Not the Marrying Kind Page 4

  Smothering a yawn, I walked through my apartment and stared through my peephole. Roxy stood there with her middle finger raised, dressed in club attire.

  “Have you been standing with your finger up this whole time?” I said through the door.

  “Open up, bitch.”

  “It’s not polite to surprise people at nine pm on a Tuesday. Some people have work in the morning.”

  She smirked, removed her spare key. I rolled my eyes but found myself smiling. Opening the door, I ushered my big sister inside. She looked gorgeous as usual, all black eye makeup, combat boots, and a leather jacket with spikes down the back.

  “What are you up to?” she asked.

  I collapsed back onto my couch and tossed a pillow at her face. “Tackling the apocalypse that is my inbox right now.”

  “Come dancing with me,” she said. She turned around and dug inside her purse. “I even brought you your favorite shirt to borrow. Mom and Dad will love it, and you don’t even have to stay for the whole time.”

  She held up her old Blondie shirt from high school. I gasped, snatched it from her and crushed it to my chest. “You mean the shirt that you stole from me?”

  “Me? Never.” Her smile was feline. But then she sank down next to me and placed her hands on my knees. “And a week ago you promised me we’d do this. A night out, just the two of us. No Edward. No dates. Just the Quinn sisters, unleashed on the city.”

  The idea was suddenly too tempting to ignore. I’d remained Roxy’s partner in crime through college and law school because this city was way too fun. And when we weren’t spending our nights at The Red Room, we sought out any opportunity we could find to see live music and dance and drink too much wine and stay out way too late.

  Back in the day, if we didn’t end our night at The Westway Diner, eating omelets before dawn, then the night itself must have been a bust.

  But the second I joined Cooper Peterson Stackhouse and took on the actual, 60-hour-a-week workload of an associate estate lawyer, our time together grew more sporadic and involved a lot fewer diner breakfasts at dawn. Until last year, I prioritized these Tuesday nights because it was a guarantee we’d see each other—even though it made my early Wednesday mornings a veritable hell.

  It was worth it, though. To see my sister.

  I turned and gave her such a big, fierce hug she burst out laughing. “Are you okay?”

  “Can’t I hug you?”

  “Now I feel bad that I called you a bitch.”

  I let her go but patted the top of her head. Then I stood up and walked into my bedroom to change, Roxy hot on my heels. She crashed out on my bed, careful to keep her boots from my perfectly pressed pink bedspread. I slipped on my old shirt and enjoyed its worn softness. I dug through my jewelry and hunted for the perfect shade of lipstick. “Knowing that I chose dating a pile of useless men like Brendan over seeing my best friend is making me feel retroactively shitty, though.”

  She crossed her legs. “That first year Edward and I were together, when we basically didn’t leave his bed—”

  “Brag.”

  “—you and I didn’t see each other as much for us time. It was different.”

  I met her gaze in the mirror. “It is a little different now, Roc.”

  She bit her lip. Nodded. “I hate that.”

  “It’s not all bad though,” I said. “It’s only changes. Maybe once I meet my soul mate, we can spend more time together by doing couple’s dates. Like bowling or having game nights.”

  She made a puking face, and I laughed. “Oh, shut up. You don’t want me to win like I used to every single time when we were kids.”

  She didn’t argue, merely sat up on my bed with her palms behind her, kicking her legs in time to the quiet music I had playing on my record player. If I blinked, we could have been teenagers again, getting ready to meet boys whose hearts we’d only break. Because Roxy had too many boyfriends.

  And me? I didn’t have time for love. I only had time for my ambition, even then.

  I still snuck out to go to parties though.

  “Have you heard from Brendan?” She asked.

  “Oh no,” I said quickly. “It’s totally fine.”

  She tilted her head. “You dated for two months. That is long enough to feel a little bit awful. Right?”

