking away to the wall, begging my emotions to stay bottled up. "Yes, he will be joining us. Can you please give us a few extra minutes?"
The waitress nods and walks away.
Cash cranks his head in Greg's direction with a scowl on his lips. "Greg Callahan?" His glare shoots back to me, unimpressed. "Quinn, what is going on here?"
"Cash..." I stand up and shift my eyes between him and Greg. "This is Greg. He used to play with my father in the NHL.
"I know who he is." His voice is cold. "What I don't know is what he's doing here."
"I invited him." I gesture for Greg to take the seat next to me. "He is here to have a chat with you."
"Quinn, seriously?" he asks, his voice low and demanding.
I don't let his tone affect me, and I continue doing what I want. What I know is right. "Greg, this is my boyfriend, Cash Brooks."
"Yes, a legend in his own right." Greg leans across the table and shakes Cash's hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Quinn, you should've told me you invited someone to dinner with us." Cash runs his hand across his mouth.
"She's been a little worried about you," Greg interrupts. "Says you've been having some troubles. She told me she found a stockpile of empty whiskey bottles in your kitchen cupboard today."
"Are you kidding me? No. Um, I'm fine."
The lump in my throat seems to spread both down and out, clogging my ability to breathe, pressing down against my stomach. "Cash. Please. You keep on telling me you choose me. But I need you to choose you first this time."
He winces, leaning back in his chair.
I've experienced a million emotions in the past six months—plenty of anger, some regret, frequent guilt, and a steady hum of self-righteous pride. But I realize Cash needs me, and I need to be the one to confront him about cleaning up his act. He knows I'm right, even if he doesn't want to face his demons. Because he loves me, I know he will respect me for inviting Greg to speak with him.
"Quinn invited me because she's worried about you. She was hoping we could talk a little bit. I'm sure you know how my NHL career ended years ago."
Cash looks over at me. "I can get back on track without your help, you know?"
"Yeah, I know. But maybe you need a little help. A little reminder." I push the words past the wall of heartbreak in my throat. It takes every ounce of strength not to reach out and touch him. "I know you're trying. But when I found those empty bottles, I panicked. I'm leaving for Boston tomorrow. I can't leave knowing you are still struggling. I won't let you end up like my mom."
He considers this, eyes moving over my face. A muscle in his jaw twitches, a telltale sign I've struck a chord.
"Everyone needs a little help now and then, right?" Greg asks. "If you could do this alone, don't you think you probably would've done it by now?"
Cash swallows hard, taking a deep breath. "Yeah."
"I remember watching you play when you first were drafted to the Tornadoes. I remember thinking I hadn't seen real talent like yours in a long time."
Straightening, Cash says, "You did not."
"Yes, I did," Greg replies. "It was only a few years before you started playing that my career ended. I wished I hadn't picked my addiction over the pros. Watching you made me miss the game."
"But for Greg, it was already too late," I pipe up. "He let his addiction define him and ruin his career."
"Quinn, do you think you'd do me a favour and see if you can find the waitress?" Greg narrows his eyes at me. "And when you find her, can you ask her to bring us some water? Please and thank you."
I swallow down about five thousand different reactions. The primary one is an irritation for shooing me away when I'm the one who invited him here. I look across the table at Cash, and he nods. I shift my eyes between them and then push back from the table. But after I round the corner leading to the washrooms, I purposely stop to eavesdrop on their conversation.
"Cash, I don't know what I need to say, alright? I can't promise you what will happen if you get clean. But unfortunately, I know exactly what's going happen if you don't."
"I don't mean to be like this." Cash sighs.
"I know that. I know a perfect place, Cash."
There is a heavy silence until Cash speaks again. "Those places don't work for me."
"That's exactly what I said till one of them did. Cash, listen to me. You have a woman who loves you, and I know it looks like she's up on top of the world, but that girl is hurting and needs you. She might not know it, you might not know it, but she needs you and needs you to be clean. Do you understand that? She doesn't need another person like her mother to let her down. Okay?"
"Okay."
Goosebumps break out along my skin. His simple response rocks me. He isn't fighting or denying, but he says exactly what I need to hear. He might not know I'm listening, but he's made me so incredibly relieved and filled with hope.
"Cash, I do care what happens to you," Greg assures him.
"But you barely know me. What do you want from me?"
"Nothing. I want you to get clean. Why would you think I want something from you?"
"Everybody I know, except Quinn, wants something from me, so..."
"That's a sad way to live."
"Yeah, well, it may be sad, but it's true," Cash says.
"You know, not everybody wants something from you. And if you think they do, maybe you need to spend some more time alone, you know? All these issues you got with what happened to your brother and mother and this so-called wife of yours...it's time to forgive yourself and move on. Not only for you, but for Quinn."
I can feel tears forming in my eyes, and I blink them back before I rejoin them. "What about me?" I ask and take the seat in the empty chair beside Cash.
He quirks an eyebrow and watches me for a moment before he slides his hand over the top of mine. Just his simple touch causes my stomach to jump.
"Nothing," Greg says. "Were you able to find the waitress?"
"No, I didn't..." Instinctively, I relax when I look up at Cash's affectionate grin. "Did you guys have a good chat?"
"We did." Cash's eyes soften, and he reaches out and pushes a strand of hair behind my shoulder. "Thanks for introducing me to Greg."
"So?" I ask.
"Greg was about to recommend a few good treatment centers."