After reading so many entries where Quin was the star, the middle of Ryla’s teen years showed a subtle shift, starting with the trip to Wyoming to the dude ranch. Quin wanted to stop, wanted to hold onto her sister’s adoration, but knew she couldn’t. If she was going to figure out what Ryla had wanted her to see, the only way was to keep going.
Dear Later Self,
Why does Quin always get everything she wants?
Quin touched the words penned by a teen who just wanted to be seen. Why couldn’t she have noticed Ryla’s struggle?
I told Mom and Dad that I love it here. That I want to come back to this ranch every year if possible. The owner even said I would be old enough next year to come all on my own. But they won’t let me. Quin hates the ranch, and we have to spend our summers as a family. So, we aren’t coming back.
I’ve been told so often that Quin is sensitive, that I shouldn’t say anything that will hurt her or take away her creativity, but it’s really hard to hold this in. When do I get to be the daughter who’s important? When does what I want get to matter? For the first time, I feel like I belonged somewhere. I was out every day with the horses and the wranglers. I found I could even talk without stumbling over every word. Probably because my parents wouldn’t care what I said out there as long as it wouldn’t hurt their precious Quin.
Quin reminded herself that the words were old, there was nothing she could do to change that summer now. She couldn’t apologize and she couldn’t go back. But that didn’t stop the flood of memories. She’d pestered Mom and Dad daily about how much she hated it there. The horses smelled bad, the men were rowdy, the dust made her cough, and the wind burned her lungs. She hadn’t even noticed Ryla was having a good time. She’d been too wrapped up in herself.
She closed her eyes and curled her knees in closer. Why did reading something painful make you cold? But one instance couldn’t change Ryla’s outlook. The whole previous book and the beginning of this one had been full of all the fun things they’d done together. Though Quin had changed during puberty. All girls went through a stage where they were more selfish than before. She was no different.
I’ve come to realize over the last month that I will never be like Quin. I’m starting to understand that and deal with it. I don’t have to like it, but it is what it is. I can cry or I can make the best of my life that I can. I was put here for a reason, being the focus of my parents’ attention just isn’t that thing.
I wish I had Quin’s artistic eye. Sometimes, I look out at the ocean and I just see the colors. I see them distinctly and the shapes it would take to make them. Maybe that’s a little of what Quin feels? I asked her last week to tell me what it was like to be an artist, but she thought I was asking to be rude. I still don’t know the answer, but I thought I’d try my hand at drawing. I’m going to keep a sketchbook from now on, but I’ll keep it hidden. If Quin found it, she might accuse me of trying to compete with her or make fun that I’m not as good as her.
I never will be.
A sketchbook? Quin couldn’t remember Ryla ever having one. She would’ve remembered. Where would she have hidden something like that? Quin tried to recall Ryla’s favorite places when they were older teens, but she’d blocked out so much from those years. She had tried to make friends at school, including the occasional boyfriend, to get away from home.
Most of the third floor was an attic, but there was one finished room that was not connected. There was a narrow staircase, and it led to a tiny room with an ocean overlook. The only furnishing was a built-in bench in front of the window. Ryla hid up there to read as a child. But did she hide up there to draw, too? And if she did, was the sketchbook still there?
Quin left the diary on the nightstand in Ryla’s room and jogged up to the second floor, then up the narrow stairs. The room hadn’t been vacuumed in years and dust clung to the air as the sun poured through the tall window. The cushion on the bench seat had faded from red to pink and the window was cloudy with dust and age.
No one had stepped foot in that room in a long time, but was that because Ryla had given up her spot of solitude as a child for another spot on the other side of the wall? Quin lifted the cushion, revealing the original color of the fabric and a very old diary covered in black canvas. Inside, the paper was thick and crisp. The pencil drawings hadn’t faded since they’d been protected from sun and damp air.
