Page 42 of Through Quick and Quinn
After a bit of banter, we walked in comfortable silence for a minute or two. A young mother passed by us on the slim sidewalk. She was pushing her toddler in a pink and brown polka-dotted stroller, a tattered doll being waved about by the girl’s chubby hand. The image of my childhood dolls flashed in my mind’s eye, and a sigh escaped my lips without deliberation.
“Whoa, what was that about?” Quick asked with conspicuous curiosity, surely referring to the unexpected sigh.
I shamelessly shared a piece of my soul with Quick that afternoon. My descriptions of each detail painted a picture of my childhood oasis for him, of everything from the dolls in the sandbox to the garden of food scraps. I continued with my confessions of oasis neglect and avoidance after Troy’s passing. Before I knew it, I had divulged a lifetime of events to him. He didn’t utter a sound or interrupt me even once, not as we walked and I talked, or as we arrived at my house and sat on the curb for another hour while I rambled on. He listened as I spoke of the specifics surrounding the day of Troy’s death, along with that fateful trip to the bookstore, the birth of our triple tradition, and my rollercoaster relationship with my mom. Through all of it, Quick hung on to my every word.
It felt so good to process it out loud, and it felt even better to know it was landing on his ears. I was again reminded of how far my family and I had come, and I relished the warmth of that pride.
Quick understood that I had concluded my oral autobiography but was so busy trying to process it all that he was stunned silent. He even said as much. I thanked him for genuinely listening, and after a moment, he pensively asked a cryptic question. “Can I say it now?” The vagueness of the query made me cock my head to the side. I asked him what he meant as a wide and gentle smile lifted his cheeks to the sky.
“I understand you, Quinn.”
I nodded. He was right. We locked eyes, and I knew we were both filled with conscious gratitude for our connection. “Yes, you do. Thank you, Quick.” I started to ask him about his childhood, but thought better of it. I stopped myself mid-sentence, but it was too late. Half of the question was already dangling in the frosty air between us.
He took a moment, and then astonished me when he started to answer the unfinished query. “My mom can’t look at me. I don’t know if she hates me, blames me, feels sorry for me, I don’t know what. But I can’t remember the last time we made eye contact, and she can’t even remember my birth—” His voice cracked. This new pain was too fresh and too raw; Quick literally couldn’t get the words out. It was heart-wrenching.
I didn’t trust myself to speak. Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed his hand. I squeezed it between both of mine, willing myself to send him every ounce of love and support I could through our touch. Through our very first touch.
He stared at our intertwined hands, surely aware that this act was unprecedented. Neither one of us moved a muscle. We just sat there, frozen in the moment, until he finally brought his despondent eyes to meet mine. “Do you know?” he softly asked.
“I think so,” I answered with a heavy, sorrowful heart. I affectionately clutched his hand a little tighter. He squeezed back.
“Yeah, I suspected you figured it out.” His eyes darted back down to our hands. I mentioned that it was getting dark, and he quickly agreed that he should head home. “Thanks again, Quinn, for everything.” He gave me a sad smile, a common piece of evidence of the constant conflict he battles with, and he stood up to begin his walk home.
I contemplated his retreating form as he crossed the street and turned the corner. Everything about his demeanor hinted to his heavy heart. The sagging shoulders and the downward gaze. The mop of hair that often covered his despairing eyes. The downward creases by the corners of his mouth. My heart absolutely ached for him, and all I could wish for in that moment of time was for him to exchange those creases for the ones that accentuated the outer corners of smiling eyes.
More than anything, I longed for Quick to have happy creases.
+ + +
Hey Geoffrey,
Quinn knows about you. I didn’t even have to tell her anything. I guess she figured it out over the last few months by my reaction to certain things. I figured she did. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce what happened, and I’m pretty sure Quinn is a genius.
Anyway, we were walking home yesterday and she opened up to me about every single possible mystery I could have ever wondered about her. I’m in awe of how open and vulnerable she can be, and how fearless she must be in order to do that. Not only fearless, but also how comfortable with herself she must be. She accepts herself and tries to deal with the hand she was dealt in the best way possible. It’s admirable.
Admirable enough that she inspired me to share some things with her. But since I am not open or vulnerable or fearless or comfortable or accepting or anything like her, I couldn’t get through it. I couldn’t even bring myself to say words out loud. But she got it. She totally gets me. I can see it in her eyes, and yesterday I could feel it as we held our hands together.
What the heck. She makes me feel like the cheesiest, cringiest dude on the planet. I guess I don’t mind, though.
Well, Quinn texted me later on last night. She asked me where I lived and told me that she wanted to swing by today to drop something off. I texted her, “No thank you,” but she wasn’t having it. She said her dad was going to drive her, that I could wait for her outside, that she wouldn’t even get out of the car. Fine.
I didn’t know what she had to give me. I was thinking maybe the third page of the Lessons book, but I couldn’t figure out what that third one would be. We didn’t talk about another one. I racked my brain for a bit, and then gave up and decided to let myself be surprised.
It was indeed the third page. Her beautiful lettering read, “Stretch into the uncomfortable in order to grow,” and a rubber band was attached. When she gave it to me, she thanked me for trusting her enough to stretch like that in her presence. Of the three Life Lessons so far, I’m not sure which one is my favorite.
Probably this one. And probably because of the hand holding thing. Not gonna lie.
I was thinking about how much I wish you two could meet. You’d love her. And I know she would love you.
-Deck
***
Mandy / 6:29 p.m.
not gonna lie I’m pretty curious about that witch and her boo
Desiree / 6:30 p.m.
