The Genesis Art Center is an old rambling brick building on the southern edge of Williamsburg. Blocks of crumbling warehouses surrounded with broken chain-link fences are punctuated with dilapidated row homes and shops. Every now and then, I pass a renovated building or row of brightly painted, refurbished shops, but it’s merely a snapshot of hope in an otherwise blighted area.

Tom keeps the car idling at the curb. “Shall I wait for you, sir?” he asks, no doubt having the same misgivings as I am.

I shake my head. “I’ll call you when Quinn and I are ready.”

“Yes, sir. We will be dropping off Ms. East at her apartment?”

“Yes,” I answer. There’s no way I’m letting Quinn take the subway alone in this area.

I step onto the cracked sideway and head for the entrance. Most of the other blocks I passed were deserted, but this one is teeming with people—kids and teenagers mostly. I have to edge through a group of middle schoolers with massive black art bags in order to reach the door. I stop at a friendly-looking receptionist with wide eyes and a kind smile and ask for Quinn. She points me through the center double doors, saying she’ll most likely be walking the floor with the director.

I don’t know what I was expecting as I walked through those doors, but it wasn’t this bright, cheerful place, alive with laughter and music. The setting sun streams in through the ten foot windows lining the walls, bathing the wide open space with a soft light. Children and their art projects sit at rows of tables snaked up and down the studio. Materials cover every available surface. Fabric, newspaper, yarn, clay, paint, charcoal, paper—the room vibrates with creative energy.

As I walk the aisle, I let my eyes wander over the pieces of art coming to life around me. Some are simple finger paintings, the five-year-olds having more fun smearing paint on themselves than creating the next Van Gogh, but others are good—maybe even great. I stop and watch a teenager pasting magazine cutouts to a large piece of canvas. The pieces are small, but together they form a portrait of an older woman sitting on a park bench, feeding a small group of pigeons.

I’m still staring at it when Quinn calls my name. She’s walking toward me, weaving through the students with an older gentleman by her side.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Quinn says, reaching me. Her eyes are shining and a wide, open smile transforms her face. I can’t help but stare at the beautiful sight.

Quinn motions to the wiry man next to her. “This is Jonathan Verbeck, the director of GAC. Jonathan, this is Archer Stratton.”

“So glad to have you,” he says, taking my hand. “I was thrilled when Quinn told me you were coming.”

“Thought I’d learn more about East here. See what she gets up to when we’re apart,” I say, winking.

Quinn shakes her head at me. “Well, what do you suggest?” she says, addressing Jonathan. “Give Archer a tour first, and then we can get back to…um…our discussion?”

I give her a questioning look, but she keeps her attention on Jonathan.

“Sounds great,” Jonathan says. He pushes his glasses up his nose and begins walking down the aisle. “I see you’ve begun exploring the studio. It’s a great space, don’t you think?”

I nod. “It caught me off guard. I had no idea it would look so—” I stop, not wanting to insult the man. I could tell that he was an important person in Quinn’s life.

Jonathan chuckles. “I know what you mean. We’re a classic case of ‘can’t judge a book by its cover.’” Jonathan stops in front of a glass panel. A classroom full of students is on the other side, listening to an art historian flip through a presentation on the Dutch masters.

“How much has Quinn told you about GAC?” Jonathan asks.

“Nothing,” I admit.

“Well, our center allows all ages to come together and bring art and creativity into their lives,” Jonathan motions behind us, where the class is now scrutinizing Johannes Vermeer’s The Milkmaid. “But funding is tighter than ever, and we’ve just about squeezed the last drop we can from our dwindling budget.”

Jonathan leads us through the double doors at the end of the hall into a spacious sculpture gallery. At first glance, it looks like any other gallery I’ve ever been to. White everywhere, lofted ceiling, hardwood floor. But as we walk farther, Jonathan begins pointing out peeling paint, warped floorboards, and dark patches where mold and water are seeping in.

“This space could be our biggest money maker,” Jonathan says. “But look at it. It’s falling apart.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I glance at Quinn, who continues walking the floor, lost in thought.

“With more schools cutting art from their curriculums each year,” Jonathan says, “GAC can be the only arts education these kids get. I’m positive that with its doors closed, most of these kids will fall back on the gangs and drugs that surround them.”

