vi. in which quinn stevens comes home

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IT HAD ONLY been an hour and a half since I landed on the East Coast and I had already managed to piss somebody off. Taking a sip from the coffee cup - the heat burning the tips of my lips and tongue - I rolled my neck and continued walking along the empty pavements. Some illogical part of my brain assumed that irritation at its finest was perfectly acceptable at the moment. I was pissed, so I let off some steam pissing off someone else. It was just how my thought process worked, as flawed as it was.

Unfortunately, the thought hadn't occurred to me until I turned the corner of a desolate block that perhaps I was a little cruel. It didn't matter though, because I doubt I would ever see the barista ever again. I was planning on spending the night at Jared's before clocking out and finding another empty city to trash. I already felt the ghosts of my past creeping and silently stalking behind, making sure each step I took was filled with a silent musing of dread and suffering. It pained me to stand here in the shadows of past.

Hugging my arms around my bare shoulders, I forgot how cold it was back in my home town. I didn't come prepared, merely shoving random articles of clothing in a blinding rage into my bag before departing for the airport. I didn't even pack a sweater or anything warm. With a single case of luggage and my guitar case, that was all Somerset was greeted with as soon as I passed the borders. Blowing out a sigh, the breath collided with the frigid air surrounding me, creating soft clouds of exhalation.

Perhaps I needed a sense of reckless abandonment but I found myself drifting off the curb, sidestepping onto the slick black surface. No cars were in sight for miles. My boots thumped against the road, finding myself walking straight down the middle with one foot in front of the other, tracing the yellow lines that dotted the street.

Swinging my arms like I used to when I was younger, I peered through the sunglasses which made the shadowy night seem darker than it actually was. I thought about removing them since the sun was clearly finished slipping beneath the horizon, but the muse drifted away after a moment's hesitation. The world behind the glasses were tinged with amber, setting fire to the earth and distorting my surroundings. It all seemed very make-believe; I often felt like I was trapped in a fairytale whenever I wore the hand me down pair given to me by Jared.

Streetlights shined stoically on each side of me, standing an impassive guard as they lit up the obsidian road. I swung my hands out farther, making sure the coffee didn't spill, mimicking an airplane as the lights became my runway. Smiling softly, I recalled the easier days when none of my problems existed. It was unfortunate I had to grow up before I could get the chance to enjoy it.

Slowly a frown formed on my face before all signs of the sincere smile disappeared from sight like it always did. Putting up my facade once again, I lowered my arms reluctantly and took another sip of the coffee. It was actually decent; I wouldn't give that boy, Oliver, the satisfaction of admitting it was actually delicious, even if he weren't around to hear the victory. Despite messing up my order, I liked how it tasted without everything else: simple and sweet, like the taste of autumn itself.

Pretty soon, I found myself drifting back to the sidewalk as cars began to appear at the end of the street, signalling how close I was to my destination. Only about fifteen minutes away from Java the Hut, the familiarity of Main Street had my heart seizing. Though it was only the middle of November, the streets were lit up with Christmas decorations. Trees that guarded the boundaries between each store were decorated with lights, which flashed green and red with the occasional blue. The stores themselves varied, some were decked out with posters and lights and blow up dolls, while the others hadn't bothered to catch up with the sudden holiday switch and still had jack 'o' lanterns propped on the steps. Cars of all sizes and colors littered the curb, parallel-parked to perfection. It felt like home.

As much as I hated it to be.

Tossing the empty coffee cup into a garbage can as I passed, I entered the realm of the living. Through the dusk, some stragglers had hands in their jackets, bundled up and warm, as they walked up and down the sidewalks to their destinations. Some gave me odd looks at my choice of clothing but didn't question.

Strangely enough I was warm now thanks to the coffee. The heat wouldn't last much longer though, so I weaved my way carefully through the small crowd, hoping that none of them would recognize me with sunglasses on and hidden in the darkness of the night. Reaching into my tank top, I took out a small box from where it lay on the edge of my bra and opened it as delicately as I would hold a baby.

I thumbed the contents with a thoughtful expression, skimming across the crisp edges before pulling out a cancer stick and shoving it between my lips. Pulling out the lighter I stashed inside the cigarette box, I lit up the end of the stick and was instantly greeted with the feeling of chemicals clawing its way down my throat.

