Beautiful Things Never Last

1. 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.”