“And Caroline doesn’t have a ton of friends.” I hate that I can relate to her at all, but in that way, I can. “But you,” he says. He pulls me in and his thumbs rub circles on my hip bones making me shiver. “You’ve just got to trust me.”
“I—”
The knock at the door interrupts us.
“That’s my brother,” I say, half truly reluctant to answer the door, and half completely relieved to have an excuse to end this for now. Ben just stares up at me like he’s contemplating pretending we aren’t home like we’ve done before. “We should, like, go answer that…”
Ben laughs and stands up to adjust himself while I re-button my flannel shirt. “Hey.’ He stops me in the doorway of our bedroom.
“I love you, Quinn.”
And I believe him. I do.
“Shayna, what is that?” I ask, trying to swallow a laugh. My brothers’ girlfriend rolls her eyes and sets the pan full of burnt crust onto the counter top.
“Peach pie, obvs,” she says, gesturing to the murky goo with a confused smile. “I thought it’d make it feel more like home.” Her voice drops off a little. I want to say something snarky, but Shayna looks sincere. She’s really the only one of us in the room that has a family worth going home to for the holiday, and, instead, she chose to spend it with us assholes.
Shayna showed up in Southern California a few months ago wanting to spend her summer here rather than in the soaking humidity of Georgia and has pretty much been a permanent fixture ever since. Plus, she sort of helped Carter get sober, so I owe her. She and Carter have a complicated relationship, in that she is completely into him and he isn’t ready to settle down with anyone, especially since he just stopped drinking, but Shayna makes him happy so she stays.
“Ben, you want to watch the game?” Carter asks, looking at the kitchen he so doesn’t want to be stuck in with a weird panic.
Ben scoffs. “Really, dude?” He jokes because sports are so not his thing, but he follows Carter into the living room anyway as a mercy gesture.
“So, what’s up with you two?” Shayna leans over the countertop and watches me scoop the stuffing out of the way-too-big turkey, settling in for the conspiratorial chat Carter knew was coming and was desperate to avoid at any cost.
“What do you mean?” I am taking an unfair amount of aggression out on the innocent turkey hanging on my counter.
She applies a slow coat of lip gloss and scoots a little closer, pushing a bowl of cranberries out of the way with her newly manicured finger. “I mean, he’s usually attached to your hip. But he’s in there watching golf or something.”
“Football,” I correct with a snicker.
“Whatever. What’s going on?” She raises an eyebrow and bumps her hip against mine, like in solidarity. That one tiny gesture gets me to put down the stuffing and consider letting it all spill. Without my high school best friend, Sydney, around and with no real friends other than Ben here, I’ve been lonely. Shayna’s olive branch is so damn tempting right now, it’s sad.
I inhale sharply. I could tell Shayna that Caroline called. I could. She’d understand. She’d probably even call her back. But Ben told me to trust him, and I do. I have to. Because doing anything else only proves that I haven’t changed, and I think I have. I hope I have. I don’t want to ruin this bubble of perfection by being the girl I used to be.
“Do you eat sweet potatoes?” I ask Shayna.
“Huh?” At the question she purses her shiny lips and narrows her eyes.
“Sweet potatoes? Do you like them? I made a sweet-potato soufflé. I’ve never made it before, but if, you know, if they’re not your favorite then who gives a crap if I screwed it up, right? Ben says he can take them or leave them—”
“Quinn, cut the crap. What’s going on?” She leans forward, her long hair grazing the counter with the food on it. She doesn’t seem to notice. Or care.
I stab at the bowl of stuffing with my fork. “Ben’s ex.”
Shayna smiles and drags her eyebrows together all at the same time. “What about her? Wait, you’re not worried about her are you?”
“She called today,” I admit, my voice revealing every petty, stupid thing I’ve been trying to pretend I don’t feel since the call came through.
“What’d she want?” Shayna asks, her eyes sharp on me.
