Risk the Fall Page 18

  He shakes his head, “I doubt that.”

  Realizing I've momentarily let my guard down, I pull myself upright and smooth out the wrinkles in the Social Distortion t-shirt I’d thrown on this morning.

  “Don't believe me? Just wait...”

  “Quinnlette, you decent? You have company!” Carter, my older brother who is home this weekend from Stanford yells through my closed bedroom door.

  My eyes reject fully opening as I try to guess the approximate time by the amount of blinding sunlight that fills the room.

  “Company?” I croak out.

  The door flies open in response. I sit up and pull my knees to my chest, waiting for an explanation.

  “Nice hair, lazy ass. Get up.” Carter laughs.

  I purse my lips into a pout and run my palm against my head, knowing that my baby fine flyaway hair have made their usual aura around my face.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Some guy. Ben?”

  That gets my attention. I rush across my room to my closet and pull out the first thing that my fingers physically touch. A lightweight, eyelet sundress that I don’t think I’ve ever worn. It screams wholesomeness—something that I am not. Whatever, it’ll work.

  “Did he say what he wants?” I ask. My pulse quickens just thinking about Ben. Downstairs. Waiting for me.

  “He probably wants to hang out, asstard,” Carter says. “Hey, he seems cool.”

  “Yeah, he’s great.”

  “Great.” Carter bats his eyelashes, mocking me. “I hope it stays that way, because I really don’t want to have to pull the guns out.” He says making an exaggerated arm muscle flex as he leaves the room so that I can change.

  Ben’s here. In my kitchen. He’s shooting the shit with Carter. Talking about some App or something, but the point is, he is right HERE. Seeing him, leaning casually against the counter. The way that he talks with his hands, and his easy smile both startle and captivate me. I linger in the doorway watching Ben and my brother, clutching my stomach trying to pinpoint exactly what feeling is surging through me when I’m spotted.

  “Hey, Quinn,” Ben says. He extends his hand to Carter, who shakes it and then leaves Ben and I alone together. “Sorry for waking you.”

  “Oh no, it’s fine, I was already up.” I lie. “So, what’s going on?”

  He smiles that perfect boy-next-door-dimplicious grin as he casually runs his hand over the smooth surface of the counter top. I catch myself wondering what it would feel like to have his hands on my skin. Jesus, Quinn, a little early for that, I scold myself.

  “So, I heard that they have this food festival in Savannah this weekend-”

  “Savannah?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I know it’s kind of a long drive, but you were saying how much you love to cook and stuff. I thought it might be fun.”

  “Just you and me?” My heart goes tachycardic.

  “Would that be okay? It’s just a day trip. I mean I know we just met yesterday, so, it’s not like creepy or anything?” His confident grin falters for a quick second, long enough for me to snap out of my idiotic stupor.

  “That sounds awesome.” I nod. “Let me just grab my bag.”

  He lets out a relieved sigh and smiles. I fight the urge to stand on my tip toes to reach his lips. Because my guess is that cramming my tongue down his throat right now, would be creepy.

  “Sure,” he says. He fumbles with his keys, looking pleased and sweet, and delectable. “Are you cool with me driving?”

  I nod.

  “So, what is this?” I ask.

  Quinn narrows her eyes at the morsel of food that vaguely resembles a cross between a chicken nugget and brains. Only slimier.

  “If I tell you, you won’t eat it.” She smirks.

  “No way, you haven’t even tried it yet.” I counter. I reach over to the large tray and grab another.

  “Fine.” Quinn rolls her eyes and plucks the food from my hand. “Count of three, one, two, three.”

  I wait a split second to ensure that she actually downs whatever it is, before popping the whole thing in my mouth. My eyes start to water, not from the taste so much, but the texture of it is something I’ve never experienced— nor wanted to. The outer layer that looked so crispy and normal dissolves into what feels like cake batter coating my mouth, and toying with my gag reflex. I barely chew it up just so that I can move on to swallowing and get it over with.

