8. Quinn
CHAPTER 8
QUINN
W hen I was a little girl, I was obsessed with drawing. So much so, that when my school would host art shows, my parents would invite all of my extended family along to see my work. The ribbons and congratulations made me feel ecstatic at the time, like I was an unstoppable force. It was a reminder that I was good at what I loved, which brought smiles to my family’s faces.
The constant praise made me feel like each piece after needed to be better, and the next had to be even more breath-taking than the whatever came before it. It was a vicious cycle I found myself stuck in, always striving to create something more superior than the last. On and on it went, until sometime in the middle of high school, I completely burnt out.
Of course, I didn’t tell my parents this—I didn’t tell anyone, not even Rory. Art doesn’t mean the same to me as it did back then. Somehow it went from something I loved spending all my time doing to something that I felt had to do. It was me, and always has been, forcing myself to keep up with the demands that my family and I set for myself .
Five years later, I was relieved to be out of Seattle—from under my parents’ thumbs—hoping if I could explore a few classes, something might strike my creative match again. Last year, I took most of my general education classes and Drawing 101, just to keep up with my skills, but for most of freshman year, I took a break from drawing and allowed myself the time to just be a student, to make friends and have fun.
Now, as I delve further into the art sphere, it still doesn’t feel right. I want to be in art, I love it with all of my heart, but there is no excitement anymore, only a nervousness that I pretend not to show.
I often sit in class and compare my work to those around me. Even my friends’—I can feel a thousand happy things when I look at their pieces but when I study my own, it doesn’t feel good enough. It never feels good enough. I don’t feel good enough.
Which is why I find myself lingering around the art building after my Critical Thinking class on Friday afternoon, the night of Vulcan University’s homecoming football game. I’m spending my time critically thinking about all of my life choices right now.
I stare at the work that past classes have made, hanging throughout the otherwise drab halls of the establishment. This building used to house most of the art classes, is the second oldest building on campus, but in all of the years of its occupation, no one has decided to stray from painting the walls anything other than the one shade off of pure white that they are.
Walking down the corridor, I admire the different techniques used to create them. Most are drawn with charcoal or pencils, black and white renderings of a still life. I remember doing that last year in Drawing 101. It had been nice to sit and work on something that didn’t move, didn’t change or judge me or use too much brain power. It was practical, the items tangible and something that couldn’t necessarily be screwed up.
It had been our challenge to work on proportions and perspectives. I liked that mine was different from everyone else’s because no one sat in exactly the same spot, didn’t have the same angle that I did. Each piece was meant to look different from the start, and sure, I could compare technique, but I couldn’t compare my viewpoint against my classmates.’ It had been easy to lose myself in the simplistic set up of the bowl of fruit.
The drawings end as I round the corner. My ears perk up at soft music flowing down the halls. Looking ahead, I realize I’ve turned down the hallway to the ceramics and sculpture classrooms. It’s another art class I’d been contemplating taking this semester, but didn’t line up with my schedule.
I follow the sound of the upbeat music down the hall. The closer I move, the more I pick up on the familiar sounds of someone working on a masterpiece. The whirring of the pottery wheel drawls soothingly under the music. The splashing of water as the artist wets their hands, it draws me in like the busybody I am, peeking my head through the door.
It’s a large classroom, much like the drawing room. Afternoon sun pours in through the windows, painting the atmosphere in a golden light. It’s crowded with large tables and chairs, walls lined with towering racks for the students to hold their pieces. Pottery wheels sit in perfectly straight lines and I immediately spot the one being used, my surprise at who it is has me blurting his name.
“Slate?” It comes out sounding accusatory, even though I don’t intend it to. My friend startles from where he’s zoned in on his work, the clay between his hands crumpling as he jumps.
He frowns down at his piece and I wince. I didn’t mean to frighten him and now his work is ruined. Slate doesn’t seem all that bothered by it after a few long seconds when he smashes it back into a clump of clay and turns to grin at me.
“Quinn, hey! Are you taking ceramics this semester?”
I respond as I step into the room. The sleeves of his shirt are pulled high to his elbows, the gray substance speckling those toned arms all the way up. He has on an apron so the material doesn’t get on his clothes, but from the way that his large thighs frame the pottery wheel, the fabric isn’t doing much to stop the clay from splattering the inside of his jeans. “Ah, no. I just heard your music playing and thought I’d come check it out. I’m sorry for wrecking your piece.”
He shrugs, offering me an easy grin. “No worries, was just messing around, really.” He gestures to the pottery wheel beside him and I take a seat. “You ready for tonight?”
Ugh, the homecoming football game. We’re not going to the actual event but the pre-games are supposed to be wild. Plus, Rory volunteered us to get to Peep’s early and help out with decorations.
