Chapter 68

“Where the hell did you get this?” Octavia asked incredulously.

Quentin observed the plastic purple gargoyle she was holding up. “I probably picked it up from a curb or dumpster,” he replied.

Octavia’s expression was blank, and she looked to Gracie, who was crouched over the pieces of an unassembled piece of furniture with a drill in one hand and an instruction booklet in the other.

“Gracie, I think your boyfriend is a hoarder,” Octavia said.

Gracie looked up from the myriad of parts on the floor. “That’s a bit hypocritical coming from you, Octavia.”

While Quentin whooped in laughter, Octavia frowned and put her hands on her hips.

“I am not a hoarder!” Octavia protested. “I can get rid of things…it’s just too much work to sort through everything. So I just let it accumulate, and then one day, I throw it all out.”

Gracie was studying the pieces before her with single-minded determination. “Okay, if you say so.”

Quentin placed his arm on Octavia’s shoulder comfortingly. “It’s all right, Octavia. Would you like to join my hoarder support group? We meet on Wednesdays.”

Octavia glared up into Quentin’s face. “No, thank you. And you really shouldn’t sass people who generously offered their precious time to help you move all your junk into this…structure.”

Octavia glanced around the large rectangular room they were in with its high ceilings and big windows running the entire length of one wall.

It wasn’t just any kind of normal house that Quentin had enlisted Octavia and Gracie to help him move into.

It was an old, renovated juice factory. Quentin had just closed on the empty, unused property and wasted no time making the non-house a kind-of home.

They were standing in the main assembly area, the wide space that had once been filled with manufacturing bottling equipment, conveyor belts, and the like.

All of that had been cleared out, and instead, pieces of furniture were scattered in a chaotic formation around the place.

At one end of the room was a metal spiral staircase leading to what used to be offices that overlooked the assembly area where Quentin had set up two bedrooms.

Unsurprisingly, Quentin’s furnishings matched his personality—vibrant, mismatched, and over the top.

All sorts of things were in the space: coffee table made of old wooden crates, a bright-orange leather couch, a peacock chair with frayed wicker armrests, an antique chest covered in stickers…

It was like Pee-wee’s Playhouse on acid. Which was the exact phrase Quentin had used to describe his interior decorating tastes.

“Okay, then!” Quentin announced. “Let’s get something done. Gracie, darling, do you need any help with that?”

“Nope,” Gracie said, tossing the instruction booklet aside and confidently picking up one of the furniture set pieces.

“I’ll have this couch done in no time. Then I can start on that other one.” She offhandedly motioned to another pile of assorted pieces a few feet from her.

“What is that?” Octavia asked.

“A foosball table,” Quentin said proudly. “One of my most treasured possessions. I found it on a curb, abandoned by the ungrateful barbarians who couldn’t see the true value of such a magnificent—”

“I get it. You really like it,” Octavia cut in. “Give me that hammer, I’ll hang up your pictures.”

Quentin scowled at her but handed her a hammer and a large framed canvas picturing a terrier wearing a top hat.

“So, Octavia,” Quentin asked while she climbed the stepladder positioned against the wall. “How are things with you and the esteemed Raemon Kentworth?”

“We’re okay,” Octavia said, holding the frame against the wall.

“No, no,” Quentin said, “a little higher.”

Octavia moved the frame an inch above its original position.

“Perfect.”

Watching her mark the spot on the wall to hammer in a nail, Quentin asked, “Out of nothing more than idle curiosity, might I ask if there are wedding bells in your future?”

Octavia nearly fell off the ladder from shock. She looked downward to Quentin with a face of utter mortification.

“What?!” she shrieked.

Quentin smiled, then turned to Gracie. “You were right. She is fun to watch when she freaks out.”

“I told you,” Gracie said.

“Seriously, Quentin? While I’m on a ladder?”

“Now, now, it was all in jest,” Quentin said soothingly. “My apologies. It can be quite jarring for the concept of marriage to be brought up in the early stages of one’s relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship. It’s a fuck-with-ship,” Octavia said.

“What in the blazes is that?”

Octavia sighed, setting the hammer down. “It means we’re just casual. It’s all physical with no strings attached.”

“Aren’t you living in a house he’s paying for?” Quentin asked.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t he get you that antique computer?”

“Yes.”

“Well…,” Quentin said, “must be one hell of a physical relationship.”

“If by that you mean I’m some sex goddess…then no. If anything, all the sexual divinity is on his side.”

“Then he’s obviously in love.”

“I’m really getting tired of hearing that.”

“What? You don’t think it’s true?”

“Of course not! How could it be?” Octavia’s frown deepened. “Why would it be?”

A sly look came over Quentin’s face. “Should we put it to the test?”

“What do you mean?”

Quentin cleared his throat as if preparing to outline a detailed diabolical plan.

“Let’s give Raemon some kind of test. Being in love with someone means being ready to devote your entire life to them.”

“That sounds very unhealthy,” Octavia said honestly.

“Is it? I’m extremely willing to devote my entire life to Gracie.”

Octavia looked to Gracie. “You’re hearing this, right?”

Gracie didn’t look up from the bit she was screwing onto her drill. “Yup. He’s definitely a crazy romantic.”

“Don’t you think that’s unhealthy?” Octavia asked.

“Of course it is” was Gracie’s complacent response.

“But…but…aren’t you concerned?” Octavia turned back to Quentin. “A lot of people want nothing more than someone vulnerable to manipulate.”

Quentin grinned. “Fortunately, Gracie isn’t the manipulative type. Are you, darling?”

“Nope,” Gracie said, “manipulation is too much of a bother.”