“I don’t know. He didn’t answer. But why is she calling at all?” I shove the stuffing bowl away and brace my hands on the counter.
Shayna looks over her shoulder toward where the guys are sitting on the couch, Ben silent and confused, Carter jumping up and screaming at the TV every minute or two. “Has she before?”
“He says he isn’t sure. Maybe.” I follow Shayna’s line of sight and try not to focus on how much I love Ben’s confused face. I need to clear my head, and getting dopey over how he frowns just a tiny bit when he’s watching a football game isn’t helping.
“Do you believe him?” The question is wide open, and I know Shayna won’t judge me no matter how I answer.
“Why would he lie? She’s all the way in Kentucky. He’s here with me. There’s nothing to worry about, right?” I whirl back to the oven and start the laborious process of jamming remaining dishes that need to be warmed into the tiny appliance, glad for the sweaty, frustrating distraction.
Shayna comes to the side of the oven to watch me and shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes, people don’t need a reason to lie. They just can’t help themselves.” Have I mentioned that Shayna is a psych major? She throws out these helpful, paranoia-inducing tidbits all of the time.
“Ben isn’t like that,” I say as I manage to wrestle the oven door shut with a satisfying slam, smoothing the wrinkles in my apron, trying to iron out my nerves in the process.
“Let’s hope not.” Shayna pipes leftover icing onto the tip of her finger in neat little swirls and eats it off.
So much for a friend to take the place of Syd. What I wouldn’t give for my sweet bestie’s nauseatingly sunny spin on life right now. This is payback for all the times I gleefully rained on her little optimism parades just to be a sour asshat. “Thanks for the confidence-building talk, Shayna. I can tell you’ll go far in your chosen profession.”
“The truth hurts, baby,” Shayna says with a wink as she consumes dangerous amounts of icing. I don’t smile back. She tosses the icing bag aside and tilts her head down to see my face.
“Oh, come on, you know I’m kidding. For whatever reason, Ben is crazy about you. You guys have a good thing going here. Don’t blow it with your insecurity, Quinn.”
“I’m not insecure.” Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll be true.
“Right.” Shayna rolls her eyes dramatically. “Because women that are completely secure in their relationships worry about girls that are a thousand miles away.” Shayna continues her random pre-dinner grazing session by biting into a carrot stick, and I will her to choke on it.
“Caroline just has this whole ‘babe-in-the-woods’ act down. And I’m not buying it. I’m just not sure Ben sees that.”
“Quinn. Get a grip. Seriously. You’re leaving soon, don’t ruin the last few days you have with Ben before Italy stressing over a non-issue. Freak.” Shayna mutters the last word under her breath. Shayna is the closest friend I have, but her version of ‘keeping-it-real’ seriously makes me hate her sometimes. I miss Sydney so much it aches. She would empathize with me over all these inane problems and always tell me what I wanted to hear—which I love about her—and miss so much right now. But I’m glad Syd is where she is, even if it isn’t near me—she’s coaching gymnastics in Texas, engaged to Grant. Safe and happy, just like she always deserved. I know I always made fun of her upbeat belief in happily ever after, but I’m so glad she got hers, it makes my heart squeeze.
God, I miss her.
“It’s time to eat,” I say, stabbing a knife into the peach pie. “Oh, and Shayna, I hope you get all of the hair in your food.”
Quinn kicks me like a mule for the twelfth time in her
sleep before I get up out of bed. As soon as I’m up, she stretches out like it’s what she’s been waiting for—to have the entire space to herself.
It used to be that she couldn’t sleep without me next to her. She would form herself to my side and fall asleep on my chest every single night, clutching onto my t-shirt. But I guess most fears wither that way, and I have gone from being something Quinn isn’t sure will be there in the morning to something she counts on to be there without fail. Quinn used to cling to me for dear life. But slowly, her grip has loosened. Slowly she’s begun to trust that I’m not going to go anywhere.
I rummage around my nightstand for my keys and grab my camera as I slip on flip flops. In November. And stumble out the door, locking it behind me.
