If she's honest, she loves him a little.
But she's never honest, and it doesn't work like that.
His breath is hot on her cheek and grass tears between her fingers as she rips it from the dirt.
There are lights all around them, but the field is empty, and the stands deserted.
"Why me?" he mumbles into her ear, tracing a line down her thigh.
She arches her back and watches the stars.
Wanting him is a bit of a mistake.
She still calls him at the same time and lets him tell her she's beautiful. She pretends to believe him just like he pretends to believe her.
But at the end of the night, cheek pressed against the telephone receiver, listening to him breathe, she might understand him. She might get it, just a little, and she might think she's worth something more.
"You know, I'd be a good dad."
She watches him flutter a bit, and she smiles at him like he wants her to.
"I know," she lies.
On that first night, he swore to her the world.
She clawed her name into his back and promised him absolutely nothing.
(She gave him a child without a name.)
And sometimes, she traces his back with her eyes and remembers branding him as her own, and sometimes, she imagines that the marks are still there.
He catches her staring and sometimes she imagines he's still hers.
That in his skin, etched into his flesh, lies Quinn, Quinn, Quinn.
"Quinn, Quinn, Quinn."
The grass tears between her fingers and the sky falls all around them.
She whispers his name, like he asked her to, and they both lie to themselves.