Beautiful Things Never Last (11 page)

             
“What are you doing?” she asks. I can picture her stretching out in the small room she described t
o me when we last talked. Alone.B
athed in gorgeous moonlight.

             
“Not a whole lot. Cleaning some lenses. Eating a bite,” I say.
I want to tell her about the offer on the photos, but I don’t want to spoil any news she may have, or take away from it. I want her to have her moment.

             
“Ah, did you find some hot new thing to cook for you?” she says with a light laugh.

             
“Hardly,” I say.
“I’ve turned into a vegan since you left.”
I stir the noodles again, but still haven’t brought myself to take a bite of them.

             
The line goes quiet. I can practically hear Italian crickets chirping on the other end.

             
“Ben,” she says stoically. “You know we don’t joke about serious things like that.”

             
We both dissolve into
hysterics, and I know that she’s on the other side of the world wiping happy tears from her eyes, and that’s all I need right now.

             
I remember some of the crazy things Quinn has gotten me to eat since I met her, and I’d take any one of them over this right now. Even those early dates where I think she was trying to get a rise out of me by getting me to eat things like sweet breads and burgers as big as my head. I did it because I was crazy about her and I loved that she challenged the hell out of me and never stopped surprising me.

             
And even from the other side of the world, when I can’t stand to think about the space between us, she’s surprising me. But I swear she needs me a little less every time we talk. She’s finding th
at
part of
herself that her parents took away from her, and I just hope there’s still room for me when she gets back.

 
 
 
 
The first time I ever considered texting
Quinn
I
tapped my thumb on the send button of my phone like I was doing Morse code, while I debated whether or not to go through with pressing it or not. It shouldn’t have been that friggin’ hard. In fact, it should’ve been nothing but straightforward. She was
just
a girl,
and it
was just a text message, right?  She had told me to call her. So, why did her maybe-rejection cause me to have paralysis of the thumb? There was
something about Quinn, though
,
that made different. She had me thinking she was such a hard ass at first, but I saw something else in her that first day at her house.  Something I don’t think she meant for me to see.

 
 
 
 
I
was making
it
harder than it needed to be. Just needed to keep it simple. I deleted the message and started again.

 
 
 
 
 
             
To: Quinn

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Hey, this is Ben. You free for lunch again today? My treat.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
             
             
Send.

             
             
####

 
 
 
 
“Okay, I’ll bite, what the hell is this place?” I asked, as Quinn parallel parked her hybrid next to the rows of Harleys.
 
I
was
stoked
that
she said
 
yes
 
to lunch, but hanging out with a biker gang wasn’t exactly on my agenda.

 
 
 
 
“This place is to die
for
! I hope
you’re hungry!” Quinn said.

 
 
 
 
“
I trust
you.” My lips
stretched
across my face into a nervous smile.

 
 
 
 
I
motioned to
the entrance, which happen
ed
to be a huge skull with bright orange hypnotizing eyes, where the gaping mouth
serving as
the entryway.

             
The sign above sa
id
, THE VORTEX.

 
 
 
 
             
“Well now, th
at’s your first mistake,” she said
, adding an adorable wink. “It’s not so bad inside, come on.”

 
 
 
 
She grab
bed
my hand and pull
ed
me through the bony face. I graze
d
my thumb over her soft ski,
and wondered
if she fe
lt
more than just my hand, if
there was any possibility that sh
e fe
ltsomething more. I felt like a tool admitting to myself that I already did.

 
 
 
 
Once inside, The Vortex
was
a lot less intimidating. It
honestly couldhave
easily pass
ed
for a small Applebee’s. The walls
were
full of tchotchkes like old street signs, barber’s poles and all sorts of other kitsch. It’s
was
already past the normal lunch hour, so the majority of the tables
were empty. Quinn walked
right past the hostess stand and pull
ed
me in the direction of the patio. She decide
d
on a table right in front of a mural of a fire-breathing skull with pin-up style devils lounging across it. So much for the
 
Americana
 
theme.
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
“So, what’s good here?” I open
ed
my menu and glance
d up at Quinn. She quickly diverted her eyes,
but I
did
catch her staring at my arms as she unroll
ed
her silverware and s
moothed
t
he paper napkin onto her lap.

 
 
 
 
“You won’t need that,” she
said
. “I’ll order for you.” She pluck
ed
t
he menu out of my hands and set
it on top of hers at the edge of the table.

 
 
 
 
“Okay, a little controlling, but I like it,” I sa
id
.

 
 
 
 
She flip
ped
her long brown hair over her shoulder and lean
ed
back in her chair.

 
 
 
 
“Ha, yeah, I guess I am.” She smile
d
at me, and it s
truck
me for the first time just how
completely
out of my league
she was.