Beautiful Things Never Last (7 page)

“When Carter and I went back to Georgia to get Shayna’s stuff a few months ago
.”

“Ben, Savannah isn’t exactly on the way to Atlanta. Like, at all.”

Ben shrugs his shoulders. “I had him take a little detour. He understood it was for a good cause.” I suddenly love my brother so much more than I did thirty minutes ago.

“I love it.”

“I love you. And our lives. And this,” he says, pointing to the tree in the photo, “this is what started it all. You changed everything for me in that moment.”

The tears blur my vision, and my throat burns from me trying to keep them from falling.

“So much better than a bracelet,” I say.

Five

Q
UINN

“Don’t forget this,” Ben says. “You’ll definitely need it.” He grins and tosses the paperback English-to-Italian translation book to me. I shove it into my carry-on, because I know not a single thing, no matter how small, will fit into my overflowing suitc
ase. I zip the bag closed and
stare into the empty trunk of Ben’s car. “Hey, you nervous?”

“More than a little,” I admit.

“Don’t be,” he says. He pulls me in and wrapped up in his familiar, warm arms, leaving really seems like a completely terrible idea. “You’re going to do great, and you’ll be home before you even miss us.”

“Are you going to be okay?”  I ask, nestling against the solid wall of his chest.  He does such an amazing job of always being okay, always being amazing, that I never really know if he truly is.

And I tend to do such a thorough job of being so not okay, we’re usually focused on me. Or we were. That was the old Quinn and Ben. It’s all different now.

“Quinn, I’ll be fine. Let’s get you inside, though. Otherwise you’re going to miss this flight, and then you can thank Shayna and her dramatic good-bye this morning.” It’s true. Ben and I would have been here an hour ago if it weren’t for Shayna showing up this morning with bagels and insisting that we have an AM version of the Last Supper together. Damn Carter for having a real job and getting to skip out on it.

“Let me take that,” Ben says. He pulls the cross-body carry-on I have off of my shoulder and slings it over his, even though he’s already lugging my suitcase for me.

“You don’t have to do that, I can get it.”
             
Ben stops walking, and shakes his head. “I know I don’t
have
to, Quinn. I want to.” It’s not the words he says, it’s in the way he says them— and the way he looks at the ground, rather than at me that makes me pause. Something isn’t right. And it might be bigger than just my leaving.

A small pool of panic gurgles up in me, and soon it’s welling so fast I feel like I’m going to drown in it.

I can’t worry about this right now. I can’t. If I do, I won’t ever get on that plane. Maybe he’s just nervous about me going. That’s got to be it.

“Okay.”

We continue to walk to my gate, Ben taking slower steps than me so that I can keep up with his long legs. It’s quiet between us now. How many times can you say you’ll miss each other, or ‘I love you’ before it just sounds redundant and loses a little sincerity? And the quiet is okay, because every once in a while, Ben extends his fingertips and brushes mine, and the familiarity of that calloused touch is all I need right now.

I wish, for once, the line at the ticket counter was longer. That they didn’t print my boarding passes like it was a race, and toss my luggage onto that conveyer belt like it’s perishable.
Because
before I have a chance to breathe, Ben is standing with me at the line for security. The line he can’t cross.

“I wish you could walk me the entire way,” I say.  I can’t swallow the stinging lump in my throat this time and tears spill over.

“Shhh. Baby, don’t cry,” Ben says. He wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. “We’ll talk all the time. And you’re going to be so busy and learning so much—”

“I know. That’s the point. I’m doing all of this and you’ll be sitting at home alone.”

What started off as silent tears falling has turned into full-on idiotic sobbing.

Ben interrupts my theatrics with his signature raspy chuckle. “I can handle a little alone time, Quinn.” He’s smirking in a delicious way that I can’t help but smile back at. I swipe at the stupid tears, trying my best to make them stop.

“What are you thinking?” I ask. I glance at the growing line at security, and then back to Ben and those gorgeous brown eyes that I don’t want to leave yet.
Ever.

“Quinn, there's a whole hell of a lot running through my mind right now, and absolutely none of it is G-rated, so you’d better get on that plane,” Ben says. He grins and nods toward the line. He’s trying to make it easier for me, but it doesn’t help. I don’t want to go. “Come here.” He pulls me in and wraps his hand around the back of my neck, his fingers tangling into the low braid and kisses me.

“I love you,” I say against his lips.

“I love you.” It’s the millionth time I’ve heard it, but it hasn’t lost a single ounce of meaning for me. If anything, it feels like this time, this way, is a whole new version, and one I needed to
hear at this exact moment. “Now go.” His voice goes from achingly sweet to rough in an instant, like he’s shooing some wild animal he tried to make his pet back home to the woods.

Ugh. Bad metaphor on so many levels.

