Rule 15: Have an outside interest that you can talk to him about!
Rule 40: Do not be needy, clingy, or possessive!
Sydney was sitting on the front porch when Quin pulled up along the curb. She’d expected a four-door sedan, probably silver or white, something plain, nondescript.
She’d never really thought of a car as a reflection of the driver, but this car, it looked like it should belong in the pages of a history book, and Sydney realized that that car was Quin.
It was like a piece of art with four wheels.
With her bag slung over a shoulder, Sydney headed down the front walk to the curb just as Quin got out. He was in a plain white T-shirt, his hair tied back, partially hidden beneath a gray fedora.
“What kind of a car is that?” she asked.
“It’s a 1962 Chevy Impala.” He leaned against the car, crossing his arms over the roof. “It was my grandfather’s and then my dad’s and now mine.”
There was not a single spot of rust on the gleaming black body. The chrome rims reflected the green grass of Sydney’s front lawn.
“It’s so…cool,” she said, frowning at her own fascination with a vehicle.
Quin came around to the passenger side. “I like it”—he held the door open for her—“because no one else in town has one.”
Sydney slid inside on the bright-red leather bench seat and looked at the interior of the car. There was no trash on the floorboards, no open ashtray stuffed with safety pins and nail clippers. As Quin went around to the driver’s side, Sydney glanced in the backseat. There was a camera bag, a tripod, and a worn copy of Alice in Wonderland.
Quin got in behind the wheel and started the car. A local radio station played soft jazz music across the speakers. He put the car in drive and took off.
Sydney couldn’t help but watch him, her eyes roaming over the tattoos. If she saw him every day for the next six months, she was pretty sure she’d discover something new in his tattoos every single one of those days.
“So where are we going?” she asked.
“Surprise.”
“Really? So you’re not even going to give me a hint?”
“Nope.”
It’d been a long time since she’d embarked on an adventure. With Drew, it was all about plans. Sydney had missed spontaneity.
Sydney fell quiet, letting the jazz music fill the space between them. It was a good fifteen minutes before either of them spoke.
“You look good today,” Quin said.
Sydney glanced down at her black yoga pants and plain white T-shirt. She considered them pajamas more than public attire, but Quin had said to dress comfortably. This seemed like the perfect outfit.
Instead of washing her hair and then blow-drying it pin straight, she’d pulled it back in a haphazard ponytail, then pushed her bangs away from her face with a stretchy white headband.
“Umm…I do?”
Quin nodded. “Beauty is more than explicit glamour or perfection.”
A smile curved her lips. “As an aspiring photographer, I should probably know that, huh?”
“Yup. I wasn’t sure what kind of a camera you had, so I brought an extra one in case you wanted to try something new.”
“I just have a simple digital camera my mom bought at Wal-Mart. It’s, like, a six megapixel.”
“Then you’ll love the camera I brought you. You’ll have fun with it.”
They reached the next town, Wesarck, in thirty minutes because they took the scenic route. Wesarck was half the size of Birch Falls, with one main street you could travel just one way down. Each intersection on the main strip was done in red and white cobblestones. There was a large clock, where the road curved, that rang the hour as they passed. It was already six in the evening.
Quin turned left off the one-way street and the road curved around an overgrown railroad track. A field spread out from there, the grass taller than Sydney’s knees. Farther, in the distance, the leaves of an English elm tree seemed to glitter as they shuddered in the breeze.
Just a few minutes later, Quin pulled up in front of a large redbrick building with a tower in the center and a curving balcony on the second floor held up by four gray Ionic columns.
“This is beautiful,” Sydney breathed as she walked up the four steps to the front entrance. On closer inspection, she noticed paint peeling from the columns, concrete crumbling from the steps, crunching beneath her tennis shoes.
“I think so, too,” Quin said, coming up behind her. “It’s the Ramsey Theater House.”
“Is it abandoned? I mean, it doesn’t look abandoned. Will we…”
“Get in trouble?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Not if I have the key to get in.” He held out his hand, one key ring and key dangling from his index finger. “It’s not as exciting as breaking in for the sake of art, but I know the owner and he lets me come in here whenever I want.”
Sydney smiled, a bit relieved and disappointed all at the same time.
He unlocked one of the doors—there were two sets—and pushed in. The door creaked on old hinges. Cobwebs clung to the doorframe, and Quin swiped them away before Sydney went in.
More crumbled concrete covered the floor. It might have once been marble or maybe something else equally exquisite, but it was hard to see. They’d come in on the lobby, which was wide open but not quite as tall as the building was outside.
Stairs curved up to Sydney’s left. The railing hung from just a few screws. Hand-carved crown molding was covered in dust and dirt.
“The really amazing part,” Quin said, “is the theater itself. Come on.”
He led her around the stairway and to several sets of doors. Some were closed, some wide open. Beyond the doorways, Sydney could see one enormous room, sunlight spilling in through a hole in the ceiling.
She went ahead of Quin and the breath faltered in her throat.
