Beautiful Things Never Last

Beautiful Things Never Last

Copyright © 2013 by Steph Campbell

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

Published by

Steph Campbell

Cover photo by: Darla Winn

Cover design by: Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

For my Dad, Steve.

And the rest of the D
iBella family—
for sharing your love, the best food on the planet, and the truth that family doesn’t always mean blood.

Love you all. 

(
Now
can I have the sauce recipe?)

Beautiful Things Never Last

is
a love letter to those that are brave enough to give second chances, accept that sometimes love is messy and hard—even when it’s good,

and
those that can
open
thei
r hearts
wide
enough to allow forgiveness in.

One

BEN

My cell phone acts as a piss-poor light in the pitch black apartment but it’ll have to do, because I don’t want to risk waking Quinn. I lock the front door behind me, then turn and nearly trip over the damn couch, cussing myself through my teeth for not making it home until late.

Again.

It’s become an all-too regular thing, me coming home late, or sneaking back out after Quinn has gone to bed. It’s not like I’m running around on her, I’d never— I fucking love that woman with everything in me. But I was driving home and there was this perfect light over the water and I had to pull off of PCH and take some photos while I had the chance. I miss out on some of the best light of the day while I’m either at school or in the studio at work, so it’s almost torture to not pull over and capture a little bit of that particular perfect light when I’m lucky enough to catch it.
It was one of the main reasons we chose Southern California rather one of the other art schools in New York or Seattle. We wanted to be near the Pacific Ocean. I just happen to love taking advantage of our surroundings.

I slide out of my pants, pull my t-shirt over my head, and toss them both over the back of the flimsy IKEA desk chair before I push through our bedroom door.

I shine the light of my phone in the direction of the bed I share with Quinn, and can just make out her small frame, curled up with her back toward me. And it’s seeing her there, peaceful but alone, that really makes me start to feel like a bastard for not being here to kiss her goodnight.

I pad across the room to our bed and slip under the blankets next to Quinn. The sight of her was one thing, but being next to her… I’m completely unable to resist pulling her a little closer to me. Her skin is warm under the heavy quilt, even though it’s nearly bare. I know I shouldn’t, I know it’s completely counterproductive to my stealth-like entrance, but I run my hand along the band of her panties, and hook my thumb under the thin lace at her hip.
 

Quinn breathes in deeply and I know I’ve woken her up.

“Shhh...” I say. “Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

She blinks several times before turning over toward me.

“It’s okay.” Her voice is raspy and full of sleep. Quinn snuggles into my chest and gets comfortable again. I let my eyes close as I run my hand through her long, brown hair, breathing in the familiar smell of her. “Wait, did you just get in?” The sleepiness in her voice fades
 
quickly like a flame blown out.

“Mmm hmm,” I say.

“What time is it?” Her voice has already shed all the creakiness of deep sleep and is blade sharp.

I’m not sure how to make my answer sound like anything other than a confession. It’s not one. So why does it feel like it is? “Around one.”

“Oh.” She pauses for a few beats, and I’m not sure if she’s moving her body away from my hands to make a point or because she’s just trying to burrow back into a comfortable position. “Taking pictures again?”

I nod and let her wiggle out of my arms, keeping the tips of my fingers hovered over the bony curve of her hip. “I missed you.”

“I cooked. I mean, yeah, of course I cooked.
 
There’s leftover manicotti in the fridge. But I wanted to talk to you. I guess it can wait until the morning. Later. Whatever. Good night.” She rolls back over and pulls the quilt tight under her chin. My fingers slide along her back and into the dip of her spine, then bounce off the mattress when she tenses her back just enough to break contact.

Shit.

“Quinn.” I swallow around the words, my fingers still tensed and ready, maybe, to reach for her again. If she wants. If she wants me. “I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been doing this a lot lately. I don’t mean to be a dick, I swear.”

“It’s fine, I get the whole ‘tortured artist’ thing and that when the inspiration strikes, you have to follow it.
I do
. I just...I just miss you.”

She won’t look at me, because I know this type of honesty is hard for her. And I love this woman so damn much right now. I reach over her to switch on the light on the nightstand, loving the way she groans and throws her arm over her eyes, before I pull her over, flat on her back so I can really look at her, blinking like crazy, her lashes pressed together against the bright light.

“I miss you too. I’m sorry.” I try to
 
word what I’m thinking in a way that won’t leave me sounding like a total putz. “I keep thinking that if I take the perfect photo, that I’ll be able to sell it—”

“Ben, you could sell any one of your photos
right now—
today
.T
hey’re amazing.” She lets her eyes slit a tiny bit wider and brushes her thumb over my bottom lip, and I’m instantly filled with a total shock of the purest kind of happiness, the kind only Quinn can seem to bring to life.

I appreciate her faith in me, and my pictures are good, but not good enough for someone to pay for or to want to hang in their home. In Quinn’s mind, I’m the next Andreas Gursky, which I guess is fair, since in mine, she’s the next Giada De Laurentiis.
But
I ignore her attempt at flattering me and continue. “Did I tell you about that guy from school? He took a photograph of a rock, a rock! And sold the thing for six-figures. I keep thinking if I take the perfect photo, that I’ll be able to sell it and take care of you the way you deserve.”

Quinn and I are happy here. Our apartment is small, but there’s only the two of us, and we’re together and that’s what matters. But even though we both work, it’s only scraping by on our meager checks and our extra student loan money. Quinn’s home life may never have been perfect, but she always had nice things, and I want to give that same security to her. I have to.

She scoffs. “You, Benjamin Shaw, are more than I ever deserved.”

I kiss the part of her bottom lip where it meets her chin—my favorite place. I find a new favorite spot of her every day.

“Anyway, what do you want to talk about?” I push up the cotton top she’s wearing and run my hand over the smooth skin of her stomach before pressing my lips to the same place.

She slides closer in my arms, works her hands into loose fists and runs them up and down my back. I can feel the jagged patches of half-gone nail polish. She always picks it off when she’s nervous. “I have this opportunity,” she finally says. “To go away for school.”
 
 
 
 
 
“Rad, where to? For how long?” I reach over and turn on the second bedside lamp, because this is amazing news, and I want to see her when she delivers it and let her see me. I want us both awake and bathed in light when we share this to make up for all the creeping in the dark I’ve had to do lately.
 
 
 
 
 
“Italy.” Quinn raises her dark eyebrows and gives me a nervous smile that ends with her chewing the side of her lip.
 
 
 
 
 
“For how long?” I repeat, pretty much refusing to acknowledge that Italy is across the damn
world. I don’t even do well with Quinn being across the mattress. I rub my hand along her shoulder, trying to work out the tension knots that have bowed her shoulders in.
 
 
 
 
Quinn
opens her eyes wide and turns the corners of her mouth up like I’m a little kid and she has to deliver some bad news as gently as she can.
 
“Just a month.”
 
 
 
 
 
I let out a long breath I never realized I had trapped in my lungs. “Wow. A month? Wow.” I switch to rubbing my own neck, instantly tense.