  I yanked on tight black dress pants and went searching for the perfect blazer in my closet. The truth was I didn’t feel awful. Not about Brendan, exactly. I was more frustrated with what I believed to be a loss of time. It had been a week since I’d signed my contract. I wasn’t ready to hop back on dating sites quite so soon, but I was close. Comparing, planning, mapping out the best dating websites with the highest match rates. I had been answering work emails when Roxy barged in in her usual manner. But I’d also been compiling my research in a spreadsheet. I’d take that to my fucking grave though. I’d never hear the end of it if my sister found out.

  Stepping back out, I twirled around. “What do you think?”

  “Gorgeous,” she said. “Heels, right?”

  “I wouldn’t leave home without them,” I sang, searching for something red and spiky in my closet. “And, to answer your question, I’m okay. None of these relationships broke my heart, I promise.”

  Roxy didn’t have to say it—but she knew, because I’d told her, that I didn’t believe I’d ever had a broken heart.

  I strutted back out to her happy applause. “You look like a punk-rock CEO. I completely approve.”

  “Always been my vibe,” I said, preening a little. I ran my hands through my shoulder-length hair, adding a touch of hairspray.

  My sister stood up and crossed her arms with a silly smile. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Yes, he was boring in bed too,” I said.

  “I fucking knew it.” She shook her head. “That didn’t bother you?”

  I blew out a breath as I brushed the hair from my face. “I wasn’t pleased with it. I mean, literally.”

  She snorted.

  “But with all things, I thought being committed to the end goal was the point, not all the minutia of dating and sex.”

  “When was the last time you had hot, dirty, good sex?” she asked.

  “Not last year,” I said grimly. “I chose the wrong men is all. It’ll be different now that I know more of what I want.”

  “But you won’t be fucking them?”

  I checked my appearance one last time, pursing my lips and checking my teeth

  “Wait you’re missing one requirement.” My sister appeared next to me with a chunky eyeliner pencil I knew she carried in her purse for these exact moments. “Close ’em.”

  I obeyed. Black eyeliner had always been her thing, but it was impossible to deny her impeccable skill. These were hands that held tattoo guns without shaking, so she could draw along a lash line like no other.

  “No, I won’t be fucking them,” I admitted. “But maybe I need to pay better attention to sexual chemistry in general. None of those guys last year gave me any sparks. Not out to dinner. Not while having sex.”

  Since graduating high school, I’d achieved so much. The day I passed the Bar exam for New York I sank down onto my parent’s couch and cried tears of pure joy and relief. My milestones had been many, and the emotions for me had always been there. Happiness, pride, confidence, gratitude—I was focused, but I wasn’t some robot.

  That spark, though—the one Roxy talked about, the one my parents and my friends and love songs mentioned almost carelessly—that had never happened for me. And I was starting to think it never would.

  “You’ll get it, Fi,” she said softly. “I promise.”

  “You can’t predict the future,” I teased.

  She hummed a little. “But I can say that the fabulous Fiona Quinn won’t end up with some boring-ass guy who’s bad in bed and bland in conversation. That is not your destiny, babe.”

  I fluttered my eyes open, and Roxy turned me around to the mirror. She’d given me an edgy smoky eye
I couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed by. “Damn, girl.”

  “You’d think I’m some kind of artist.”

  A lightbulb flashed in my brain. “Hold up.”

  “Whatever it is, I already don’t want to do it.”

  The smile I gave her was pure sisterly evil. “When you and Edward got engaged, I began prepping for the inevitable arrival of your bachelorette party.”

  Her own smoky eyes narrowed. “That will be in, like, a year.”

  I opened my highly organized closet and pulled out a Tupperware container with a label that said Roxy’s Wedding. I skimmed through it until I found what I was looking for, wrapped in pink tissue paper. “I’ll go with you tonight, but we’re wearing these.”

  She reached forward for the sparkly, diamond-encrusted tiara. Held it up like it was a fucking viper, mere seconds away from sinking its fangs into her hand. “Did I ever tell you I always wanted a little brother?”

  “Shut up,” I laughed. “Come on. Edward would love to see you in diamonds, dahling.” I’d perfected my posh Edward impression over the past year. “Be a princess with me.”

