Beautiful Things Never Last (32 page)

             
I sit there, silent. The familiar smell of Ben’s cologne is all around me. I think about how many times I kissed him goodnight in this car. How many times he dropped me back off at my parents’ house, when all I wanted to do was curl up in this space and stay with him. Because I felt safe and loved like I never had before.
I ache to feel that right now.

             
“I talked to my mom about you,” he says, tracing a circle on the knee of his jeans with his fingertip. I want to make some snarky ass remark about how I’m sure that went over well, but I don’t. “I think she’s coming around. It’ll be slow, I don’t want to lie and say things are perfect, but she knows you’re it for me. And you
are,
Quinn.
You’re it. You always have been.
”
He looks up from his pants and tries to catch my eye, but I don’t give in.

             
“Things with Caroline…I never meant for it to go that far. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. I just wanted to be there for her as a friend, I swear to you, that’s all I went there for. But once I got there and I saw how broken down she was, it was like, something else took over. This need to protect her. She’s been in my life for a long time, Quinn, I couldn’t just turn my back on her.”

             
“I know that,” I say. And, I guess I partly do.
Because I’ve always sort of known that that part of Ben existed. The good-guy who wants to take care of people. It’s just been me that he wanted to take care of before. How can I accept that he feels the same about someone else, too? And
fly
ing
across the country to see his ex without telling me. “But you could have
gone about it a different way. You could have been there for her
over the phone. Or, you could have talked to me before you left.”

             
“You’re right. I’m realizing how right you are about so many things lately. I finally
get
that Caroline wanted me back all along. It wasn’t something you made up, it was real.
She’s
hurting, and scared, but this was something more
. I’m so sorry I never took it seriously, if I had, I never would have gone.”

             
I normally feel victorious when people tell me that I’m right, but this time, there’s nothing to cheer about.

             
“
And so
that it’s all ou
t on the line…
she kissed me,” he says.

             
I feel an electric c
urrent of anger at Caroline and sadness that Ben has kissed someone else, and guilt that I did so much worse last year course through me.

             
“I don’t need to hear this,” I say. I’m shaking. Shaking like the weak person I claim not to be anymore.

             
“Yes, you do. She kissed me, but I didn’t kiss her back, Quinn, I couldn’t. I told her to go. And I’m pretty sure that she hates me right now, but that’s okay, because I love you, Quinn.
Only you
. And I’m sorry that my needing to be needed ruined things. I had no idea how fucked up I was until I made the mistake of going home. But
trust me,
it’s been clear since then.
”
I listen to Ben fumble over his words. I want to make it easier for him, but I don’t know what to say. He’s right, he did this.

             
             
“I wanted you to need me, and when you didn’t—”

             
             
“I did need you, Ben. That’s the point. I’ve always needed you. I needed you to be solid. To be constant. And this…what you did…”

             
I watch the time change o
n the digital clock on the dash, and can’t help wondering, what if this is the last time that we sit in the car together.
8:21
.
Will
the time always stick out in my mind like everything else with Ben? Every time I woke up with him carrying me to bed after I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Every time I came home from school, frustrated and tired and he was there to tell me a story to make it better? Every time I hung up the phone with my mom, and felt deflated and pessimistic at the entire world, and how he’d swipe the tears from under my eyes before they fell?

             
“
You didn’t kiss her back?” I ask. It doesn’t matter, because in my mind they had a romp in the middle of his mother’s precious container room, even though I know that’s highly unlikely.

             
“I didn’t. I swear. But…When she kissed me…I was in the shower.”

             
“Oh for fuck
’
s sake,” I say.

             
“I just want everything out in the open, baby. I don’t want shit coming out later on…if there is a later on.”

             
“So you were late because you were showering with Caroline?”

             
“No. Never. I swear. She came into the bathroom while I was showering.”

             
Ever heard of locks, asshole?

             
“I was late because she was hysterical after I shot her down and I couldn’t leave her like that at my
parents’
house, Quinn. I had to take a later flight and then my connection was delayed, and it was like the entire fucking universe was conspiring against me getting home to you.”

             
“Is that all? That’s the whole story?”
             
“Yes.”

             
“I need to go then. I need
you to go
. I can’t process this right now.”

             
“Okay,” he says. He gets out of the car, shuts the door and I let him walk away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I slam the pot down onto the stove, turn the flame on high and toss a pack of ground beef into the skillet for tacos.
I missed
out on Mexican food last night.
I’m going to eat it for breakfast.
I slept like shit knowing Ben was down the hall at Carter and Shayna’s house. I got up
at an ungodly
hour
expecting
Shayna to be here bright and early with some scoop about how he is, but she wasn’t.

             
The front door swings open just as I’m grating a massive pile of cheddar cheese.

             
“Do you ever knock?” I ask.

             
Ben shrugs. “Sorry, habit.”

             
“Whatever. Your
car
keys are on the table by the door
if that’s what you’re looking for
.”

             
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says.

             
“Am I?” I feel angry. I feel hurt. I feel
all the things that are
the
opposite
of okay.

             
“You’re home. You’re safe.”

             
“Flour or corn?” I ask, holding up two packages of tortillas.

             
“Quinn, you don’t have to cook for me.”

             
“You know that cooking is therapeutic for me. I’m doing this for
myself
, not you.”

             
Ben nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Good. And corn, please.”

Twenty-two

BEN

I sit on a barstool and silently watch her cook. Watching her move around the kitchen in those skimpy
-
ass shorts and a t-shirt that she’s practically swimming in is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. Every movement is fluid and precise.
And even though she’s angry at me, I can tell that cooking is filling her with a form of peace that nothing else could offer her.
The first day I met Quinn, she cooked for me. I remember leaning back in that barstool at her parents’ house feeling nervous as hell because I’d never met a girl like this. Now, I’m sitting here scared that I’ll have to let her go. I’d do anything to not have to face that reality.

             
I don’t say a word, because I don’t want to ruin the moment, but also because I know that Quinn didn’t invite me
, and even though she hasn’t kicked
me out yet, I know she needs quiet.

             
She sets a plate down in front of me. “There’s fresh guacamole in the fridge. I’m going to change.”

             
And on a normal day, I’d follow her into the bedroom and try to make her late for school, but today, I just sit and chew my food slowly, trying to
drag
my visit
out
as long as possible.

             
Quinn reappears a few minutes later with wet hair and wearing her typical jeans, sweatshirt and flip flops.

             
“Any good?” she asks.

             
“Delicious. I’ve missed your cooking.”
             
“I bet. The cabinets were pretty bare when I first got home. Course, you weren’t here…”

             
She doesn’t say it as a dig, and I think that makes it that much worse.

             
She fixes a plate and sits across from me, and all I can concentrate on is the smell of her shampoo that lingers in her wet hair, and how many times I’ve climbed into the shower and
washed it for her.
Or tried to. Usually we’d both just end up covered in suds and couldn’t keep our hands off of each other.

             
“Last night—”she says.

             
I swallow the last bite of food and wipe my mouth with a paper towel.
             

             
“I’m sorry,” I say.