Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

Epilogue

Six months later…

Nova

I’m nervous as hell. Not because in just a little bit I’ll be watching the documentary I helped out on for four months straight, but because I’ll be seeing Quinton for the first time in six months.

It’s not like we haven’t talked to each other. In fact, we probably talk more than most couples. At least three times a day every day on the phone, plus we text five to six more times on top of that. Being away from him has seriously been hard, but in the end, I think it’s been good for us both. Given us time to grow. Heal. Become our own people.

Quinton’s helped build so many houses, I’ve lost track, and listening to him talk about it is really amazing. He always gets really excited, especially when he tells me about the family who’s getting the house. He loves every second of it, just like I’ve loved every second of my journey. Professor McGell, or Dusty as I call him now, decided to put me in charge of the interviews we did with people. He said I had a knack for human compassion and for the most part I think he’s right. Quinton completely agrees with him, too, but Quinton thinks highly of me no matter what I say or do, even when I think I’m being mean.

I’m hanging out in my hotel room in Idaho, my clothes scattered across the floor as I decide what to wear to the viewing of the film. I’ve actually seen it before, a few times, but the fact that it’s going out to the world makes it feel brand-new and scary as heck.

I’m wrapped in a towel, my damp hair running down my back, when I hear a knock at the door. Grinning, I step over the pile of dresses I was deciding among and pad over to the door. I peer out the peephole and my grin expands as I open the door.

Quinton smiles back and then his honey-brown eyes widen as soon as he takes in the towel. “Wow, you’re getting straight to the point. Aren’t ya?”

I laugh, then grab his arm and yank him inside, kicking the door shut behind me. Then I turn around and take him in: his scruffy jaw, his short brown hair, his faded jeans and black T-shirt that look like they’ve seen a wash or two or twenty-five. He looks like a person who’s worked hard, which is good because, he says, the harder he works the better he feels. So he must be feeling pretty damn good right now.

“You look amazing,” he says after a minute or two goes by of us just staring at each other. I’ve been worried that after six months apart, just talking on the phone, being together is going to be awkward.

I tuck a wet lock of hair behind my ear, chewing nervously on my bottom lip. “So do you… you look manly.”

He snorts a laugh and then he’s moving in to kiss me. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says, and then his lips brush against mine.

It’s not a quick kiss. Not at all. In fact, it goes on for so long, my lips are raw and swollen and my body is so hot it feels like it’s melting. When we pull away, we’re gasping for air, our bodies pressed so tightly against each other, I can feel his chest moving with each intake of breath. Somehow his hands have managed to slip underneath the towel and he’s grasping my bare waist.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I whisper, smiling as he leans in to kiss me again.

Then he takes my hand and steers me toward the bed, kicking the clothes out of the way as he sits us down. “As much as I’ve loved the last six months,” he says, his hands wandering from my waist up my sides toward my chest, “I’m really glad it’s over. I can’t wait to spend time with you and get a break from Tristan and Wilson. As cool as they are, I’d much rather spend my free time with you.”

“How is Tristan doing? With everything?” About a month after Quinton and I went our separate ways, he told me that Tristan had found out he had hepatitis C and was struggling with it. He actually relapsed and disappeared for about a week when they were staying in Nebraska. Wilson and Quinton ended up finding him camped out in a hotel room, high on meth. They got him cleaned up, though, and put him back to work, and Quinton’s been assuring me that everything’s been okay since then—that relapses happen often.

“He’s good,” he says. “He’s actually been really into working long hours lately and doing nothing else.”

“Is that good?”

“I think so,” he says. “Although it would be nice if he took a break once in a while.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” I say. We’ve actually made plans. Not to move in together, although maybe technically that’s how it’s going to be, since we’ll be on the road every waking hour with each other. I’m actually going with him for the next month to make my own documentary about Habitat for Humanity, starring him, Wilson, Tristan, and anyone else fascinating that I come across. “Help him find other things to do.”

He’s quiet for a moment and I worry that he’s taken what I said the wrong way—that he thinks I want to spend extra time with Tristan. But then he smiles and says, “God, I’m so excited you’re coming with me.”

“Yeah, but the question is, can you deal with me all the time?” I ask in a playful tone. “Like every day—every waking hour.”

“Of course, Nova like the car,” he says with a wink. “And do you want to know why?”

I nod, putting my hands on his shoulders. “Of course.”

He smiles. “Because I love you.”

I smile back. Every time I hear him say it, it gets to me. Although the first time he said it, three months ago, I panicked and hung up on him. I knew I loved him, but was afraid to say it back, afraid to open my heart up to someone else like that, afraid I’d lose him, afraid I’d never be able to endure the pain of loss all over again. It took me five minutes to get my shit together and call him back.

“I love you, too,” I say, putting my hand on his cheek and tracing his cheekbone with my thumb. “I really do.”

“Good,” he says, then he slants forward to kiss me again, his fingers finding the edge of the towel.

Even though it kills me, I place my hand on top of his and stop him. “Before we do… well, that.” My cheeks heat and he laughs at me. It’s amazing that no matter how many dirty phone conversations we’ve had, I still manage to get embarrassed every time I talk about things related to sex. “There’s something I want to show you first.”

He doesn’t get angry like most guys probably would, after six months of no sex. Instead he looks concerned.

“Is everything okay?” he asks worriedly.

I nod quickly. “Of course, I just want to show you the video first, before everyone else sees it… the dedication especially.” It’s actually really important to me that he see the film first.

He seems a little anxious about it, but I don’t blame him. The topics of loss, guilt, and pain are captured in every clip. While I was putting it together, it triggered a lot in me, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just emotional.

But he says, “Of course.” Then he sits back on the bed while I get up and grab my computer from the desk. I get it booted up and the video ready, before I go back to the bed and sit down by him. “Are you ready?” I ask, with my fingers hovering over the trackpad. He nods and I lie down beside him and put the laptop between us, clicking play.

The music comes on, but I’m not watching the screen. I’m watching him watch the screen. His jaw is set tight, his eyes a little wide, and his hands are balled into fists as if he’s half expecting something horrible to be on there. So I reach over and take his hand, then turn my attention to the screen as it goes black and the dedication pops up.

“For everyone who suffered loss and learned how to live again. Know that you’re not alone.”

I’m not even sure who starts crying first. It’s such a small thing. Two sentences, but they pretty much sum up the helplessness and feeling of being alone that we both felt for years. The pain of it broke us both, shattered us, and will forever scar us, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t heal. Yeah, we’re not the same people, but we’re still alive and we’re not alone anymore.

I want to ask Quinton what he thinks when his grip on my hand tightens. I clutch him and then suddenly he’s pulling me closer to him, needing me to be beside him.

“What do you think?” I ask as his arms fasten tightly around me, our bodies aligned together.

He presses a kiss to my forehead, each of my cheeks, and then ultimately my lips. When he leans away, his tearstained eyes search mine. “I think it’s perfect.”