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Summary
“You like my hair?” Quentin said, and Jesus, he sounded like a schoolboy, asking that—he rushed on before Eliot could reply. “My best friend from back home is always telling me to cut it, she says she can’t see my face.”
“It’s a good face,” Eliot said at once, but he sounded skeptical. “But whoever your friend is, she’s got it wrong. See, part of the appeal is the moment where all is revealed. It’s like—” Eliot lifted the hand with the cigarette still in it and splayed it out in front of him, like painting a sweeping vista in the air. “Like a curtain going up at a theatre. To start, all you see is this slouchy grumpy little guy, with good hair—”
“Hey—”
“Hold on, I’m complimenting you, you just have to let me get there. You see him and you think good hair, great ass, terrible dresser.”
“Oh my god.”
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Quentin Coldwater’s been through some shit, but he’s over it now. Well—he’s getting over it, really. Moving on with his life. Enter: Eliot Waugh, with a complicated past of his own. Starting something new in the immediate aftermath of trauma is supposed to be a really bad decision. And if there’s one thing Q knows he’s good at, it’s making bad decisions.