The Sullivan Sisters

Cards on the Table

Quinn had an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't quite as bad as when she was eight-years-old and stuffed herself with as much candy and popcorn as her cheeks could hold before topping it off with a sixteen-ounce coke at a neighbor's birthday party. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, all the way until it showed back up in the toilet bowl later that evening.

The pit in her gut was more profound than when she was living with her Uncle, whose hoarding tendencies forced her to nearly drown herself in ancient perfume left behind by an aunt who'd been dead ever since Quinn could remember. Between that and the showers, she figured she'd have a fighting chance of masking the home's horrid odor. She'd never heard any complaints, so she must've been relatively successful.

But now, the feeling buried deep in her belly stemmed from something far less complicated. And yet infinitely complex at the same time. Like a flock of crows surrounding a plump carcass, Charlie swarmed her thoughts ever since he stormed out, in his own polite way, the night before. Quinn wanted to attribute the disaster to her sister, but she knew Paloma wasn't solely to blame.

Throwing her body mirror a glance, she took in her figure one last time. After, Quinn snatched her house keys off the dresser and embarked on her quest. In her haste, she'd nearly forgotten to run her departure by her sister. Over the last few months, Quinn had gotten an earful many a time for skipping out without Paloma's go ahead—something she hadn't realized she needed in the first place.

Given that she hadn't the slightest clue what awaited her at work on account of how she and Charlie left things the night before, she wasn't too thrilled about the prospect of getting yelled at twice in one day. So, she knocked on Paloma's door.

One knock, two knocks, three knocks, then came the fourth; each was lost on the brunette. It was then that Quinn breeched the bedroom door, peeked in, and said, "Paloma?"

No response.

Sighing, Quinn took Paloma's lack of engagement as an invitation to enter. Growing up, Paloma always locked her bedroom door—something Quinn now understood quite well upon realizing her sister was just as nosey now as Quinn was back then. She doubted she'd ever view Paloma's newfound open nature as anything other than baffling, but, at that moment, she wasn't keen on pondering that any longer.

The room was dark, shades drawn. The only light source came from the morning sun as it forced its way through the tiny aperture the curtains allotted it. Straining her eyes, Quinn scoured the bedroom in search of Paloma. Her cellphone's flashlight proved useful sooner than she'd anticipated as it took no more than a few seconds to spot a sleeping form stir beneath the covers.

Quinn knelt, gently shaking her awake. That earned the girl a disgruntled moan. Only when a pair of green eyes flickered to her own did Quinn jerk her hand back and stumbled, knocking over what was left of an expensive bottle of alcohol.

Ava emerged from the covers—that's when Quinn spotted Paloma in the bed next to the woman. Quinn dealt an apology amidst the hushed curse words that rolled off her tongue like a first language. Paloma didn't get the memo as fast as either redhead hoped, so Ava quickly nudged the brunette awake.

The women were clothed—for that, Quinn was grateful. Ava was wearing nothing more than a baggy t-shirt Quinn seen Paloma in on days when she had no intentions of leaving the house. Paloma, at the very least, was wearing bottoms to match her spaghetti-strapped t-shirt. Not much, but they were clothed, nonetheless.

Quinn made a break for the door. If it were up to her, she would've teleported out of the home in a flash. Ava must've had the same thought because she snatched up her stuff, signaling her departure through an apologetic smile and a wave.