7. Quinn
CHAPTER 7
QUINN
T hings slowly begin to enter a new normal.
In the span of a few weeks, I get into the groove of classes, learn that Art History is not my thing, and I only had to reach out to Slate three times with mildly threatening texts to relay the message to Knox to keep the music down. It’s always followed by the slamming of his door and the revving of his motorcycle on the street outside my window, then a deafening silence that keeps me awake the rest of the night.
Progress.
Part of me feels bad for it, that he can’t stand being in the room without the need for music to drown out whatever nightly thoughts consume him. Are they that terrible that he can’t just put headphones on instead? Where is he even going so late at night?
On the other hand, Knox obviously doesn’t feel at all bad about it because he continues to do it, not picking up on any of the hints I’m sending his way: the slightly aggressive texts, pounding on the wall—which only causes him to hit right back—turning the music up a few more notches until my walls shake with it.
Perhaps he uses the music to mask the noises he makes when he has special guests over. When he’s pinning them to the bed and smirking down at them as he slowly teases his cock right against their entrance— No, Quinn. We are not thinking about Knox and how he fucks right now. Bad.
The other part of me wants to figure out the very reasoning behind the notes that hang heavy in the air.
Now that the semester is under way, projects for my classes begin pouring in and I can feel myself slowly becoming more and more stressed as all of my insecurities stack up.
I yearn for the ability to have confidence in my style, to gather inspiration from anywhere and everywhere. From a children’s character to war, from comics and landscapes to vehicles and buildings to even a pound of butter—inspiration from a fucking Campbell’s soup can. None of those things speak to me, make my fingers itch to sketch or paint or sculpt. Everything I create is a series of overthinking, and it shows. Every stroke of the brush or line I make with a pencil is over-examined, again and again and again, until the final piece is complete and there isn’t an ounce of pride surging through my body.
I hate it and I certainly don’t need Knox’s night-time shenanigans adding to all of the pressure I’m putting on myself.
As artists, everything is open to interpretation. We draw the way that the model sits, paint the way the still-life stands, mold the clay into shapes and forms that will inevitably be placed in galleries for all to judge. Interpretation means shit. It’s just a glorified word for judging the fuck out of something. People think they have to attribute meaning to everything in life and I wish it wasn’t all that serious sometimes. There is so much pressure to create something that has meaning, something objectively beautiful, and I’m not entirely sure I have that in me.
I feel utterly and completely average in comparison.
Sometimes, I sneak peeks at the others while they work. Reid, completely new to life drawing, understands the human body in a way that’s completely different from me. I can see his architecture background in the more technical approach he takes to drawing: perfecting the proportions of the model’s limbs as he goes. Instead of using the points on his pencil to gauge the length of an arm or a calf, he’s using his scale to proceed in a more mathematical sense, doubling or tripling the calculation in his head so he knows exactly how large to sketch the image. He’s drawing in that functional way that architects have, and it’s unlike anything I’ve seen thus far during my time in art school.
Rory, on the other hand, works in a vastly different way. There’s a fluidity to her lines that Reid doesn’t possess, as if each stroke is meant to express emotion rather than to serve a larger purpose. It doesn’t seem like she has to overthink anything, relaxed and with a soft smile on her face as she works, letting the charcoal guide her. It’s like she’s a vessel for the art flowing from her fingertips, wicked with a pencil, lethal with oil paints.
In Rory’s work, there are specific elements that she emphasizes, and other times she’s drawing a perfectly proportional model, confident enough in her craft that she knows exactly what her intentions are when she makes those artistic choices. Rory’s signature is adding a tweak of vividness with her colored paints: bright eyes, pointed teeth, sharp ears, and I can see that she’s brought that quirk over to drawing class with her, making the models’ eyes or lips pop.
She’s had her style figured out for years, since she was old enough to understand what made others unique.
And me? I don’t feel like there’s a specific way to approach things. Or, if there is, I haven’t cracked the code on it yet. I just… do. There is nothing special in the way that I draw the models, there’s no splash of color like Rory nor technical elements like Reid.
I’m just me.
So, when we receive the first project of the semester from Professor Beatrice, I’m kind of already fucked.
“What are you thinking of drawing for the assignment?” Reid asks after class one day. We’re walking with Rory towards the local coffee shop, the desperate need for caffeine a priority since it had been another sleepless night for me. Tiredness weighs heavy on my body in a sluggish cloud, but the lack of sleep isn’t from the jerk on the other side of the wall this time. I couldn’t sleep because of the impossible thoughts filtering through my head, fighting for the first-place spot in my mind. All of the assignments I’ll be working on this semester and how poorly I feel like I’m doing in Art History already despite the fact that we haven’t had a single assignment because the only grades in the class are the three tests we’re taking this term. There’s no hope for extra credit either. I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do there.