I get in the car and drive, rolling the windows down in the chill of the early morning because I love the way the cold air opens my lungs and clears my mind. I love the way it smells here so much, it’s weird to think I didn’t even know this smell existed a few months ago.
This whole move has been exciting and weird and huge.
When we first moved here, it felt like total culture shock. We didn’t exactly live in the sticks before, but the change in pace was the biggest difference. We went from our slow-as-hell town where the only things going on were midnight showings of old movies, or driving into the city. But in California, there’s always something going on, and for the first couple of months, we were blowing and going like the two irresponsible kids our parents always told us that we were. Going to festivals across the state—even if they were devoted to avocados— or food trucks that specialized in fish tacos, or to watch professional sand castle competitions, or listen to free shows by wild bands in all kinds of parks… we wanted to see it all—together. We’ve settled down, not only because we quickly learned just how far our extra financial aid money wouldn’t stretch, but because once we got our tiny apartment set up, there was nowhere else in the world we’d rather be.
I pull down the highway, knowing exactly where I want to be. I only have a limited amount of time, but I try not to speed, not to make any stupid mistakes that will put us in jeopardy. The last thing we need right now is a ticket or a fender-bender. Not that we’re doing so badly; but if we want to get ahead, we need to keep on our toes. Quinn’s been in culinary school and working part time at an Italian joint. I’m finishing up my degree in Digital Photography, and working as a photographer’s assistant. It sounds glamorous, but in reality, I’m really just a baby wrangler. I make a kids laugh, run or play so that their parent can have the perfect photo to mount above their fireplace. But what I really love to take photos of are the quieter moments—ones that don’t contain mini sweater vests, infant bow ties and orchestrated smiles.
When I get to the spot where I need to be, I park the car, get out my gear, and set up my tripod, put my camera in manual mode and adjust the intervalometer to take a photograph every second. I probably look like a huge creeper up here on a dark overpass, but I’ve wanted to get a good time lapsed sequence of traffic on the freeway since we got to California. The constant ticking of the camera is the most calming sound in the world.
Normally. Right now, I can’t stop wondering why Caroline has been calling lately. I pull out my phone and rub my thumb on the glass of the screen.
What’s the harm in calling her back and seeing if everything is okay? Just to see if she needed something? I scroll through the call log until I get to her number.
What’s wrong is that it’s not my problem whether everything is okay with Caroline or not. If I call her back, Quinn will lose her shit. And that is my problem.
Quinn’s leaving soon, and I can’t ditch the feeling that there’s something more behind her going. How could she not even know the trip was a possibility, and why did she wait so damn long to tell me about it? Whatever is going on, it’s not going to get any better with me leaving in the middle of the night like this anymore.
I stuff my phone back into my pocket and decide to go home. To Quinn. Where I belong.
When I get back to our apartment, I kick off my shoes and one goes astray and hits the baseboard. Quinn rolls over and rubs her eyes.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is thick with sleep and incredibly sexy.
“Sorry.” I lean across the bed and kiss her on the forehead. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” She rubs her hand along my bicep without opening her eyes.
“About four,” I say, watching her hand on my arm in the shadowy dark.
Quinn groans and nestles closer. “You’re cold. Wait, were you out?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I run my free hand over her shoulder, letting the backs of my fingers trail up and down her arm.
“So, where’d you go?” Her voice is getting clearer, like she was talking underwater and is now breaking through the surface.
“Went to shoot some,” I say, holding up my camera as evidence.
“Right,” she says. Her mouth forms a tight line, and this is all the worst kind of déjà vu.
“What?” I ask. She sits up, pulls the blanket up to her chest, and shakes her head, avoiding me, avoiding this conversation. “You were sleeping like crap, something wrong?”
Quinn gives a quick nod that isn’t even half an answer.