  “Okay, what the hell was that?” I ask. Quinn gives a valiant gulp and then takes a long pull from her water bottle.

  “Sweetbreads,” she says.

  “There was nothing sweet about that. And it sure as shit wasn’t bread,” I say.

  “No, it’s like the gland of an animal. This one was probably from a calf’s throat or something similar.”

  I grab the water bottle from her hand and down the rest of it.

  “That’s…interesting. You really like this kind of stuff?” I ask her.

  We walk away from the table and toward the center of the festival. The place is pretty packed. I finally spot an empty spot under a massive Spanish Moss tree and guide her over to it.

  “Some of it. That was a little extreme for even me, though. I would have been just as happy to go and get a pizza,” Quinn says.

  “Seriously? Then why’d you agree to come all this way?”

  Her long, dark hair is pulled loosely back, and several thick pieces have fallen free. Is it weird that I can’t help but stare at her?

  “Honestly?” she asks, peeking out from under one of the rogue chestnut strays. “I just wanted to hang out with you.”

  A scorching, sticky breeze kicks up and I can no longer fight the urge to touch her. I reach across the bench and pull her tiny body in close to mine. Quinn doesn’t flinch, or otherwise acknowledge my touch, but I watch her tan skin prick with goose bumps in response. My lips form an automatic, satisfied smile.

  “What?” she asks.

  I shake my head, not willing to risk embarrassing her and killing the perfect mood.

  “So, do you have any hidden talents or hobbies or anything?” she asks.

  My mind drifts to the photo album stashed in the bottom of my nightstand drawer.

  “I play a little bass,” I say.

  Maybe someday I’ll show her the book that my mom says is a ridiculous waste of time. Pretty much everything outside of school is a waste of time to my mom, especially since I’m the only child. Before I was born, Mom was a professional organizer. Yeah, they have those. Since she quit working, I’m her full-time, pet project. She’s completely immersed herself in making sure that I have the ideal upbringing, and not letting anyone upset her perfect plan. Every detail is carefully thought out by her. Where I’ll go to college, what I’ll major in— who I should date.

  “Ah, that explains it,” Quinn says. She reaches for my palm and lightly runs her fingertip across the calluses on mine.

  She looks up and notices that I’m still watching her. Her posture straightens.

  “I think they still have fireworks on the pier at night, if we hurry, I bet we could catch them,” she says.

  Fireworks.

  “Quinn.” I sit up so that our faces are so close I can see the tiny patch of freckles that dot the bridge of her nose, I don’t know how I hadn’t noticed them before. Her hazel eyes are wide, daring me to look away.

  I wrap my hand around the base of her neck, my fingers catching on the baby fine hairs. I hope she doesn’t notice how my palm shakes with a nervousness that I haven’t felt since my first kiss when I was eleven. She doesn’t wait for me to slowly close the space between our faces, and instead, meets me halfway. Her left brow is cocked in the sultry, confident way she so effortlessly pulls off.

  “Go for it.” She smirks in such a sexy way that I can feel all of the blood in my body rush below my waist.

  When my mouth meets hers, I swear that from that second on, she has me. You always hear people talk about how there are moments in your life when you jus
t know that things will never be the same. I always thought that was all horseshit. But here, now, with the feeling of her soft, incredible lips moving with mine, I know that it happens.

  Savannah is a good four hours away from home, but the miles fly by quicker than I want them to. I’d be perfectly fine with this day lasting forever. Well, assuming there was more pizza and less thymus gland. This was like a date. Like a real date. As in doors opened, hand on the small of my back as we cross the street kind of thing. I’ve never been on one of those before. The type of guy that takes a girl on a day trips don’t typically go after girls like me. They date my best friend, Sydney. And if they do ask me out, it’s most likely because they want to sleep with me. I really hope that’s not what this is about. I don’t think it is. Hell, what do I know?

  Ben downshifts to slow the car as we approach a split in the highway. There’s something incredibly sexy about a guy driving stick, I can’t explain it, but it fascinates me.