I don’t prolong the torture, just whirl around and rush away, not looking back, and knowing that he’ll know it’s not because I’m so excited or blasé or composed. It’s because this is wrecking me. Finally, walking away from what I love is the hard thing for me, and it’s immeasurably harder than I was prepared for. Walking away used to be this mix of sadness with a heavy dollop of relief. Now I feel weighted and gutted and torn apart all at once.

I make my way on
to
the plane and stare out the window at the tarmac, my hands gripped in my lap, and wait for stomach-dropping minute of time when my body is adjusting to leaving earth and hurtling through air. I wait for that min
ute so I can remember that the f
ear of something new is normal, but the stress of the last few days must be more than I anticipated, because I’m asleep before we even leave the ground.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pilot’s voice interrupts my catnap and I jerk upright in my seat and wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth. “I’d like to thank you all for traveling with us today, and would like to welcome you to Rome. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here, or wherever your final destination is.”
 
 
 
 
 
The plane bumps along the runway, and the other passengers give the pilot a boisterous round of applause. I’ve never understood this concept.
Bravo on doing your job and not killing us,
C
aptain!
Still, I feel my cynical heart melt a little bit at the announcement that we are officially on Italian soil.
 
 
 
 
 
Part of me feels like this can’t even be real. Because people like me don’t get these types of opportunities. Screw ups don’t end up with guys like Ben. Or in Italy.

Except it has actually happened. Ben is mine, and I’m
here
.
 
 
 
 
 
It isn’t long before I’ve collected my luggage, boarded the sleek yellow and white EuroStar train, and have arrived in my home for the next month
-
Spello.
 
 
 
 
 
I collect my large, red suitcase and head out of the train station in search of the home I’ll be staying in. There are only a handful of students in the program, so we’re each staying with a resident of the tiny as hell town. I stop on the steps outside of the station and take in the gorgeous little hilltop medieval town.

The sun is high and bright, and the sky is a pure, sweet blue. The entire town seems baked by the sun’s glow, and there’s this kind of bleached-clean beauty that makes even the occasional broken shutter and toppled garbage can with its rolling green wine bottle seem quaint.
Its
cute
lane
d
ways are filled with potted flowers, so spots of red and pink and white add pretty bursts to the cracking stone steps. The cobbled streets are as treacherous as they are gorgeous, with missing stones and uneven, jutting shards and deep cracks. The ancient brick and stone houses don’t feel like they should have satellite dishes and plastic watering cans and mail boxes full of bills, but they do, of course. As much as they seem like bizarre relics of ancient history to me, for everyone who lives in them, they’re just home.

There are endless vistas of rolling hills dotted with brown and green trees and stone archways carved with intricate designs and Latin inscriptions. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, and I feel like I could have traveled in a tornado or through a wardrobe to get here. How the hell is this only a plane ride away from my normal life?

I pull my map out of my purse, though I seriously doubt I’ll need it in a town this small, and start up the cobbled walkway, careful not to break my ass. The lane curves and twists up the hillside, and I am so thankful for my laidback attire by the time I reach the stone villa. I knock lightly once, then again, but there isn’t an answer at the door. 

Crap.

I dig through my carry-on bag and pull out the wadded up piece of paper with the address and double check that I’m at the right place. I don’t know how to get to the back of the house, and I don’t want to stand out front. That only leaves one option.

Find food.
 
 
 
 
 
             
 
 
 
 
 
             
The bell above the door jingles as I push through it
.
I barely take a single step inside
the small shop
before I’m greeted by the most amaz
ing
medley of
smell
s
my nose has ever met— g
arlic
and herbs and meat
and bread. Swe
et and savory scents intertwine
in ways that shouldn’t meld
together and smell like heaven—
but do.
The stone walls are lined from floor-to-ceiling with dark wood shelves stocked full of wine bottles, so high that there’s a ladder propped against the shelves to reach the top items. There’s a crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room that should overpower the small space, but it doesn’t. Everything about the space is contradictory, yet perfect.
 
 
 
 
 
             
“
Buonasera!”
I female voice calls from behind the long counter.
 
 
 
 
 
             
“
Buongiorno!”
I reply. My Italian accent is severely lacking, but it’s one of the three-or-so phrases I was able to learn before leaving. I walk to the side of the store that the voice came from, stopping to inhale deeply with every single step. The smells only intensify the empty, gnawing feeling in my stomach. I haven’t had anything to eat since the bag of pretzels on my first plane ride this morning. When I pass the massive display of cheese wheels, I’m surprised by the woman
who greets me
. I expected someone older based on the voice when I came in.
 
 
 
 
 
             
Instead, a perfectly curvy, olive-skinned woman in her thirties, I would guess
,
is sitting behind the counter
next to an industrial meat slicer.