Chapter 8: Day Ninety

Quincy didn't let go of my hand until we were up the stairs and out on the sidewalk.

The night air was cold, and it smelled like rain on hot pavement.

"You didn't have to do that," I said.

"Do what?"

"Say wife."

"You said husband first." He walked me down the block with long, unhurried steps. "I was just returning the courtesy."

"In front of everyone."

"That was the point."

My hand was still in his. Neither of us seemed to remember that.

His car was parked half a block away.

It was a black sedan, clean and quiet, with a faint scratch along the back door.

He stopped beside it and finally turned me around by the hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Brett looked sick."

"I noticed."

"Zara filmed it."

"I noticed that too."

"By tomorrow it'll be on every group chat on campus."

"Probably." He didn't sound worried. "Does that bother you?"

I thought about it.

A month ago I'd have wanted to hide in my room for a week.

A month ago I'd have called myself foolish for walking into that booth.

"No," I said. "I think I liked it."

His mouth moved. "Good."

I put my back against the cold door of the car. It was the nearest thing to lean on.

Quincy stood in front of me, and he was close.

I could see the dark rings around his irises.

I could smell soap and wool and the faint, smoky edge of the lounge.

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