The smoke forced itself down and after the first few seconds with the smoke in my lungs, I felt like throwing up. It quickly ebbed away as I blew out slowly, the smoke leaving my mouth and blending into the air around me. And just like that, I was relaxed again, the nicotine in my system clouding any anxious thoughts that began to bubble up as I neared my destination.

Balancing the cigarette between my lips, I tucked the box back in my tank top and took another drag. As the smoke enveloped me, I thought back to when I first started smoking. It was an accidental discovery; way back when Call Me Rebel was in the making, I was fifteen and just a sophomore in high school while Joel had just turned eighteen, a senior at the same school.

Feeling the familiar signs of an attack, I quickly abandoned my paper brown bag, which was only filled with crumbs and an empty juice box. My breathing came in ragged gasps as I grabbed my backpack and made a beeline for the exit, accidentally shoving people out of the way in my desperate escape to leave. Ignoring their protests, I kept walking, my feet a flurry of movement, until I hit the doors leading into the courtyard.

Air. I needed air.

Despite the protests in my mind about how I could get in trouble for leaving the school premises (more importantly how my parents would react to a simple detention slip), I just kept walking without thinking. Slipping around the corner of a deserted table, I found sanctuary leaning against the brick wall of the school. The breaths became even more irregular, and I pounded at my heart to get it to stop beating so loud. So damn loud.

Hands shaking, the blood rushed out of them, leaving my body numb with prickles and making me even more uneasy. I wrapped my arms around myself, letting out a pathetic whimper. How would my parents react to another one of my 'episodes?' Would they jeer and yell even more? I shouldn't tell them, but I had to.

What had even caused the panic attack this time? All I did was think about college, and my parents' plan for my future, and my grades, and I just wanted to make them happy-

Wheezing, I found it harder to breathe so I tried to shut off my thoughts. Nothing worked and I was left crumbling to my knees as the thoughts bombarded me on every side. I left my medication at home today, certain I wouldn't need it. I was getting better. Wasn't I? Apparently not.

"Hey," A gruff voice had me forcing my eyes open in fright, expecting to see a teacher glaring down disapprovingly. Expecting to see my mother and father screaming at their failure of a child again. Instead, I was met with the most frighteningly blue eyes that radiated like the ocean itself. The boy seemed older, wiser, and his shaggy brown hair curled around his ears and forehead. I didn't recognize him, but I never interacted with anyone else so it didn't surprise me. "I said, hey." His voice softened.

I couldn't reply, teeth chattering and lips pressed into a fine line. The boy knelt down beside me, his breath a mixture of mint and nicotine. "What's your name?" he asked gently.

"E-Elizabeth." I stammered back, just barely getting the words out. It came out as a broken whisper and I gripped my head tightly as the thoughts continued to pool around my brain. "I would rather you call m-me Quinn though."

"Hey Quinn, I'm Joel." The boy replied, taking my hands gingerly from my head and pulling me to my feet. I kept breathing unevenly and Joel frowned, holding my hands in his. Already his touch felt comforting, like the feeling of an older sibling comforting their younger one. Awkwardly, he wrapped his arms around my tiny body, his bulky frame felt like it was supposed to suffocate but instead calmed my breathing down ever so slightly.

Releasing me after a few minutes, he reached into his pocket and fumbled for whatever he was looking for, finally pulling out a cigarette box and lighter. Taking a stick and balancing it between his lips, he offered me one.

I cringed away, immediately thinking about the consequences that came with smoking. Besides all the medical complications, how would my parents react?

"Just forget about whatever it is you're thinking," said Joel, taking a cigarette and placing it into my hands. "Once you take a drag, just imagine all your thoughts and panic as the smoke. Watch it leave your system. Watch it disappear. I might go to hell for introducing you to this stuff, but it's your decision whether or not you want to try."

I rolled the cigarette in my palm, debating. My chest was constricted and I still found it difficult to comprehend my surroundings. Experimentally, I tested out the feeling of a cigarette between my teeth. Joel chuckled and adjusted the stick so that it was between my lips instead. "Do me a favor and don't bite down on it. Trust me."

I half-smiled at that and he grinned back. With the expertise of a long-time smoker, he lit the end of his cigarette, the embers burning a bright orange.