  She grumbled but complied, smiling just a little when she saw our matching appearance caught in the mirror. Hers was lopsided due to her half-shaved-head situation. But mine sat perfectly in the middle, every single strand of hair in place.

  I glanced back at my laptop and the neat stack of files. She must have caught my look of longing because she gave me a slight shove toward the door. “Uh-uh. I’ve got you now. I’m even wearing a fucking tiara. The night is young, Fi.”

  And she was right, of course. The second we stepped outside onto the busy, people-filled street, the night glittering with lights and sound, my heart sped up into a rhythm I recognized. I raised my arm to hail a cab and grabbed Roxy’s hand. Maybe this was what it was like to balance two strong commitments at the same time—a commitment to the chaos of being a punk-rock wild child and a commitment to my relationship goals that felt integral to my personal happiness.

  I was Fiona Lennox Quinn, dammit, and I was prepared to have it all.

  No more bad dates.

  No more useless men.

  It was true love or bust.

  6

  Fiona

  Roxy pulled me through the crowd and up on stage, where The Hand Grenades were getting set up to perform their weekly slot. My mom turned around from her drum set, saw the two of us, and squealed in surprise. Dad followed suit and yelled “Holy shit, my daughters are here!” And then I was being crushed.

  I laughed and negotiated their various safety-pins and piercings and decorative spikes. “So you’re both doing purple hair now?”

  “Roxy said it’s all the rage,” Mom said. I cast a glance over at my sister, who was smiling at us—a big, sincere smile. Guilt slid through me, and I hugged them a little tighter, until my dad said, “Even the fanciest of lawyers make time to see their parents once in a while.”

  I swallowed a sigh but raised an eyebrow their way. “Fancy lawyers have a lot of fancy lawyering to do at the times you’re available to see me.”

  “It’s barely ten! The night is made for music and for people to come alive!” He ended this sentence by handing Mom her drumsticks with a flourish. Adorable as they were, I didn’t miss the subtext: If we’re here, you should be here too.

  Lately their endless teasing and confusion over my different life choices made me feel like I had to assert my independence from them. Made me feel like the choice was either corporate lawyer who adhered to the rules of society or punk rock wild child who lit shit on fire.

  Or but never and. That duality had seemed effortless when I was younger. But now every assertion of my identity felt vital even as it separated me from the people I loved the most.

  So I switched tactics, went with humor over vulnerability. “This is the kind of greeting your cherished daughter gets?”

  Mom shook her head and hugged me again, the top of her purple hair barely coming past my shoulders. “We miss you, Fi.”

  “It’s been hell at work,” I said, softening my tone a little. “And I’ve been extra busy trying to snag myself a decent boyfriend.”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “And?”

  “Bad news I’m afraid. They were all atrocious.”

  Mom turned around and thumbed the back of her vest, where she’d stitched a giant patch that said Smash the Patriarchy. “Most men are, dear. But there’s nothing you can’t accomplish in this world. It’s what makes you so terrifyingly successful.”

  I laughed. “What a compliment.”

  “And true,” Dad said. “Both of my daughters are truly terrifying. Even with tiaras. Very God Save the Queen, very Ramones.”

  I nudged my sister. “See? The whole vibe works.”

  “Our reputation precedes us,” she said with a sardonic grin. “Especially here. We can’t forget that summer Fiona and I crowd-surfed every night for a week. Pop told me the old-time punks were scared shitless at the sight. And then after, believed us to be the baddest bitches in the whole joint.”

  “The old-timers speak the truth.” I shrugged, glancing out over the crowd, filling the space. Like most older venues, The Red Room wasn’t anything fancy or special on the inside. The walls were painted black, the paint was peeling, the floor was sticky. The drinks were cheap and strong, the music was loud and boisterous, and the audience was packed with real fans who’d been coming for decades. An actual second home for the city’s music lovers. And absolutely a second home for my parents.

  Mom reached out and squeezed my hand. “These atrocious men. Do I need to have a visit with them?”

