Page 101 of Something like Love

Sitting on the porch swing and overlooking the peace in front of me is calming.

The past few…forever has been grueling and tough. My life hasn’t been easy, and I wish I could forget some parts.

But other parts, even the shitty parts, that I look upon now and realize they’ve shaped me into the person I’ve become. My life has never been normal, in no way, but if I could have it all back, would I?

If I turned out to be the spoiled little brat Polly is, then I think I would take my life as is.

If I never endured what I did, then I would have never ended up in South Boston, and I would have never met Hank or Tabitha or Tristan or Quinn.

I know that’s selfish because since my arrival, my past has impacted each one of them gravely, especially Hank. And although I wish we’d met under different circumstances, I’m still glad we met.

They will always be my family of misfits, and no matter what happens, I’ll never take back a moment spent with them, especially Hank.

What Quinn told me about Hank just makes me love him all the more.

He was also drawn to the misfits, as I believe he saw Quinn and myself for who we really are—two lost souls just wanting to belong. He opened up his home to Quinn and me, and I’ll be damned if I let his death be in vain.

The past couple of days have been about cleansing both my past and Quinn’s, and we’ve both exorcised our demons for the time being, but now, now it’s time to get serious and figure out our plan of attack.

Yes, we may be closer to gaining our freedom, but I still plan on dishing out my revenge on Phil and Thomas. That fact hasn’t changed. I just need to figure out how, when, and where.

So first things first—we need to make contact with the outside world.

It’s been just over five hours and there’s still no sign of Quinn. I’m not worried, as I know this can’t be rushed. No doubt Quinn will put the entire truth out there and allow Tristan to process it in whatever way he can.

My heart still aches when I remember the look on Tristan’s face when I told him it was Quinn I wanted, not him. There would never be an easy way to do it, and I think that’s why Quinn waited so long to tell him.

I understand his notion of not wanting to hurt Tristan, but maybe a part of him had hoped I would just give up on him, just like everyone else had, and go for the easy option. But the heart wants what the heart wants, and I’ve never been one to take the easy option when it comes to life.

Rubbing my chest, I decide to start on my plan of attack and stop thinking about the Berkeley brothers, as they’re giving me heartburn.

I searched for some paper and a pen to write down my ideas, but when I found Quinn’s sketch pad, I took that instead. It sits in my lap, and although I shouldn’t, I want to see what’s inside.

I don’t know if this is the equivalent of reading someone’s diary, but either way, it’s happening.

However, as soon as I open the first page, I slam it shut. I feel like I’m intruding on Quinn’s personal thoughts. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I slowly reopen it.

The opening picture is one of the first deadbeat motels we stayed at when first on the run.

Quinn’s drawings are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. His attention to detail and the way he captures small elements that most take for granted take my breath away. As I run my finger over the charcoal lines of the motel’s roof, I trace over a small bird perched on the roof’s peak.

I never noticed the bird in real life, but now, now I’m sad I didn’t pay more attention, as it’s simply beautiful.

After staring at the picture for quite some time, I flip through the pages, enthralled by what I see. It’s like I’m reliving our journey thus far because Quinn has captured almost every aspect of our travels.

Cars we’ve stolen, diners we’ve eaten at, places we’ve been to, and people we’ve seen.

As awful and ugly as being on the run has been, seeing it through Quinn’s eyes has made me realize that Quinn has seen the beauty in it, too. This here, this is our past, and I can’t stop a tear slipping down my cheek.

Quinn and I have been through so much, but we’ve been through it together. This experience brought us together, and for that, I’m thankful.

Wiping away my tears, I turn to the next page, and what I see has a fresh set of tears forming.

Tracing over the executed, long lines and the expert, perfected strokes, I outline over the carbon copy of me and Hank. I know this was done from memory alone, as all these pictures were sketched after Hank’s death. But Quinn has captured his crooked smile, weathered hands, and most of all, his kind eyes like he only saw him yesterday.

A sob gets caught in my throat because I can almost feel his hand on mine and smell his unique scent, which always smelled like home, and I can also hear his kindness as he bends down to whisper something in my ear.

This sketch had come to life before me, and I can clearly picture that memory as I pluck it from time. It was Thanksgiving—Hank’s last day on earth.

---