Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him-it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at leas...
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The drive to campus is a short one, just enough time to finish a couple of chapters of my latest book. Although art was our thing, reading was where my mom and I first bonded. When she wasn't painting, her home studio doubled as a reading fortress. A real reader's pinterest dream. She would perch herself in the corner for hours on end, curled into the cushions of an eccentric green chair. Daily I would watch as she would finger through the pages of countless novels and too many author's to keep track of, but the genre always remained the same.
Pages and pages filled with the story of two star crossed lovers on the verge of breaking down, or finding one another even when all the fates were so misaligned it would never work in reality. She could devour a book like a cold drink on a hot summer day. Her thirst for the fairytale, the trope, was always too much. Within a few big gulps it would be gone.
It's embarrassing to admit, the way I would study her. Imitating her actions with my own childish picture books. I would mirror the way the pages crept closer to her face as the plot thickened or the way she would flag her favorite pages with a sticky note.
It wasn't until I was much older and we could share novels that I finally asked her why she spent so much time on something that seemingly produced nothing. It wasn't like her art. As the sand would slip through the glass she would have something to show for it. But after reading her hand-me-down books, I was always left with more questions than any story line offered to answer.
She had dropped her book into her lap, but only after finishing the page she was on and carefully placing her bookmark to keep her spot. She adjusted her position in my bed, the mattress shifting from her weight.
"Do you know why I started painting?" She leaned forward so her elbows were resting on her thighs, bringing her face closer to mine as I lay with my stomach against the mattress. She could never just answer a question. It was her most infuriating quality and the one I miss the most.
"Because you're really good?" I remember feeling like the answer was obvious. She smiled leaning forward to kiss my cheek, thanking me for the compliment.
"No my love. I started painting because I realized I wasn't good with words. But by putting brush to canvas, I could say everything I ever needed to. I could show people what was going on in here," she said pointing to her head. "And here." She then moved her finger to her chest, signifying the spot where her heart rested. "Painting lets me tell a story."
"Why so quiet Ryn?" Jill, Gabi's mom, asks from behind the wheel.
Gabi giggles softly from the passenger seat, mumbling something about my college persona being a tortured poet. I lean forward and flick the back of her head. Gabi quickly tries to retaliate. Her quick movements, however, leave her with a locked seatbelt and unable to reach me. She curses under her breath towards me.