Add in the creeping sense of imposter syndrome, and I didn’t sleep a fucking wink.
I shrug, my lids scraping against my eyes when I blink slowly. “I’m not entirely sure yet.”
The assignment should be a simple one, yet here I am once again with no clue what I’m going to do. My mind must not be all that tired because a fresh spike of anxiety claws its way up my throat.
All we have to do for the assignment is copy the work of a well-known artist as close to the original as we can. To imitate and learn how the greats once created their art. The task sounds simple enough, but it isn’t, because there are millions of artists crafting works in a million different mediums and styles, all renowned in their skills. Popular names with perfect pencil marks or paint strokes, sculptures and prints.
I’m not all that confident I’ll be able to recreate such things, to be honest.
“How about you, Ro?” Reid asks, holding the door open for the both of us to pass into the coffee shop. I thank him, perking slightly as the delicious scent of roasted coffee beans attacks my senses.
Caffeine is probably the last thing I need right now, but hell, I’m going to get it anyway.
The line inside of the coffee shop isn’t long, but it’s also not the shortest I’ve ever seen it. There’s a warm glow reflecting off of the terra-cotta floors, the emerald tiles of the counters, and the backsplash is bright in contrast. The warm wooden tables and booths make Sip & Savor a popular spot amongst studying students and the patrons of Hardwich City alike.
“I’m planning on doing something by élisabeth Vigée Le Brun. Her work is breathtaking. I could only wish to create something half as good as hers someday,” Rory sighs in admiration, long and forlorn. Both of them trail me into line. “But I’m not sure if I want to do one of her landscapes or portraits. How about you? Did you pick anyone yet?”
“I’m choosing something by Santiago Calatrava for sure,” Reid’s features light up like they always do when he talks about his major, and I wish I was as excited as they are. The emptiness in my stomach only hollows and I grip the straps of my backpack tighter, silently willing the line to move faster. “I think he’s brilliant in the way he combines architecture and art. I think it will definitely help me work on bettering my skills.”
Sounds perfectly planned, I think sourly, then immediately feel bad. Why am I bitter about their excitement just because I haven’t figured out what I’m doing yet? It’s fantastic that they have their projects decided, but it makes me feel worse than I already do. More negative thoughts form thorns in my head, woven around my brain like a vicious poison.
If I can’t get my emotions in check, I’m not entirely sure what will spill out of my mouth, and I really don’t want my friends to be on the receiving end of them if they come slipping out.
The line is moving slowly enough to set my teeth on edge. The wait allows the volley of thoughts to grow stronger, and Rory and Reid’s continued conversation about the upcoming art project isn’t helping.
As I part my lips to interrupt them—to desperately change the topic to something that isn’t school or art related—the bell above the coffee shop door chimes and my stomach completely drops to the floor beneath my feet as Ace appears.
He’s wearing a cable knit sweater even though the autumn heat is sweltering today. There has been a tease of cooler days to come, but summer must have put her winds back to rest because it’s positively scalding today. There doesn’t appear to be a droplet of sweat on that angular face of Ace’s though, no dampness beading the hairline of his perfectly unruly blond hair.
I watch his gaze sweep over mine, those ocean eyes lighting in recognition. It’s as if his stare is drawn to Rory like a magnet, taking a leisurely fill of her while she chats with Reid, completely unaware to the newcomer. There’s a cheesy grin on her face and as I quickly glance back at Ace, I catch his lashes lowering slightly, the corners of his mouth turning downwards at the sight.
Studying him, I analyze the threat of him being here. If he’s standing in the doorway, the other two are sure to be close behind. Would I rather have a large cup of coffee or be subjected to whatever teasing is bound to happen, completely tarnishing my already irritable mood?
Slate sweeps into the coffee shop as if I’ve just thought it into existence. His frame blocks the sun cresting over the trees lining the street and people turn to stare at the sudden shift in lighting. The glow of his tanned skin shines brightly, giving him an ethereal radiance that rivals his easy smile. He is as all of the poets describe: tragically beautiful.
The door clangs shut behind them as the pair move forward and my shoulders sag in relief for two reasons. One, because Knox isn’t completing their little trio today, and two, because of the wide grin Slate greets me with, paired with the hug that makes me feel like a small child in the crook of his massive frame. It has me releasing a breath filled with the tension of a thousand wildfires.
“Hey, you,” Slate says, and I allow myself a moment to soak in his warmth because who doesn’t want to feel all smothered and protected by a handsome man? Sue me.
