A Warm Heart in Winter(70)

Blay stepped in and closed the door. “Hi.”

“I, ah, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Keeping a recoil of surprise to himself was a difficult camo job. “You should have called. Or texted. I would have come right away.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your visit. How are the ’rents?”

For some reason, the fact that Qhuinn was using the casual term he always did felt like some kind of positive portent. Which was nuts.

“They’re good. They send their love—and their condolences.”

“I appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked at his hands. “Listen, I just want to apologize—”

“Please don’t move out—”

They both stopped. And said “What?” at the same time.

“Look,” Blay rushed in, “I’m trying to give you the space you require. I really just . . . want to be whatever you need at this tough time. But please, don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”

And don’t hate me for my role in your brother’s death, he tacked on to himself.

When there was only silence coming back at him, Blay cleared his throat and hugged his parka to his chest. “I’ll . . . I mean, I can leave, if you want me to, and go back to my parents—”

Qhuinn burst up from the bed and came over. And the next thing Blay knew, they were holding on to each other, the first physical contact in what felt like forever.

“I’ve missed you,” Qhuinn said roughly.

Blay squeezed his eyes closed. “I’ve been here all along.”

“I know. I’ve been the one who was gone.”

They stayed where they were for a while. Maybe it was long as a year. And then Qhuinn stepped back. For a moment, tension coiled up Blay’s spine, making him stand even straighter. But come on, you didn’t tell someone you’ve missed them and then say you’re leaving.

Right?

Oh, and fuck that meeting in Wrath’s study. The Brotherhood could come and drag him out of here kicking and screaming if they wanted to: Under any circumstances other than that hog-tied hypothetical, he wasn’t moving from the room.

“Come here,” Qhuinn said.

As Blay felt his hand get taken, he was content to be led anywhere—just as long as Qhuinn wanted him to stick around. And yes, that was pathetic. But he was feeling like this whole unexpected meet-andgreet was like having a bump on your arm and going to see the doctor about it—only to discover that the person in the white coat with the medical degree actually wasn’t all that worried it was cancer.

His brain had sure been convinced the freckle was stage-seventy terminal.

They sat down together, and then Qhuinn reached over and picked something off the bedside table—

It was the letter.

From Luchas.

Next to which were the socks Blay had worn the night the remains had been found, the ones that had been left wet when Lassiter had warmed his frostbitten feet and dried his ruined loafers, a pair of afterthoughts that had ultimately been forgotten.

“I found those in my brother’s room,” Qhuinn said.

Blay put his hands up. “As I told you, I didn’t touch anything. Not one thing. I saw the letter and left.”

“I know.” Qhuinn picked up the envelope, holding it in his palms as if it were in danger of shattering. “I talked to Manny earlier tonight. He said you told him no one but me was to go into that room.”

“It’s your private family business.” Blay ran a hand through his hair and glanced around at all the neat-as-a-pin, vacuum-and-dusted. “I love the doggen here, they’re so wonderful—but sometimes they’re almost too good at their jobs. I thought it was important that everything be exactly the way it was left for you.”

“I really appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked over, his blue and green eyes luminous. “And I’ve decided to do the hard thing first, after all.”

“What?”

“I, ah, I wanted to open this with you. If that’s okay?”

As Blay’s throat tightened, he swallowed with difficulty. “Absolutely.”

He might as well learn the truth about his complicity at the same time Qhuinn did. But more than that . . . Qhuinn’s stare had dropped back down to the envelope, and it was clear he was terrified—and the fact that he was letting his fear show was so significant. The male didn’t share that shit with just anybody.

“It’s hard to explain why I’ve left this for as long as I have,” Qhuinn murmured as he stroked over the two words on the front. “But this is my last piece of business with Luchas. Whatever he wrote is our final . . . thing.”

Blay nodded, but stayed silent.

“Did I ever tell you about Seinfeld?” Qhuinn asked. “Or The Office?”

“The, ah, the TV shows, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Qhuinn took a deep breath. And then laughed a little. “Not The Sopranos, though. That I couldn’t resist.”

Blay put his parka aside and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not following here?”

Qhuinn turned the letter over so that the flap that had been glued shut was face-up. “I have this weird thing about my favorite TV shows that have ended. I did it for Home Improvement, too, come to think about it. See, I refuse to watch the last season. It’s this weird thing. Like, back when we had DVDs? I always kept the last season in its wrapper.” His thumb went back and forth on the flap. “That way they’re never finished, you know? I can pretend in my mind that they go on forever, that they’re infinite—because the definition of infinity is no ending. And if I don’t watch the ending there hasn’t been one.” There was a pause and Qhuinn looked up. “That’s nuts, right?”