Page 55 of Shuttered Hearts

Looking at this now, I realize that while I’ve seen Quinn with a camera in her hand, I haven’t seen the end result for any of her recent photos.

Like she did with me, I researched her work shortly after meeting her. She is an amazingly talented photographer with a wide range of subjects, but something about this photo grabs me in a way her other work hasn’t. Not since that first photograph I ever saw of hers, long before I knew she took it. That photograph I fought to have included in that display case.

Mrs. Cushner felt it was too dark to include. She wanted that display to showcase eye-catching work—work that would incite happiness. She thought putting Quinn’s photo would bring the mood down, making people turn away from it. While I thought it was important to demonstrate you can still make something beautiful out of sadness and anger. No matter what anyone says about that photo of Quinn standing in an empty room, it’s eye-catching.

Maybe it’s the emotional connection I have to this moment at the festival, with these people I can’t imagine going through life without, but I can feel the love radiating out of all of us from this photo. I can hear that laugh in my mind, feel the crisp fall air, and smell those classic fall harvest scents. In the same way I canfeel Quinn's desperation and sadness in that photograph in the school.

Both photos truly brought everything to life.

“You like it?” I find Quinn standing behind me, pulling a beanie onto her head. She’s in hiking boots, black leggings, and a flannel shirt. Dressed exactly as I asked her—comfy, but warm—and so incredibly captivating. I don’t know how I got so lucky to call her mine, but I won’t question it. She’s here, with me, and I will do whatever I can to keep it that way for as long as possible.

“Sorry?” I ask, so distracted by her I forget the question.

“The picture.” She gestures to the laptop screen. “Do you like it?”

I turn back to her computer. “It’s amazing, Quinn. I don’t remember you taking it.”

“The benefits of being a gifted photographer.” She winks. “I can move around without being seen.” She comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, putting her front to my back, and looking over my shoulder at the screen. “I didn’t have to do much to it. Just brightened the colors a little and raised the exposure a bit.” She squeezes me. “My subjects took care of the rest.” I feel her lips at the back of my neck before she steps away.

I turn to watch her walk over to the coat closet near the front door, where she pulls out a jacket and puts it on. “You bringing your camera with us today?” I ask her.

“I don’t know. You won’t tell me what we’re doing.”

I wrap her in my arms, pulling her close when she walks back over to me. “I thought we could go on a hike. I know you told me one of the things you missed most when you were in New York was being out in nature.”

“That would be perfect.” She smiles, tilting her head slightly to kiss my lips properly.

Her hold on me tightens, her tongue flicking out to trail the seam of my lips. “If you keep doing that, we won’t be leaving,” I say against her lips.

“I’m okay with that.”

I laugh, press one more kiss to her lips, and then pull out of her hold. “No, we are going on this hike. I want to see you in action. So, bring your camera.”

“Fine. But only if you let me see you in action with a paintbrush one day.”

“Maybe one day.” I reach for her hand, pulling her toward the door. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“When was the last time you painted anything? For yourself, I mean, not as part of teaching your students a technique,” she asks once we’re in the truck and on our way to a local trailhead.

“Before I moved here.”

“Dec—”

“It’s okay, Quinn.”

“No, it’s not. I hate you no longer find joy in making art.” I’m quiet, thinking about how I want to respond. I’m quiet longer than I thought because Quinn is the one who speaks next. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“No.” I reach over the center console and place my hand on her thigh. “You didn’t upset me. I was thinking about what I wanted to say. I’ve been thinking about picking up a paintbrush. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.”

“Yeah?” I can hear the excitement in her voice.

“Yeah.” I squeeze her thigh and glance at her quickly before turning back to the road. “Someone reignited that fire inside me.”

“I understand that feeling.” She picks up my hand and squeezes it before turning to look out her window.

Whispering Pines Trailisn’t long—a little over two miles—but with Quinn bringing her camera, what I anticipated would take us about forty-five minutes ends up taking two hours.

I’m not complaining. I love seeing Quinn come alive behind the lens of her camera. It did mean the nice dinner I planned to make her couldn’t happen tonight.

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