Chapter 10 - Dinner at Quinn’s Table
Dominic brought cannoli.
No letter.
That mattered more than the cannoli.
Quinn lived in a third-floor apartment with narrow windows, a radiator that knocked every twenty minutes, and a kitchen barely large enough for two people to stand without negotiating.
Dominic arrived exactly at six.
He had spent ten minutes in the car downstairs practicing how not to apologize.
By six-oh-two he had already failed.
“I’m sorry the box is crushed.”
Quinn looked at the bakery box.
“That apology is allowed.”
Dominic smiled nervously.
She let him in.
Before dinner Quinn made Dominic wash his hands because he had spent all afternoon in a warehouse. He obeyed, then dried them on the wrong towel. She corrected him with such casual annoyance that he had to look away for a second. The ordinariness hurt in a good way.
He had imagined reunion as something cinematic: tears, forgiveness, maybe a photograph on a mantel. Instead he was being scolded for using the decorative towel. For once, that felt closer to family than anything he had pictured.
They ate baked ziti at a small table by the window.
For the first fifteen minutes they discussed normal things.
Quinn’s work schedule.
Dominic’s hatred of toner.
Mrs. Alvarez’s knee.
The Cubs.
It felt unnatural at first.
Then less so.
Halfway through dinner Dominic noticed a photograph on the shelf.
Quinn at twenty-four with a woman in a hospital gown, both smiling.
“Who’s that?”
“My friend Kendra.”
“From Milwaukee?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Cancer.”
Dominic lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s okay now.”
He looked up.
Quinn smiled faintly. “Not every sad photograph needs a funeral.”
Dominic laughed.
That was the first easy moment.
Later, while Quinn wrapped leftovers, Dominic said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”
She kept folding foil.
“I did.”
Dominic went still.
“When?”
“Twice.”
His face emptied.
“Where?”
“I sent letters to the old office on Archer. One when I was seventeen. One when I was nineteen.”
“I never got them.”
“I know that now.”
Dominic sat slowly.
Quinn continued.
“The first one came back unopened. The second didn’t. I thought you read it and chose not to answer.”
Dominic covered his mouth.
“Who handled mail then?”
Quinn looked at him.
“Does it matter?”
He lowered his hand.
The old Dominic would have started naming people.
Investigating.
Finding someone to blame.
This Dominic understood the question.
“No,” he said.
Quinn nodded.
“It mattered to me for years. Then it stopped.”
“What did the letters say?”
“The first said I was alive.”
Dominic’s eyes filled.
“The second said I was getting married.”
He shut his eyes.
Quinn watched him.
“Don’t turn this into another thing you punish yourself with.”
“How am I supposed not to?”
“By noticing I’m sitting here.”
He opened his eyes.
She leaned against the counter.
“You keep acting like the only honest response to what happened is to suffer forever.”
Dominic stared at her.
“What do you want instead?”
“Consistency.”
The word was plain.
Almost disappointing after fifteen years of drama.
Quinn continued.
“If you say you’ll call Sunday, call Sunday. If you can’t come, say you can’t. If I don’t answer, don’t send five men to make sure I’m alive.”
“I did that once.”
“You did it twice.”
He looked embarrassed.
She almost smiled.
“And stop asking Vincent what I say about you.”
“I haven’t.”
“Good.”
Dominic stood to leave around nine.
At the door, he hesitated.
Quinn noticed.
“What?”
“Can I hug you?”
She did not answer immediately.
Dominic waited.
Then Quinn stepped forward.
The hug was brief.
Awkward.
Real.
Dominic closed his eyes but did not hold too tightly.
When they separated, Quinn said, “Sunday. Seven.”
He nodded.
“I’ll call.”
“You better.”
May you like
He did.