"Watch." he said through gritted teeth, inhaling the poison before blowing out slowly, letting the smoke rise from his mouth and up towards the sky. I nodded slowly, feeling exhilaration mix with the anxiety. It was a weird combination that had my heart clenching. "Do you want to try?" Joel asked cautiously.

I didn't reply after that. Instead, I took the lighter from his hands as fast as humanly possible and watched the fire reflect off Joel's eyes, letting the smoke overwhelm me and help me forget.

I smoked ever since, but only when I was on the verge of falling apart. I wouldn't say I was an addict, but unless I found another escape besides music and a reason to quit, smoking was an essential part of my life. I knew the burdens and health risks it came with, but oddly enough I didn't care. I didn't want to die, but I felt like I wouldn't care if I did.

Blowing out another breath, I continued along Main Street, listening and observing the hustle and bustle of the small town. With the smoke around me, I let it wash away the thoughts just like Joel had taught me, and I finally relaxed. Pulling the cigarette away from my lips, I dropped it to the pavement and crushed it with the heel of my combat boot, reducing it to nothing but a pile of ash.

And burning with it were the painful thoughts that originated earlier.

Taking a few more steps forward, I flanked right and stood in front of the familiar store. The walls were just as tarnished as they were when I left two years ago, a pale yellow against the gleaming white of the original paint. There was a large window to the left of the bright red door, showing off vintage looking record players and vinyl assortments. Around the players were early Christmas decorations, lights snaking around each object and flashing colors. Cotton was everywhere, in an attempt to mimic snow. I chuckled softly.

Over the door was the neon lit sign that had me sighing in content. Wreck-It Records. Home.

The window to the right of the door was a normal one, not advertising the store, but rather Jared's apartment, which was built in right next to his shop. Through the light green curtains, I could just make out the man in question's back, as he sat in his favorite leather recliner, a newspaper spread out in his hands.

Taking a breath, I walked up the steps and rapped a knuckle on the door.

"Oi, we're closed!" His voice yelled from inside, sounding muted from the thick walls. Rolling my eyes, I knocked again, louder and faster. "I said we're closed-"

The door swung open to reveal a middle aged man in his early forties. His bald head was gleaming and shining, no sign of hair anywhere. A graying goatee rested on his chin, and his crystal blue eyes widened as he took my appearance in. Dressed in a hideous Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and sandals, he looked just like he always did: a tourist in the wrong location.

"Well, bloody hell." he gasped out melodramatically, his Yorkshire accent ever so familiar. It held a bit of an American lilt to it after living in the States for years.

"Oi, love. You gonna let me in or what?" I mimicked his British accent, falling into the routine of playful banter. My heart ached as I took in the man in front of me. He was exactly the same, the anchor in my old life that kept me tied down to my new one.

"Well only if you give your old man a kiss on cheek." He waggled his eyebrows in a way that only he could accomplish, gesturing up to the mistletoe hanging over my head on the threshold. I smirked as he leaned his face towards mine, angling it so that he was pointing at his cheek. "Come on. Lay one on me."

With an exuberant snort, I pecked him lightly on the cheek before diving forward and tackling him with a hug. "Oh, God. Jared, it's been so long." I murmured into his shoulder, hugging him tightly around the waist.

"Far, far too long." Jared agreed and stroked my hair adoringly like a father to his daughter. "How's my lovely rebel doing?"

I half-smiled, releasing him so I could face his gaze. With a shrug, I had already given him all the answers he needed. Feeling the excitement deflate in the air, my father - though not biological, but more of a father than the real one had ever been - bent down to remove the glasses from my face.

He studied my expression, which had me itching to grab the glasses from him and put it back on. Setting the sunglasses down on the table beside the door, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "Come on. It seems like you've got a lot on your mind."

"Tell me about." I muttered bitterly.

"How about we chat over some biscuits and tea?"

"You're so British."

With a loud guffaw at the stereotype, Jared began leading me into the house I practically grew up in, letting the door shut firmly behind us.

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I'm trying so hard not to butcher the whole British character thing. If any of my readers or fans are from the UK, please inbox me. c: The song on the side is Every Teardrop Is a Waterfall by Coldplay, and I listen to it when I read this chapter (especially the scene where Quinn is walking down the empty street). This chapter is dedicated to the amazing IsaSecret for the new cover! Ain't it pretty? Also, thank you so much for the support on this story. Please comment, vote, and promote!

-Isabelle