“Hey, Slate,” I respond, moving up in line when it shifts forward. I avoid looking at Ace, who seems to be trying to catch my eye from around Slate’s shoulder while he says hello to my friends. Thankfully, the latter is broad enough that it doesn’t take much effort for me to keep my eyes locked on the back of the person in front of me .
One more customer and then I’ll have my coffee.
My group of friends—and Ace—are all smiles and laughter. I don’t know what they’re talking about, I don’t care to focus on the conversation even when I see Reid shooting me a questioning look from the corner of my eye. I keep my gaze pinned to the menu, roving across the chalkboard writing as if I’m actually reading it and not skimming over the words because I already know exactly what I want.
What I definitely want is for everyone to leave me alone.
“So, if the football team wins homecoming this year—which they’re going to, because we’re undefeated—my sister, Peep, is throwing a party at her house afterwards.” I catch the tail end of Rory’s sentence and frown. She’s grimacing at the thought of her football-star ex. Rory already mentioned it over dinner earlier this week when she was complaining about Peep betraying her boycott of the football team since her breakup with Max. I wasn’t expecting her to extend the invitation to our rowdy neighbors. Reid, sure. I can even see her asking Slate, but Ace too? Why is she inviting him when I told her what happened at the art supply that day? Shouldn’t we be discussing a truce instead of just offering it up? I’m still pissed at him, too. “If you want to come with Quinn and I.”
Please say no, please say no, I beg, shoving the thoughts at them and hoping they take root in their heads.
“Sounds like fun,” Ace answers. He’s still staring intently at Rory, but before I can think about it too much, I’m called forward.
“Hello! How can I help you?” The girl behind the cash register asks. She’s pretty, her dark hair pulled back into a clip at the base of her neck, a few fly-aways looking effortless as they frame her long face. Her deep, espresso eyes are intimidating but soft, and her smile is bright for a fleeting second before it falters when she takes in the rest of my group.
“Hi,” I answer politely, putting on my best smile even though it takes a lot more effort than I’m willing to admit. “Can I have a medium mocha with an extra shot, extra whip, and light ice, please?”
“Of course,” she presses the buttons on her tablet and returns her attention to me. “Can I have a name for your order? Would you like any pastries?”
I shake my head. “Quinn. And, no, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” She sounds sincere. “Your total is $6.23.”
I tug out the cash I stuffed into my pocket after class ended when Rory asked Reid and I if we wanted to grab coffee. It’s a little crumpled and a smidge damp from the heat of my body and the warm end of summer, but it does the job, the barista taking it without complaint.
She hands me my change and receipt, then flounces away after letting me know that it will be ready at the other end of the counter. I slide the loose change from my palm into the tip jar and begin shuffling down to the pick-up area when Reid stops me with a hand on my shoulder, frowning in disappointment.
“Did you pay already? I wanted to buy your drink.”
I blink up at him, not exactly sure I enjoy the extra thump my heart beats at his words. A pang of guilt gleans in my chest. Here I am, letting my negative thoughts consume me while my friends are attempting to distract me and cheer me up. I wonder how unlike myself I’ve been acting for even Reid to notice after only a few weeks of knowing each other.
The vibrant contrast of his eyes is breathtaking, even when his chestnut brows furrow, casting shadows across them.
I cough, realizing I’ve been staring for a beat too long when the cashier is calling the next customer up to the counter. Rory looks over to see if Reid is going to take the spot, but he waves her ahead, returning his attention to me.
“Yeah. I, uh, just ordered. Sorry,” I stutter, feeling like a fool.
“Don’t be,” he replies easily. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I’ll make it up to you next time.”
“Thanks, Reid.” I can’t help the heating of my cheeks at his words. “You don’t have to, though.”
I can’t help but notice how Rory’s watching us from her peripherals, staring at the hand Reid still has on my shoulder. I wonder what she’s going to say when we’re back at our apartment. If she’ll encourage me to stay friends with him or maybe pursue this… whatever is going on here.
I let out a shaky breath, willing the redness from my cheeks to go away. “Okay, then. Next time.”
He stares at me, looking a little suspicious, like as soon as he turns away, I’m going to take it back. Luckily, my name is called and Reid reluctantly releases me.
The feel of his fingerprints lingers even after I’ve taken a sip of the deliciously cold and chocolatey coffee.
It cures absolutely nothing.
Not quite like Slate’s hug or Reid’s touch did, anyway.
It’s when everyone has gotten their coffees and we’ve all made it outside the shop that everyone stops to chat more.
And more.
And more.
It’s overwhelming at this point, and not even the cold pressing through my fingertips nor the chocolate coffee goodness I’m swallowing by the lungful is doing anything to quell my flaring annoyance. Not even the whipped cream or chocolate shavings help. Paired with the heat of the sun and the bag across my back, and the looming fact that I still have Art History to trudge through, I’m more than exhausted of today.