  “You’re going to want to merge onto I-16 up here,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” His eyes are fixed on the dash mounted GPS that clearly shows him heading South on I-475.

  “Unless you want to end up in Florida, I’m positive.”

  “Most girls don’t know much about directions,” he says but listens to me and takes the I-16 split.

  “Stereotypical, much?” I laugh “And anyway, I’m not most girls.” I settle deeper into the leather seat.

  “Yeah, I’m sort of getting that. Can I ask you something?”

  I sit up a little straighter. “Sure.” Gulp.

  “Are you seeing anyone? Is that too forward? I mean, there isn’t like—”

  I laugh softly at his properness. “No, there isn’t anyone. I mean, there was, but we broke up a few weeks ago.”

  My ex, Daniel, and I broke up before he and the rest of my class left for Cabo. It wasn't some messy, dramatic high school break up. Honestly, this is going to sound ridiculous, but the main reason I couldn't stand to be around him anymore, was because he claimed to be this major germaphobe. You know the kind that is constantly doing annoying shit like using paper towels to open door handles, and forever has the bottle of hand sanitizer? Fine, if that's your issue, but I started to notice that he never washed his hands when he left the bathroom. From then on, I couldn't see him as anything but a fraud. I wonder what kind of diseases you can get from a skeevy Mexican bathroom when you don’t wash your hands.

  “Was it serious?” Ben asks.

  “It was a serious mistake. How about you?” I wince as I ask the question. Is this where the truth will come out? That he has someone back in Kentucky? That this is all a game? Who am I kidding, he doesn’t owe me anything. I barely know him.

  “Come on, I’ve lived here less than a month, even I don’t move that quickly.” He says. We both laugh and it’s easy and relaxed and magnificent.

  I remember the last time that I made this trip home from Savannah. It was a couple of years ago, Carter was still at home and Mason was so young. Mom picked us up from school early with Mason strapped into his booster seat in the back of the car, next to a laundry basket full of the first things that Mom had grabbed before hauling ass out of town with us three kids.

  It’s strange how the times I’ve felt closest to my mom are the times that she and Dad aren’t speaking. I feel like she’s “ours” again. I know it’s probably just part of her manic spiral, but she seems freer, and those are the times when I feel like I can relate to her the best.

  That week we stayed in a rental right on the beach that probably cost three months of my dad’s salary. Carter and I raced up and down the length of the pier over and over while my mom cheered us on with Mason clapping away her lap. We ate ice cream out on the deck while we watched the sun sink into the sea at the end of each day.

  On the way home, I sat in the front seat with Mom. I remember watching the mile markers zoom by, hoping that she’d fly right by our exit— keep on driving. Even if it were just me, Mom and the boys. Even if we had to cram into a tiny apartment like my dad always threatened if she were to leave with us. It wouldn’t matter because we’d be happy, and Mom would be free. I dozed in and out, with my head on her lap. I remember waking every few minutes, but not stirring because she was stroking my hair like she did when I was very young and had a bad dream.

  When we pulled into the garage at home, I’d pretended to still be asleep and let Mom carry me upstairs to my room. I wanted to hang on to the magical, sun-kissed closeness that we all shared that week.

  I have a similar feeling now, as I watch the miles pass by with Ben sitting next to me.

  “I sort of guessed that you weren’t with anyone right now. I mean, with the way you kissed me back there, and all.” Ben says. His voice brings me out of my nostalgic fog and I reach over and playfully swat his arm.

  “Excuse me! But I do believe that you sir, kissed me.”

  Another mile down.

  I look away from the right side of the road and instead wrap my hand around the back of Ben’s neck as he drives and just enjoy the ride.

  “What time are your parents going to be home?” I ask.

  Quinn is insistent that I vanish before they show up. I’ve always been pretty good with parents, but she’s been adamant since the day we met.

  She shrugs her tiny shoulders. “Not sure, Mason has an awards banquet tonight.”

