Beautiful Things Never Last

3. Ben

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.