It was like she stood at the top of a mountain looking down on a town crumbling and forgotten. There were several chairs missing from the rows of the audience section. Foam spilled from tears in the cushions. The gold wallpaper peeled back from the wall, exposing holes in the plaster beneath.
But, miraculously, the deep crimson stage curtain was still intact, still hanging from its hooks. And jutting out from the east and west walls were eight private balconies.
“Quin,” Sydney said, “this is more than amazing. It’s—”
“I know.”
And that was all he had to say because Sydney knew that he understood exactly what she couldn’t put into words.
That’s why they had cameras, why they were photographers—because sometimes even words couldn’t do a scene justice.
They spent two hours taking pictures. The camera Quin had given Sydney—an Olympus E-510—with a memory card inserted, had two hundred and fourteen pictures. Quin’s had even more. He was undoubtedly better at seeing the perfect shot and Sydney couldn’t help but watch him as he worked.
She could learn a lot from him.
As Quin went to the car for something, Sydney sat on the stage looking out. The decay of the building was sad, but it was beautiful all the same. She suspected she could search for another place like this for fifty years and never find one quite as amazing.
When Quin came back, he had several shopping bags in his hands and a blanket folded beneath his arm.
“I thought we’d have a picnic,” he said, swiping away dust and debris with his foot. He spread the blanket out on the stage and Sydney sat on it despite the fact that her butt was already filthy from sitting and wandering in the building.
Quin had packed a mix of veggies and bottles of water. There were also whole-wheat turkey wraps with cream cheese, lettuce, and sliced tomatoes. Sydney grabbed a slice off one wrap and took a bite. “I love these.”
“Me, too.”
“So,” she said before licking cream cheese off her finger, “what made you decide to go to school for photography? I mean, aren’t you afraid of graduating but not being able to find a job?”
“The whole starving artist thing?” he clarified.
“Yeah.”
“I guess I’ve never really thought about it, but I love photography so much that I’d rather starve then get stuck in a corporate job I hate.” He shrugged. “I’m hopeful that if I’m good enough, I’ll get a job eventually. I just have to work hard for it.”
Sydney took a drink of water. “I was raised to strive for the best grades. To do the things that would help me score an Ivy League university acceptance. I never questioned any of that. I thought that’s what I’d wanted.”
“And now?”
She lifted a shoulder, took another bite off her wrap. “I don’t know. My mom…she’d probably think going to school for photography would be a waste of time.”
“And do you respect your mother’s opinion?”
She used to, but now that her mother was gone…
“No,” she said. “Not really.”
Quin finished his wrap and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned back, propping himself up with one hand. “You really have to do what makes you happy, you know? Not your mother. Your father. Your friends.”
“Or my boyfriend,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Drew,” she said. “My boy—well, my ex-boyfriend now. He was always the same way. He takes all the AP classes. He’s into sports. He wants to go to a good school. I think that’s why we were such a good couple because we’d rather stay home and study than go out.”
“Ex-boyfriend, huh?” Quin pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Are you okay with that? Did he break it off?”
“No, I did. And yeah.” She nodded. “I’m okay with it.”
“Some breakups are good things.” He sat up. “I was with this one girl in high school, Hillary. This was before I’d gotten my first tattoo. I must’ve been, like, fifteen. I got my first tattoo when I was sixteen. Anyway, I was that jock, you know, the jerk that everyone liked for no good reason.” He picked up a piece of crumbled concrete and rolled it between his fingers. “Then my parents died. And things changed.”
Sydney faltered. She’d never asked Quin about his parents, but she’d just assumed they were around like his sister was. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged and tossed the pebble of concrete into the recess of the stage. It bounced off the wall and skittered across the stage. “As you can imagine, being a jerk, I started rebelling and being an all-around ass and Hillary…she just made it worse. I remember when I got my first tattoo she said it was hideous, and I broke up with her right there.” He laughed. “Of course, my sister wasn’t very happy about the tattoo either, but she wasn’t as verbal about it. She was the one that got me into art. Hillary always thought art was for ‘losers who have no social life.’”
“Hillary sounds like a real winner.”
“Oh, she was.”
“I’ve been going through some stuff with my parents.” Sydney halted when she realized what she’d just said. Did she really want to get into how messed up her life was? Probably not. “It’s nowhere near as intense as what you went through, I’m sure…”
“Tell me about it,” Quin prompted, seeming genuinely interested.
So she told him. Everything from her mother’s workaholic tendencies to her promise to be there more. And then her sudden disappearance and how sometimes the only thing keeping Sydney from not exploding was writing all her frustrations down on paper in her journal.
“I’d say that’s intense,” Quin said, “in a different vein, maybe, but still intense. Most parents don’t just walk out on their children.” He paused, then, “I kept a journal with photographs after my parents died. I realized we didn’t have very many pictures of them, and then they were gone. I became obsessed with capturing moments.”
It occurred to Sydney that she wanted to capture this moment because she felt better right now than she’d felt in a long time. She grabbed the camera, turned it on, and got in close to Quin’s shoulder, holding the camera up with her right hand.
“Good idea,” he said, clearly having read her mind.
She readied her finger on the button. “Say cheese.” She snapped the shot.