I don’t even know why Peep wants to decorate—or host a college party at all, really—because everything is likely going to be trashed come the morning.
Quite possibly, myself included.
I avoid looking at him when I answer, staring at a few flecks of clay left abandoned. They’re dry and I have the urge to pick at them, but I keep to myself. “Yeah, should be fun.”
“Sounds like you really mean that, too,” Slate chuckles, and I find myself smiling with him, elbowing him softly. “What’s on your mind?”
I sigh, long and forlorn. I’m not really sure I want to talk about my frequent feelings of imposter syndrome with him. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks now, and none of our conversations have encroached on something so intimate. I don’t even know anything about his personal life, either.
“Just tired, I suppose,” I say, watching as he begins working the clay again. The substance oozes between his fingers but he kneads it into submission easily. If I had more energy, I’d be staring much harder at those large hands and how they move and my pussy would be begging for those fingers to work me into submission.
Slate’s frown returns and it doesn’t look right on his face. He’s the kind of guy who’s always smiling and joking around, cheeky through and through. This doesn’t suit him.
“Is it Knox again? I’ll barge right into his room and tell him to shut the music off if it is,” he says and he sounds like he genuinely would if I asked.
That means a lot to me.
“Don’t worry about it too much, Slate,” I answer with a soft smile. Maybe he can see through me in the time of our short friendship. I change the subject, not wanting to wallow in my sour feelings and have them carried with me throughout the night. There’s no way Rory or even Pipa will let me escape this party, no matter how hard I consider trying. “What are— were you making?”
Slate’s beaming smile rivals the bright sun outside. His brown eyes glitter like goldstone and it warms me how thoughtful he is. “I was making my mom a set of teacups for her birthday,” he answers happily.
I want to cringe again because that sounds like quite a nice gift I’ve managed to ruin, but he’s giving me a look that tells me that I shouldn’t be worrying about it at all. “That’s nice,” I comment sincerely. “Have you been into ceramics long?”
“Since I first tried it in high school,” he explains proudly, sticking his thumbs down the middle of the wet lump of clay, parting it easily. Slate continues shaping, curving his fingers outward to form a bowl shape. “I took pottery because I thought it’d be a blowoff class and at least I could get a little dirty. I fell in love with it my first time on the wheel.” He says it like he’s reminiscing about the first love of his life and that yearning feeling is back in my chest again, striking fast and hard. I wish that I could feel the same way about my own art. “Have you ever thrown before?”
“Yeah, when I was in the third grade, I made a mug,” I grumble. It was hard and my piece turned out badly. Unfortunately, my mom still keeps it on her desk, using it as a pencil holder. It never fails to embarrass me when I’m home to see it. My eyes widen when Slate stops his pottery wheel abruptly to cut at the block of clay sitting beside him. He slaps it on the empty slate in front of me and I stare at it like it’s going to mold itself into a pair of fangs and bite me. “What are you doing?”
Slate’s smirk spells trouble. “We’re upgrading you to an ashtray or a vase today, yeah? Come on, go grab an apron and I’ll show you how the professionals do it, Quinnie.”
He gives me a stern look when I’m about to protest and I snap my mouth shut, staring wearily at the lump in front of me. I have always wanted to try my hand at pottery and I don’t have anything else to do until the game starts, so might as well redeem my third-grade self.
Standing, Slate gives me an encouraging thumbs-up as I head over to where the aprons are draped over a rack on the wall.
Why the hell not?
It turns out, spending a few hours in the ceramics room with Slate was exactly what I needed to turn my day around.
He had been the best distraction, naturally funny and a great teacher, too. Somehow, he talked me into making an ashtray, which is something that I don’t need, but was easy enough to make with his direction.
It was nice feeling the slimy material bend under my will, to really get in there and squeeze the life out of it until my frustration had eked out of me enough to finally mold it into the circular shape Slate was showing me. He didn’t comment or tease, just let me do what I needed to do while he worked with his own piece until I was settled and ready to create something that I wouldn’t mash to bits.
He said he’d let me know when it was time for glazing, and we could set something up after class hours so we can paint our pieces before they go into the kiln.
I feel like there’s residual clay clinging to my skin and under my nails that I’ll have to wash off in the shower before I get ready for the party with Rory, but I kind of can’t wait to try it again. The giddy feeling has me excited for the rest of the night.
“Thank you, for that,” I say as Slate and I reach my apartment door. Ever the gentleman, he’d even offered me a ride back home and a trip through the drive-through of my choice, but Rory mentioned something about ordering pizzas with Peep before the end of the game, so I had to politely decline.
“Anytime, really,” Slate answers as I stick my key in the lock. “I’ll text you when we’re ready to glaze. It was really nice hanging out with you, Quinn. I’ll see you later? ”
“Absolutely,” I agree as he continues to the next door down. “Later.”
