We Were Here: A New Adult Romance Prequel to Geoducks Are for Lovers (Modern Love Stories Book 1) (40 page)

Quinn Dayton, 22

Studio Art

Senior

What do you want to be when you grow up?

An artist with a capital A.

Pop culture has always been my muse and my lifeblood.

It was my safe spot when I didn’t fit in anywhere.

Even the summer in high school when I ran away and lived on the beach for a couple weeks “camping,” I could still fit in by mentioning some pop culture trend.

“I love Madonna’s ‘Holiday,’ but what was she thinking with ‘Like a Prayer?’”

“You know Miss Piggy and Kermit could never consummate their marriage.”

“Vader is Dutch for father.”

“Is there anything MacGyver couldn’t get himself out of with some tape and a box of paper clips?”

See? Conversation starters were the key to surviving any situation.

That’s what art is for me. A way to engage and not be invisible.

I knew I could be an artist when I first heard about Keith Haring. He changed everything for me. Like me, he loved pop culture. Like me, he was gay.

He broke down the lines between low and high art. He wasn’t too proud to slap his work on a mug or T-shirt to help pay the rent. Plus, he had the coolest friends ever. He hung out with Warhol.

Haring was my idol.

Was.

He died earlier this year from AIDS.

“Bizarre Love Triangle” ~ New Order

LIZZY CAME HOME
from France a month ago looking like a chic Audrey Hepburn with bangs and shoulder-length hair. The suitcase of pretty vintage dresses added to the similarity.

When I asked her about any romantic affairs, she said it had been more
Casablanca
than
Sabrina.
I reminded her Bogart had been a love interest in both films, to which she replied something about the beginning and end of a beautiful friendship. We often communicated in the language of film quotes. Easiest way to get our point across was to use the perfect line, even if it belonged to someone else.

Labor Day rolled around and classes lurked on the calendar when Maggie was finally due to return from France. No one had seen or spoken to her in months. She sent a couple postcards from the South of France and Barcelona.

Lizzy filled us in on the details of the grand romance. It sounded passionate and whirlwind, the exact thing a girl—or boy—dreams of having while living abroad. I couldn’t get a clear read from Lizzy if she liked the guy or not. If anything, she seemed a little envious and a smidge overprotective.

Even though Mags had stayed in Europe longer than originally planned, she had committed to live with all of us for senior year. We’d saved her one of the bedrooms in the old Victorian house Jo and Ben found. Six bedrooms and three bathrooms, it was a big improvement over the crazy apartment we rented last summer. No one had to sleep in the dining room or on a porch. Plus, compared to the dorms, it was a palace.

The kitchen had an eating area where we hung out most nights. Surrounded by ancient pale green linoleum flooring, minty cabinets and avocado-colored appliances, the room provided an institutionally calm gathering place.

Above the enamel topped kitchen table hung Jo’s chore wheel, a leftover from last summer. Looking like a bossy, demonic roulette wheel, each slice of the pie contained some form of domestic torture: vacuuming, dishes, kitchen, dusting, bathroom one, bathroom two. Jo and Ben had the master and were in charge of their own bathroom. Even so, odds were heavily stacked on someone having to clean a toilet once a week.

Jo had a real thing about messes. Leave a dish or ten in the sink and suffer her wrath. That’s why I locked the cupboards with padlocks, and set out paper plates and plastic utensils during my week of dish duty.

I stared at the wheel, plotting to burn it after graduation. Let Jo be someone else’s house mother. I imagined the flames curling up around the edges of the wheel and bursting through the center like the opening credits of Bonanza.

I loved that show as a kid. Michael Landon was incredibly dreamy. Then he grew up to be Pa Ingalls. The sexiest homesteader there ever was in high-waisted pants and suspenders, holding those reins like he meant business.

Humming the theme from
Little House on the Prairie
, I made a shopping list for the party.

“Fantasizing about Mr. Ingalls again?” Selah stole one of my double-stuff Oreos.

“How’d you guess?”

“You were humming the song. It’s your tell.” She opened a cookie, licked out the center, and set the two empty halves on the table. Like anyone else would eat them without their delicious cream filling.