  “Whoa, doesn’t the kid ever get a break? What about the off season?”

  She rolls her eyes. “There is no off season for Mason. He’s on three different teams. He has a pitching coach, a batting coach. It’s all ridiculous.”

  We’re outside on her porch, eating a batch of cupcakes that Quinn’s whipped up. She dips her finger into the generous layer of cupcake icing and licks the glob off her index finger. “It’s Mountain Dew butter cream.” She says.

  “It was incredible,” I say. You’re incredible, I want to add, but I don’t know if we’re quite there yet, even if we’ve basically been inseparable for the last few weeks. If we aren’t at her house or mine, we’re out exploring Atlanta, trying new food and laughing our asses off.

  Quinn, as usual, scoffs to dismiss my compliment.

  The deck boards creek as I lay back and stretch my frame out. Without hesitation, Quinn curls up beside me, and lays her head on my chest. My breath catches for a second at how freaking amazing her closeness feels.

  “Does it ever make you sad?” she asks, cryptically.

  I pick up my head so I can look at her.

  “Does what?”

  “The sunset,” she answers. She rests her cheek on the back of her hand.

  I glance up at the pink and orange haze settling against the blue-gray horizon.

  “Sad? Nah, I think it’s peaceful.”

  “Not to me. I’ve always found it depressing.”

  “Why?” I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She purses her lips and looks pensive, as if she’s selecting her words carefully.

  “I guess because it’s the end. I hate endings.”

  “Not all endings are bad though. I think of sunsets more as a clean slate.” I say. I wonder how big of a tool she thinks I am for that response. “Besides, they’re beautiful…like you.”

  Quinn lays her head back down, facing away from me. She mumbles the words so lightly that I can’t even trust I hear her right. “Beautiful things never last.”

  “What?” I ask. She doesn’t repeat herself.

  “Nighttime was never a peaceful, fresh start growing up. Nights always meant a new fight. One glass of wine would turn into a bottle, one bottle turned into two and two turned into two angry drunks breaking shit. My dad worked too much, or he didn’t work enough. My mom hated California, or she was appalled at the idea of leaving. It was always something. I’d sit next to Mason’s bed for hours, hoping he wouldn’t wake up and hear them. If he did, I’d sing to him to try to mask the noise,” Quinn says. A nervous chuckle escapes her lips. This is the first time
I have heard her say more than a few words about her family. I wonder if she even realizes she’s doing it.

  “Eventually, my mom would start stomping around the house, throwing clothes into a suitcase. It happened every time. Her automatic reaction was to bail, without even saying goodbye. Sometimes she’d just leave for a night, and sometimes it would be weeks before we’d see her again.”

  I watch her hand move to her face and wipe her eyes. She won’t look at me so I can’t be sure but I think she might be crying.

  “At least during the day, we had friends and school to keep us busy. But when the day ended, it was too slow, too quiet. There was too much time to think about what was really going on. I’d watch those sunsets and wonder where my mom was. Why she didn’t want to be with us. Why we weren’t good enough for her. When she’d be coming back, or if that would be the time that she just didn’t come back at all.”

  I lay there silent and still, knowing that whatever I say will undoubtedly be completely inadequate. Sure my parents fight, but it’s usually over petty things, like my dad forgetting to call to say he’ll be late, or my mom spending too much money on scrapbooking crap. The kind of things Quinn is opening up about, I have zero experience with.

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally say, feeling like a jerk that I don’t have something better to offer her.

  She sits up to face me and shrugs indifferently. “Don’t be, it doesn’t matter.”

  Yes it does, I want to tell her. But her expression is guarded and uneasy.

  “Look, no one knows any of that. I don’t even know why I just spewed all of it. But if you could, like, not tell anyone—”

  “I won’t, Quinn,” I cut her off.

  I don’t know why she just decided to confess things that she’s never told a soul— to me of all people. But now that she has, it’s like a switch has been flipped, and everything in me just wants to protect her from that kind of hurt.