“Are you still upset about Caroline calling? Because I told you it’s nothing.” I cup her elbow in my palm, amazed by how small and delicate it is. Realizing little details like this about her just before she’s about to leave chokes me with a regret I can’t shake. It’s almost like I’m scared I might lose her, might lose the chance to discover all the little amazing things about her I haven’t had the time to find out about yet.
“I believe you. I do. It’s weird that like, after all this time, she still has this connection to you, but, I don’t know, I trust you.” She sits up, the covers draped over her shoulders like a cloak.
I pull her to me and kiss her on the lips, hard and thankful. ”Good.” And now I’m damn glad I didn’t call her back.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
I shake my head as I stash my camera back in its case. “You sure something else isn’t up? You seem like there’s something more you want to say” She fidgets some more, stares at her hands, lets out a big breath, and then clamps her mouth shut again. If I didn’t love her so much, this routine would be infuriating. “Just say it, Quinn.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t have to be leftovers from dinner. I can make you whatever you want. Frittata? French toast?” Her voice gets high and flighty as she rattles off food suggestions.
“Jesus, Quinn, you sound like my mom.” I shake off the annoyance I feel building, push out a deep breath and start again. “No, I don’t want anything to eat. I want you to freaking talk to me.”
She jerks her head back at the mention of my mom. I seldom talk about my parents, or even say their names.
“It’s just… I have this… Never mind. It’s stupid.” Quinn pulls her arms up inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt and purses her lips.
“Would you relax?” I sit down next to her on the bed and trace her collar bone with my index finger. “Quinn, baby, I’ve seen you naked. You can talk to me.”
She continues to coil into herself, and I know it’s because, for Quinn, clothes off is easier than walls down.
“Quinn.” I slide my hands on either side of her face so that she’s looking at me.
She pulls back gently and presses the heels of her hands over her eyebrows for a long few seconds. “I just have this fear that things are changing. You’re gone a lot taking pictures, and I love that you do that, and I’m about to leave for Italy, and… Okay, so this thing with Caroline—”
“There is no thing with Caroline, Quinn.” I say it, but I don’t really know if it’s true or not. I don’t know why she’s calling, I don’t know if something is wrong and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t eating at me.
“But there is. Because she’s calling, and it freaks me
out.” Her voice and her hands and her eyelashes all kind of flutter, like she’s about to crack into a million pieces.
No.
I’m here.
With Quinn.
Caroline and whatever is up with her doesn’t matter.
I pull her into my arms and the fluttering stops. I love the solid, steady feel of her against me.
“Why would that worry you? I’m here. With you. Always.”
I wad my apron into a ball, cram it into my locker and slam the metal door shut. “I’ll see you soon,” I say to my boss, Teresa.
“It’s going to be amazing,” she says. You can practically see the glossy cannoli cream shining in her eyes. “And don’t you worry about your job; it’s here waiting for you. Just don’t forget about us all while you’re gone.”
I want to roll my eyes, because this job is nothing worth remembering, but I know how damn lucky I am to have this chance to see the world and learn something new— and not be stuck in my forties and working in this knock-off brand Italian food chain—like Teresa, who would give anything for the chance I have thrown at my feet.
“I won’t,” I say. I pull my hoodie over my head and grab my purse off of the bench. “I have to get going. Ben says he has something planned for tonight.”
“Of course, have fun.”
Teresa hired me the first week I arrived in California. Ben and I had no plan other than that we were saying to hell with our parents’ theory that art school is for delinquents, and we were going to make it work out here on our own—with the help of massive student loans that’d we would probably be paying off until we were near death.
“Holy mother of tinsel, what’s going on?” I ask. I stop in the doorway of our apartment to take it all in. There’s a small artificial Christmas tree in the corner, decorated with big bows that look like they’re threatening to topple the whole damn thing. There’s a poinsettia on our cluttered coffee table, garland above the doorway to our bedroom, and the whole place reeks of those cinnamon-infused pinecones.
I turn to Ben, who is smirking like he has a secret. “What’s all this?”
Friend Is a Four Letter Word Page 19