When I open the door, the TV is blaring loudly and I wonder why Rory has it turned up so high. Maybe she’s getting ready in her room and wanted to listen to something in the background, but she could have just played music on the speaker instead…
Kicking the door shut behind me, I finally look up only to freeze when I spot a figure sitting on the couch, scrolling aimlessly on his phone.
“Sam?” I ask in confusion.
My older brother is at Vulcan University, sitting on my couch right now. We have the same hazel eyes but he’s been gifted with our mother’s brown hair, a few shades darker than mine. It’s unruly from where he’s clearly been running his fingers through it from the sheer boredom he’s currently experiencing, if the loud but relieved groan he lets out when I arrive tells me anything.
“Finally, you’re home.” Sam springs off the measly futon and winds his way over to me for a hug. I wrap my arms around him, still confused as to why the hell he’s here right now, and I let my backpack slip from my shoulder when he pulls away. Sam frowns, poking my nose as he teases, “You don’t look too happy to see me, Quinnie. What’s that all about?”
“No, I am happy you’re here, I’m just confused. Why this weekend?” I ask, trailing him back to the couch. Sam collapses against it, grabbing the remote to pause the movie as he laughs incredulously.
“You think I would come down here the same weekend as mom and dad? Hard pass, Quinn. I’m here for parties and fun, not lectures and Pictionary.”
I cross my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes at my brother. Last I knew, he loved playing Pictionary with our family and nearly broke a vase when he lost to me by one point.
Sam relents with a sigh. “Fine, so Peep might have invited me down for this party she’s having and I thought I’d stop by and see you.”
A shit eating grin appears on my face as Sam ducks his head back into his phone to avoid eye contact. He and Peep have been skirting around each other for years. The Wilson’s and my family have been close for a long time now, and I think we all knew that one of the Wilson daughters was bound to have a fling with Samuel Conroy. Or more.
Looks like that lucky lady is Pipa.
My brother is a fantastic guy most of the time, when he and I aren’t arguing like the siblings we are. He’s kind, smart, and funny, all of the attributes most women want in a man. He’s in his final year at Brownstone University up in Connecticut, which is certainly a long flight from Vulcan U, settled down here in Southern California.
“All this for a weekend trip?” I pry, and he shoots me a glare.
“I don’t have much going on this early in the semester.” He brushes me off, but I know it’s a lie. Biology majors are always busy with school. Peep must be one special lady if she’s gotten Sam to fly all the way out here for one of her parties because he’s never come running when I’ve asked. “So, what’s the plan for tonight, then?”
I roll my eyes at my brother’s impatience, pulling out my phone when it buzzes in my pocket. “Where’s Ro?” I ask, frowning as I read the message from Reid telling me he’s been summoned to a family dinner that he cannot escape. I type back quickly, sending him Peep’s address just in case along with my condolences. If he can get out of the dinner early or slip out after, he should be able to arrive in the thick of the festivities.
“She went to go pick up some pizzas with that guy she was hanging out with,” Sam says, texting someone as well. I try to squint to see the contact’s name, but he locks the phone too quickly for me to read. I’m pretty sure I saw a heart emoji and with the smile he’s trying to smother, I’m almost positive he’s texting Peep. It’s nice of him to stop by and see me before he falls completely into her for the rest of the night. “Ace, I think.”
I make a face without realizing it which causes Sam to laugh. “You don’t like him, I take it? He did seem kind of cocky, had an attitude when I showed up, but at least he’s better than that Max guy. Man, he was such a dick.”
I hum in agreement. He hadn’t been good for Rory, but she’s been caught up in him like a tornado. Her first college fling that hadn’t ended as well as the school’s football season did, which Max is on. They were pretty steady during the end of fall semester last year and well into spring, but when summer finally came around, Max broke it off, not wanting to be tied down during the time off from school.
From what I hear now, he’s all but making it clear he wants Rory back, which he should because she’s amazing, but I pray she doesn’t start fucking around with him again.
If she’s out picking up pizza with Ace, that must mean that they’re joining us for dinner before we all head over to Peep’s later, which no doubt means that Slate and Knox will be there.
My stomach tightens at the thought of seeing Knox again. He’d been right to call me out the other day, but he didn’t have to be so harsh about it. I couldn’t stop staring at his hands as he worked, the sliver of skin I noticed when the sleeve of his shirt tugged up a little too much? —
“Earth to Quinn! Hello?” My brother sings annoyingly, waving his hand in front of his face. “What’s going on in there?”
I bat his hand away, standing from the couch. “Nothing. Just watch the damn movie and wait for the pizza, I’m going to get ready.”
He grumbles something under his breath that I don’t care to listen to as I make my way towards the bathroom to shower.
It’s going to be a long night.