“Really?” I ask. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re doing something great here, it’s just hard to believe one place could have such an impact.”

“Absolutely,” Jonathan says with conviction. “We engage the youth in this community whose artistic voices transform their lives. Art saves them.”

“It saved me,” Quinn adds softly, speaking up for the first time.

“It did?” I ask. Quinn slowly meets my gaze.

Jonathan looks between Quinn and me and clears his throat. “I think Quinn can take over the tour from here.” He offers me his hand. “It was wonderful meeting you, Archer. Perhaps we’ll see more you.”

“This place means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” I say after he’s left.

Quinn nods. “I practically grew up here. Jonathan is like a father to me…since I never knew mine,” she adds quietly.

“I’m sorry.” My words sound flat and shallow to my ears, but I don’t know what else to say.

She shrugs. “Can’t miss what you never had, right?”

I study her for a moment, like I’m only just discovering the girl I’ve been dating for the past three weeks. I could see that telling me this is embarrassing and scary for her.

“I bet you think I had a perfect childhood,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets, “but my parents were constantly gone. They were always at an event or dinner party, and my father was a workaholic—”

“Like you are now?” Quinn cuts in, arching an eyebrow.

“I guess so,” I admit.

I start walking around the room, pretending to check out the sculptures on display, but I don’t really see them. I’m in the past. “They weren’t bad parents, by any means,” I explain, “but I wish they were around more growing up. Then Dalton and I were shipped off to boarding school from middle school onward.”

“Separate or together?” Quinn asks, falling in step next to me.

“Separate. Dalton went to a school in Rhode Island that excelled in sports; I went to Connecticut to focus on industry.”

“And now you’re on Forbes Thirty Under Thirty for finance,” Quinn says.

I scowl. “All those lists—those awards—they don’t matter to me.”

“Still, at such a young age…” She glances at me. “You’re gifted, Archer.”

I shrug. “Anyway, my so-called problems sound stupid after learning that you didn’t even know your dad.” I turn my head toward her. “You said you grew up here? This area…well—”

“I know,” she interrupts. “It wasn’t a happy childhood, but I was only here until high school. Then I moved to Canarsie, and things got better.” She stops and faces me. “I don’t want you to think worse of me because I grew up poor.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I didn’t let it hold me back,” she continues, sticking up her chin. “I found this place and Jonathan and my love of art. He told me to pursue my art, to follow my dreams to NYU, and helped me apply for scholarships.” She grows quiet for a moment. “I owe everything to him and this place, and now it’s going to close unless I help.”

“Help?” I repeat.

She nods. “Jonathan needs funding, and I’m going to volunteer as their fundraiser. Get this place in front of people, garner interest.”

“That’s generous of you, but with the campaign and your job—”

“I want to do this, Archer.” Quinn turns and walks back the way we came. “I thought you’d understand,” she throws over her shoulder.

“Hold up, East,” I shout, catching up to her. I take her arm and tug her around. “Whoa, settle down.”

Quinn sighs. “Sorry, it’s just this place was all I had for a long time.”

“I’m thinking of how demanding it will be for you,” I explain. “That’s quite the schedule.”

Quinn meets my eyes. “I’ll make it work, Archer. I always have time for the people I love.”

I stare at her, unable to speak.

She links her arm with mine and pulls me forward. “Now let’s get you started on the finger painting station. I think that Armani suit looks like it needs to be broken in.”

I let her lead me back through the doors, down the hall, and into the waiting, sticky arms of a group of overzealous five-year-olds. I don’t complain when my suit is “broken in,” or when my new best friend, Susie, decides that my face should be her canvas. I don’t complain or leave or fend off Jackson Pollock’s spawn because I’m watching my girlfriend.

Quinn strolls through the aisles, stopping here and there to help out a student or demonstrate a certain technique they’re struggling with. She’s helping one boy with his papier-mâché model of (what I think is supposed to be) a car, when he turns and sticks a piece of gooey of newspaper on Quinn’s nose.

As Quinn dissolves into laughter, the little boy giggling right alongside her, I know that I’m screwed. I’m screwed because I’m beginning to like spending time with her. I’m screwed because I have no idea what makes her laugh or cry or sing with joy.

I never cared before, but suddenly, I’m dying to find out.