“You and her deserve each other,” he said.
Ordinarily, Quentin would have scornfully corrected him （you and she deserve!）， but he was too stunned to say anything as Johnny proceeded to storm, still shirtless, out of the house. At the sound of the door slamming, Quentin surprised himself by bursting into tears. He cradled the side of his face with one hand and waited for them to pass. When they didn’t, he called Cleo.
Within half an hour, she was in his kitchen. She was wearing a traditional Mexican embroidered dress, her hair pulled into two long fishtail braids down her back and tied with white ribbons. He found her style too bohemian for his taste, but he appreciated that she always made an effort with her appearance. She put a bottle of his favorite Japanese soda and a packet of Advil on the kitchen table in front of him, inspecting his face with a look of concern.
“You’re bruising,” she said. “What happened?”
“He was wearing my sweater,” said Quentin sulkily. “And he’s a psychopath.”
“Do you have any frozen peas?”
She opened the freezer door to reveal a large frosted bottle of vodka and three cartons of Polish cigarettes. She raised an eyebrow at Quentin. He shrugged.
“Keeps them fresh.”
Cleo removed the bottle and wrapped it in a dish towel. She sat down across from him and held it gingerly to his jaw. His eyes would not stop leaking.
“Hurts?” she asked.
Quentin shook his head and wiped his face roughly with the back of his palm.
“I don’t know why I’m—” He stopped himself and rubbed his hands on his pants. He tried to laugh, but it escaped from his throat as a scrap of sob.
“It’s just tender,” said Cleo, cupping his cheek with her palm. “He got your tender part, is all.”
He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to hers. He was about to tell her that all of him was the tender part when her phone buzzed and she pulled away.
“I’ll tell Frank to meet us here, shall I?” she said.
Quentin felt a jolt of irritation.
“Or you could not?”
“Quentin.” She put on her stern maternal voice. “You know how much he works, and the weekends are our only real time together. Please don’t be difficult about this.”
“Can’t you just bail?” whined Quentin. “You bail on things all the time. It’s one of your greatest attributes.”
“But I don’t want to. I was painting all morning, and now I want to see my husband.”
“You can just call him Frank. I hate all this ‘my husband’ crap.”
“But he is my husband!”
“Only because you needed a visa.”
“For the one hundredth time, it is not just a visa marriage.” She exhaled wearily. “Why are you acting like this? You like Frank, remember? He makes me happier than anyone I’ve ever known …”
Cleo launched into a monologue about her and Frank’s marital bliss, but Quentin had lost interest. Quentin did like Frank—he was always down to party, and unlike the litter of unwashed skateboarders and street artists Cleo usually dated, he had some money at least—but he was not Cleo’s person. Quentin was. Quentin suspected deep down that he and Cleo would end up together, not romantically of course, but as true soul mates, growing old together in some crumbling town house uptown surrounded by pedigreed dogs and vintage furs. Frank was just a brief interlude into the tropes of traditional heterosexuality for Cleo. He and Cleo belonged together, were more like family to each other than either of their real families ever had been. They were practically sisters.
“… I’ve even gone off my antidepressants,” Cleo was saying.
Quentin snapped back to attention.
“Babe, no. That is not a good idea for you. Remember sad Cleo of yesteryear? No one needs her to make a comeback.”
“That was just because I was lonely and, you know, all the stuff with my mum. My life’s really different now. I have Frank, I have a proper home—”
“His home.”
“Our home. I just think I’m a lot more set up to be happy now. I know I am.”
Quentin felt a wave of concern, followed by a riptide of apathy. In the end, she was going to do whatever she wanted to do.
“It’s your life.” He shrugged. “Just let me ask you one question. And you have to answer honestly.” He looked deep into her eyes. “When was the last time you were with a straight man, I’m talking any straight man, and he said something more interesting than what you were already thinking?”