Friend Is a Four Letter Word (29 page)

“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?”

“Christmas,” he says with a quick shrug on his shoulders. His voice is a little shy, like he isn’t sure if I’ll approve. His coy expression is adorable, and I can’t help think of the Christmas we spent in Georgia together the night we got back together after the whole Mark fiasco. The night he had me practically begging him to kiss me. He did. And more.

That night marked the first time I felt something other than the need to be self-destructive. Ben has brought more to my life than just being a boyfriend. He’s brought stability, and a beautiful love that I never imagined I could deserve.