Ace is telling some hilarious story from the other day when he was working at the art supply store, and to everyone but me, it’s probably funny. I, however, am still annoyed with the way he acted when I was there, how he all but called me foul names. My views on his charming personality have been tainted since then and I don’t plan on hearing an apology from him anytime soon.
“And then she was rude to me about the paint colors when I specifically told her that alizarium and cadmium are two completely different reds! Wait, Quinn,” I hear him call as I spin on my heel to head back to campus. “Where are you going?”
Shit. I was hoping I’d be able to sneak away without anyone noticing.
Cringing, I twist around to face them again. “I have to go,” I answer awkwardly, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. “I have Art History.”
Rory breaks off from the group, leading me a few steps away.
“Hey, are you okay? If you want to skip Art History, I’ll walk back to the apartment with you,” she offers, ocean eyes filled with a concern that makes my shoulders droop. Rory, my best friend, is simply the sweetest, always making sure I’m okay. “We can order food, pig out, and watch reality TV.”
“As much as I’d love that, I really can’t miss this class,” I sigh, but refuse to tell her how much I feel like I’m struggling already. Like I’m so far behind, despite not having any assignments. I should’ve taken it with her last year but I’d been stubborn and took Contemporary Art instead. “Professor Dolf is kicking ass already. ”
“Ugh, you have him? I heard he’s the worst,” Rory says, then cringes. “Sorry.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, Ro.”
She bites her lip, looking like she wants to say more. Whatever she sees when she studies me, I hope she finds. Hopefully, she’s not taking in the mauve rings around my tired eyes.
“Okay,” she relents, and I want to cry in relief. “But text me when you’re on your way. I’ll order something. Chinese sound good?”
“Sure, that sounds perfect,” I nod. “I’ll see you later.”
When I move to leave, it’s Reid who calls my name next. My fingers flex around the cup with annoyance because all I want right now is to be left alone, build myself up before I walk into Art History and get torn down by the information overload I know I’m going to be receiving.
“Yeah?” I call, turning to face him as he catches up to me. Behind him, Rory, Ace, and Slate are all laughing over something, lost in conversation once more.
“Can I walk you to class?” He asks, so endearingly that it’s going hurt to say no. I just need a few minutes alone, though, so I have to decline.
“Sorry, Reid, I’m already going to be late as it is,” I aim for joking, no matter how much I don’t feel like being chipper. “I don’t need you seeing me after I run across campus with my backpack in the heat. But I’ll see you at the party this weekend, right?”
I don’t give him the room to argue. I want to walk to class alone and thankfully he takes the hint, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll see you this weekend.”
I smile, waving, finally releasing the pent-up breath in my chest as I stride back towards campus. There’s no fucking way I’m running in front of any of them. I’m not that desperate to get to class yet, so I walk into the lecture five minutes late but feeling slightly better from the space.
I slide into the back row, next to a boy whose head is tucked deeply into his notebook, writing down more notes than Doff seems to be sharing on his screen. Maybe I should befriend him, he seems like he’d be willing to help with the intent way he’s diligently taking notes.
He wears tortoiseshell glasses and they frame his warm azure eyes that track me as I take the empty seat next to him, quietly trying to get my notebook out of my bag. His blond fringe hangs as he leans down to continue his notes, and his broad shoulders pulled in tight like I’ve left him no room to stretch out.
It makes me feel a little bad.
“Excuse me,” I whisper, snagging his attention. I’m nervous, not sure what kind of attitude I’m going to get from the boy as I disturb his work. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but would you mind filling me in on what I missed?”
His gaze flickers to the coffee on my desk and I immediately feel judged. He doesn’t get to draw conclusions as to why I’m late for this dreaded class. He doesn’t know how much I desperately needed the coffee to get through this, and frankly, it’s none of his business.
“Sure,” he agrees, and I could cry with joy. “If you bring me a coffee next time.”
I scowl, because what the hell? But then Doff switches slides and the boys hand flies over his paper, scribbling down all of the notes in what appears to be the nicest handwriting I’ve ever seen coming from a man.
“Fine,” I huff.
He looks up from his notebook to grin at me before returning to the paper. “Sick. I’m Odie, and I’ll take whatever that is because it looks good as fuck. ”
I let out a startled laugh that has a few students glaring our way. I sink back in my seat, opening my notebook to a fresh page, jotting the words on the screen down. “You have yourself a deal, Odie,” I mutter under my breath, “I’m Quinn, by the way. And the coffee is good as fuck.”
He snickers as I’m shushed and I duck my head, glaring at the words about art in a time period I don’t understand a thing about.