Octavia shook her head. “I don’t know whether you guys are perfect for each other…or the worst thing to happen to each other.”

“The former, obviously,” Quentin said.

“Now back to Raemon. I propose we test the extent of his affections. Let’s see how concerned he would be if he thought…oh, I don’t know, maybe that something bad had happened to you?”

Octavia snorted.

“He’d come running probably. But that means nothing. He seems to think I can’t help but get into trouble, and he definitely relishes the experience of ‘saving me.’” She made air quotes as she spoke.

“That could be evidence of his affection,” Quentin said.

“Or it could just be his alpha-male side acting out.”

“Hmm…you’re right. Men do like to be white knights saving damsels in distress.”

“I don’t get that. Why?” Octavia said. “Why set yourself up as the one who always has to save the damsel from danger?

“By default, that means the damsel is always getting into dangerous situations and the knight always has to save her. Like, at some point, wouldn’t the knight want to take a day off?”

“And who saves him if he’s in trouble?”

Quentin nodded wisely. “It’s all part of the great myth that is manhood. All brawn and domination and stuff like that.”

He sighed. “It gets old and tiresome rather fast. But woe to those who defect from the prescribed path!”

“You did it.”

“And I’ve suffered for it, believe me.” Quentin’s dark tone suddenly brightened.

“Can I just say how refreshing it was meeting you and Gracie? I don’t think I’ve ever been so well received by complete strangers.”

“I mean, look at us,” Octavia said, “we’re not exactly aligned with the norm ourselves.”

“Thank heavens. I’ve had some rather traumatic experiences with ‘normal’ women. Though…still a lot less than I’ve received from ‘normal’ men.”

“That’s because,” Gracie spoke up, “it’s easier to reject a system that’s been imposed on you than it is to reject one you imposed on yourself.”

“Whoa…” Octavia breathed. “That’s deep.”

“Isn’t she just brilliant?” Quentin gushed. “Darling, I don’t know how you always manage to be so indifferent to these things. Societal pressure and whatnot.”

“And other people’s opinions,” Octavia added. “You really just don’t care about what people think.”

Gracie shrugged. “That’s because ‘people’ don’t think. When individuals get together, they become the ‘people’ who start dictating how everyone else should live, they become one big, unified idiot.

“I don’t see why anyone would want the approval from an idiot.”

Octavia chuckled. “That’s so Gracie.”

“You should write a book,” Quentin said, “share your words of wisdom with the world.”

“Nah. I can’t be bothered.”

“You should write one,” Octavia said to Quentin. “Call it ~Even White Knights Need a Day Off~.”

“I’ll remember that,” Quentin said. “But, for the millionth time, back to you. So…how can we determine if Raemon has feelings for you without getting his stereotypical masculine side involved?”

“You can’t,” Octavia said bluntly. “Therefore, the only thing drawing us together is hormones.”

“I’ve got it!” Quentin burst out. “Octavia, where is he right now?”

“I don’t know. He went in to work today. Probably in the office. Or touring some plants or something.”

“Why don’t you text and ask him for”—Quentin searched the room—“paint. Yes, tell him we need paint.”

“Why?” Octavia asked.

“To see whether he’ll do it. Text him and tell him to bring you five gallons of sunshine-lemon yellow paint—water-based, eco-friendly—and if he delivers it to you himself, then it’s obvious. He’s in love.”

“Yeah, that sounds really dumb.”

“No, it doesn’t!” Quentin urged her. “I’d drop whatever I was doing and travel miles to bring Gracie a pencil if she asked me!”

“But we’ve already established you’re kinda messed up.”

“Love does that to you,” Quentin insisted. “Go on. Text him. Sunshine-lemon paint.”

“This just sounds like a way for you to get free paint,” Octavia said.

“Kill two birds with one stone,” Quentin quipped. “Do it.”

Octavia reluctantly pulled out her phone and began typing in her message. When she was done, she hit “send” and slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“I can guarantee you, your plan will not work,” she told Quentin.

“We’ll see about that,” Quentin said, grinning.

Eventually, they got back to work. Octavia hammered nails into the wall and hung picture frames, and Quentin stood below the ladder pointing at where he wanted the frames to go.

Gracie moved from one pile of furniture pieces to another, assembling a shelf, a couch, a dresser, and the enchanting foosball table. Soft rock was playing from a vinyl record player.

Besides the music, the air was punctuated with the sounds of Quentin changing his mind about the placement of a picture as soon as Octavia had hung it up.

Then the exasperated sighs Octavia let out whenever he did, and then the short argument that they’d both get into and carry on until Gracie ordered them to stop.

Time passed by swiftly without any of them realizing it.

Eventually, a loud knock sounded on the door. Well, at what functioned as a door. Technically, it was a dock door, kind of like what you’d find on a garage.

“Pizza’s here!” Quentin announced, bolting for the door.

“Good, I’m starving!” Octavia said. She positioned the last picture on the wall.

Quentin undid a large metal latch and dragged the sliding door open.

As he did so, Quentin was saying, “Mr. Pizza Delivery Man, you are the answer to our—oh, goodness! Raemon Kentworth!”

“What?!” Octavia exclaimed.

She dropped the framed picture in her shock and nearly got thrown off the high rung of the ladder. But unlike the last time she’d almost fallen, this time she wasn’t able to right herself.

For a breathless, quick second, her arms flailed around while she tried to regain her balance.

But she could feel her body tipping backward and knew with an ominous certainty that she was going to hit the ground.

At what felt like the last nanosecond before her body slammed onto the floor, she unconsciously squeezed her eyes shut.