  “I’m already over it,” I promised. “I’ve got paperwork, spreadsheets, and a brand-new system to assist me in achieving my biggest goals. I’ll be fine.”

  She gave me a maternal look that said yeah, sure, if you say so, but I was quick to ignore it. “I’m chasing my joy, I promise.”

  Roxy straightened her askew tiara and grabbed my hand. “Your terrifying daughters need to go get a little drunk on shots. We’ll be out there dancing and throwing our elbows if anyone gets too close, like you taught us.”

  “You’ll kill it, like always,” I said to my dad. He wrapped his arm around my mom. She looked up with the same affection I’d seen her give him my entire life. They were exasperating, a handful, and so fucking in love.

  My dad nodded, grinned, and plugged his guitar into the amp, setting off a cheer from the still-growing audience.

  Two hours later, and I was a hot, happy mess. Roxy had plied me with enough shots to have me just past tipsy. Not drunk, not sloppy, but that brilliant, boozy rainbow of light-hearted exhilaration. It was after midnight, and we’d danced our faces off, twirling and singing at the top of our lungs. There was a uniquely special magic to being a Quinn in the crowd when The Hand Grenades were on stage. My parents had never had chart-topping success but had managed to build a dedicated cult following of punk fans all across the country who filled small venues like this one and sang along to every song.

  That meant Roxy and I were minor celebrities on Tuesday nights, and the extra warm welcome had me nostalgic for the days when straddling my two worlds had been more seamless.

  Now, as I watched my big sister throw her hands in the air and twirl, I realized how much I really had missed her. I pulled her in for a sweaty hug.

  “Ew, gross Fi,” she sputtered, laughing and out of breath.

  “Let me sweat on you,” I yelled. “I fucking missed you.”

  That stopped her for a moment. “We’re always here. I’m always here.”

  “I know,” I said. “Sometimes I need you to kidnap me and force me to have fun.”

  She was sliding her phone from her back pocket. “Always available for a sister kidnapping.”

  When her face lit up at whatever was on her screen, I was fully confident it was her fiancé.

  “Sexting?”

  She bit her lip. “Sexting is too banal of a word to convey the
way Edward Cavendish uses this specific form of communication.”

  I snorted, lifted my hair from the back of my neck. “I’m fucking hot,” I said. “Do you want to go sit on the fire escape with me? Get a little air?”

  “I want to do dirty things to my fiancé.” She pointed at her phone. “If Edward succeeds in doing everything he’s promised in these text messages, I won’t survive the night. So nice knowing you, love you lots.”

  “Have fun on that swing,” I said, wiggling my fingers at her. She tossed her hair with a satisfied smile but stayed quiet. Gave me a kiss on the cheek and then started to move backwards through the crowd.

  On stage, the music stopped for a minute and my dad sang, “Roxy Quinn you better text us to let us know you got home safely.”

  I laughed and flashed my dad a double thumbs-up as he kept right on singing the actual verse of the song—a crowd favorite from The Hand Grenades’ first album. Roxy raised an affectionate middle finger before slipping through the heaving mass of bodies and toward the front door.

  Running a hand through my sweaty hair, I made my way to the side wall and grabbed my blazer from the back of a chair. Then I snuck down a hallway marked Employees Only. Being the daughter of Lou and Sandy Quinn had its privileges, namely that I had run of this place and all of its secret hiding spots. The Red Room’s owner—who everyone called Pop—was a grumpy and surly quasi-uncle to Roxy and me when we were growing up and promised to never tell our parents if he caught one of us up on the fire escape.

  I climbed one set of stairs and then another, the music growing slightly softer. Pop kept storage up here, boxes of liquor, old band posters. The third-floor window was where I was headed. I slipped off my heels and placed them neatly against the wall. Hauling the window open, I climbed through it with a skill born from years of practice. My bare feet landed on the grate, my fingers hooked around the metal. I inhaled the fresh air of New York City at midnight.

  Then I turned and found a man sitting in my normal spot.

  “Don’t fall,” he drawled. “Didn’t expect another person to climb through that window or I would have warned ya you had company.”