Every drawing in the book was of horses. The earliest ones were rudimentary, but as Ryla had figured out how to make the shapes and lighten her lines, her confidence built enough that there were fewer eraser marks and more realistic drawings. By the last, she’d drawn a recreation of the picture that had been in the living room. Only in this one, Quin’s face was happy and Ryla was looking up at her, smiling.
“It’s like a puzzle you left for me. All these clues and books.” She closed the sketchbook and tucked it under her arm. From the bench, she could easily see Paxton’s house. He wasn’t home from work yet. Karla was mowing her front yard. They had normal lives. What was so different about her that she couldn’t do that? Couldn’t she just work a job and mow her yard? Was she so special that she wouldn’t enjoy that life?
After the last few weeks, she didn’t feel particularly special and she hadn’t picked up a sketch pencil nor paints since she’d left Manhattan. Worse, she didn’t miss it.
Paxton and his friend had picked up the mirror and painting the night before. He’d insisted on paying for the frame. His friend had only laughed at them arguing over it. Finally, he’d insisted that he should pay because if Quin didn’t stay, he wanted it. That had made her relent. Paxton hadn’t asked for anything of Ryla’s and he’d probably known her the best. He should have something of hers to remember Ryla.
Quin sat in the window and watched the ocean as the waves slowly broke over the shore. Her phone rang and she hesitated before picking it up. Ben’s number and picture glowed on the screen. She hadn’t talked to him in almost two weeks and even that felt like so much longer than it was.
“Hello.” She tried to sound like she welcomed the phone call.
“Hey. Wanted to let you know that the art show went well. Since your sister knocked off, they didn’t even hold it against you that you weren’t there, though they did question why you couldn’t make it and your parents could.” His usual joking and honest-to-the-point-of-harsh nature felt so off from her seat watching the calming water.
“Knocked off? Seriously? That’s cold.” Even for him.
“Well, it’s not like you talked about her. I didn’t even know you had a sister until you told me you were going to visit her. Not like you could’ve been all that close to her. I’ve known you for years. If she was so important, I’d have known about her.”
The suggestion that he was close enough to her to know everything of importance in her life shook her. “It’s not like we were great friends, Ben. You were my marketing department.” It wasn’t like they had a relationship. He had tried to kiss her once. That had ended in embarrassment, at least on her part, and some anger from him. He’d tried to act close to her since then, but her feelings hadn’t changed. He’d remained the jokingly unofficial boyfriend.
“Just your marketing? Really? You think I would’ve stayed around that long for the tiny pay you sent my way? I was in it because I cared about you. I was really hoping at some point you would see that.”
Cared? Was she destined to always be around people who wanted to control her every move? “No. I didn’t see that, and I still don’t. Thank you for calling me to let me know about the museum. I’m glad to know they won’t hold this against me in the future. You should be getting your last check from me shortly and you can mail my apartment key back to me at that address.” She didn’t wait for him to agree or disagree before ending the call. He shouldn’t have a key to her place anymore. Once she returned home, she’d ask her apartment manager to install a new lock just in case.
Quin leaned against the wall and curled up in the small window seat, warming herself in the sun. Ryla would’ve disliked Ben, everything about him. From his snide comments that made him seem insincere to his metro style. They would’ve been oil and water. Why hadn’t Quin seen how different he was from her?
Because she’d had no one else and she’d wanted someone different from everyone she’d known. Funny how the person she’d thought was so different from her parents ended up trying to control her just the same as they had.
She opened the sketchbook to the very back page, and it was blank. An old pencil hung from the binding, carefully slid down inside. She pushed it from the bottom out and then let her mind release all the things clogging it. She stopped thinking about Ben, Ryla, and even Paxton. The house faded away until she could hear the sounds of the water in her mind. She could feel the spray on her face as if she were in a boat. The scent filled her nose until she could taste the salty air.
The drawing started as random lines on the page, then flowed outward until a rudimentary seascape took shape. It was the first thing she’d drawn in a month.