I moved the package out of her reach. “I can’t help it. He was my first crush as a kid.”

“Really? I can’t remember mine.” She jumped up on the counter and thumped the lower cabinets with her feet. “I think it was probably Christopher Plummer as the Captain in
Sound of Music
. My entire family watched it every year when it came on TV. We were allowed to stay up late and my mother would make Jiffy-Pop.”

“No crush on Rolf, the cute but soulless Nazi?”

“Too blond and too virginal. Couldn’t think for himself, but bossy at the same time. All talk, no action. I need a man willing to stand up for what he believes in. Plus, blonds have never done it for me. Too Ken. I’m definitely not Barbie.”

“You’re more like an evil Tinkerbell.” She’d cut her hair shorter and gone darker a la Winona Ryder.

She ignored my pixie reference. “Who carries a riding crop around for no reason? Did you see him on a horse in the movie?”

“Never. Not a single horse.” Of any of us, my money had always been on Selah to be kinky. This conversation proved it.

“Why do you think I loved him? The authority rolled off of him in waves.” Sighing, she jumped off the counter and stole another cookie.

Tucking the package closer to me on the bench, I scowled at her. “How do you think Gil is going to take Maggie showing up with Julien?”

Selah cringed. “He’s been super stoic ever since she left last summer. He’s either excellent about masking his emotions, or it’s not a big deal.”

We made eye contact for a beat.

“Exactly. I think the former, too.”

“You ever find out what happened there?” Of course I’d asked Gil after Maggie and Lizzy left for France. His black mood had been impossible to ignore for the rest of the summer. Then the whole goat incident happened in October with him and Ben in the gym. Luckily, no one could prove it had been either of them and the goat owner didn’t pursue charges. In the spring, he acted almost normal after he started dating random girls when we returned from winter break.

“Maggie was bummed Gil didn’t come over with us. I didn’t really have an explanation for why, so I avoided the subject.”

“I still think something went down. And by something going down, I mean blow job at the least.”

“Quinn!”

“Okay, okay. He hoed her lady garden.”

“That’s worse!” She giggled. “Are you calling him a ho?”

“If the label fits.”

Calming down from her laughing fit, she played with her long, silver chain. “In all honesty, something happened last summer. I’m a little nervous how it’s going to be all living together this year. Aren’t you?”

“I haven’t thought about it. I think everyone will be fine as long as the Frenchie doesn’t stay. What’s French for awkward?” She lunged for my side and stole the cookies before scampering out of the kitchen.

To celebrate the return of our traveling friend, Ben agreed to fire up the hibachi for a cookout the Friday following her triumphant return. It was a rare night when everyone had time off or didn’t have other plans.

We lit the tiki torches in the yard and threw an old Indian cotton bedspread over the table to fancy things up. However, I was on dish duty according to Mother Jo’s chore chart. We set the table with paper plates, plastic forks, and plastic cups.

“If we burn everything, we’re saving it from the landfills.” I proudly declared from my lawn chair.

“I don’t think you can burn plastic. It gives off some sort of toxic fumes or something.” Gil stabbed a bite of macaroni salad.

I took away Gil’s fork and staked it into the ground. “Then you can use your fingers, Mr. Smartass.”

He could manage macaroni salad with his fingers. Luckily, the rest of the menu included finger friendly burgers and corn.

Glancing toward the table, I watched as Julien sniffed the bowl of macaroni salad. He bent over and gave it a big inhale.

I silently asked Selah a question with my eyes.
Who sniffs their food?

How rude.
Her expression replied.

“It hasn’t gone bad. Try it.” Maggie took the spoon and dumped some on her plate. “It’s delicious. A classic American cookout food.”

Julien frowned at her large serving and scooped two noodles, a slice of pickle, and a sliver of hard boiled egg on his plate.

“Maybe he thinks we’re trying to poison him?” Gil kicked my shin. “Death by mayonnaise?”

“Ouch.” I rubbed my leg. “Isn’t mayonnaise French?” I whispered to Lizzy on my other side.

She shrugged. “He’s very picky about food. Whatever you do, don’t mention cheese.”

“What are his thoughts about Velveeta?” I stage-whispered back at her.