Paper Flyers

Chapter 11- Quinn

I shouldn't have said that. I should've offered to walk her home instead! What was I thinking? I wasn't. I was intoxicated by Winnie. I just didn't want her to leave. And now- what now? I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have said that. Of course that wasn't ok. How do I even begin to apologize?

The thoughts swirled in my head, the same bunch over and over again until I wanted to scream. Things had been so perfect, and then-me. I'd ruined everything. I rolled over onto my side now, twisting the sheets and watching the digital numbers on my alarm clock move from 1am to 2am. I'd made her feel awkward, I'd put her in an uncomfortable position, I'd jeopardized our relationship.

You know those moments that you wish more than anything you could do over? The kind that would be so easy to change? The ones where you imagine the right outcome so many times that you're almost able to fool yourself into thinking you did things the right way. Almost. This was one of those.

I rolled over again, this time onto my stomach. Now I pictured myself falling. I'd been doing this a lot lately, imagining all my worries left in the clouds as I plummeted downwards. Not towards anything in particular, just down. But I still didn't feel better, the memory of what had happened repeatedly poking me in the back, dancing on my spine, unshakable. I knew I wasn't going to get any sleep at all tonight. I walked into the living room, the empty space where the table had been a haunting reminder of what had occurred here. The broken bones of the table sat in a garbage bag by the door, and for a moment the Winnie problem fled my mind-only to be replaced by another. It seemed like such a waste, I thought. Just throwing away all that wood. So I picked up the bag, sharp splinters of wood poking through the thin plastic on all sides. Then I emptied the contents into my fireplace. I'd almost forgotten it was here. I never used it, the heat in this apartment was usually far too high anyway and I'd never been a stellar boy scout. I couldn't start a fire for the life of me. But tonight it became my mission, for no other reason than the fact that I needed one. I grabbed an old box of matches from a drawer in the kitchen and lit five, then threw them into the fireplace on top of the logs. The bricks from the hearth dug into my knees even through my flannel pants, but I was determined.

The matches I'd thrown in burned and then sputtered out, not managing to catch any of the logs on fire. I searched around my house for paper I could use to start a fire, and when all I could come up with was junk mail envelopes, I used those. The matches destroyed them, the fire twisting them into distorted shapes and turning them black as coal. The fire spread and soon the logs caught, and I sat back and watched the roaring fire in my fireplace. I allowed myself a small, half smile, but I still hadn't forgotten about Winnie.

Now I leaned back on my mom's couch (It had never felt like my own, even though I guess it technically is) and thought some more. What's done was done, I couldn't change that. But I could apologize. I walked over to my bookshelf and skimmed the titles, wondering if they'd offer any help. Then I came across my battered copy of "The Death of a Naturalist" by Seamus Heaney. The spine was fraying, the once bright red covers had dulled to a rusty color, and the pages were torn and coffee stained, covered in mug rings here and there.

We'd been assigned a project on a famous poet in 9th grade. At first I hadn't bothered to look much into it, but one day I was stuck alone at the bus stop with nothing else. That day Seamus Heaney had become my hero. I'd studied this book like a bible for months afterwards, scratching notes into the margins and using it as my portal whenever things got bad. I carried it with me everywhere, and I swear I wouldn't have made it through high school without it. It became less of a mass-produced collection of poems and more of a tangible object, my book, with my thoughts etched into every page. It had lived on my shelf for quite a while now, but I intended to give it a new home.

That night, I spent two hours composing a letter to Winifred. My pen scrawl was sloppy, and when it was done it took up two pages I'd torn from an old notebook. I'd explained the book and apologized a million different times. I'd tried to tell Winnie how I felt-one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Then I folded the letter in half and stuck it between the cover and the title page. I tied it all together with a piece of red ribbon I'd found on my desk, left over from a package my brother had sent me. I left my apartment, barefoot and in my pajamas and took off running towards Reed's. That was the spell Winnie cast over me, she made me need to run places and do exciting things, never put anything off and live completely submerged in the moment. I couldn't lose that.

When I got to Reed's I set the book on the doormat, hoping she would find it before anyone else did. Then, realizing the true insanity of being on the mostly empty Seattle streets at four in the morning, I rushed back home. The guilty feeling that had been filling my stomach was gone. I'd given her all I could. All that was left was to see if she accepted it.

When I sat back down on my couch, the pile of mail I'd taken ads from to kindle my fire was still on the couch, a stack of bills near the top. I groaned. One problem down, one to go. My pockets weren't exactly deep at the moment. I hadn't had a job for almost two weeks now, the refrigerator was looking pretty empty, and the bills were piling up. I'd have to find a job soon. I'd go look tomorrow, give Winnie space for a day. That's what I should do, right?

I wondered where I could get a job, wondered how this whole thing would turn out, and felt the glow of the fire on my face. At last lost consciousness, giving my anxious mind away to blissful sleep.