Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

Chapter 2

Nova

“I sometimes sit in the quad and watch the people walk by. It probably sounds creepy but it’s not. I’m just observing. Human nature. What people do. How they act. But it’s more than that. If I look close enough, I can sometimes tell when someone is going through something painful. Maybe a breakup. Perhaps they just lost their job. Or maybe they’ve lost a loved one. Perhaps they’re suffering in silence, lost in a sea of questions, of what-ifs. Pain. Loss. Remorse.” I shift in the bench that’s centered in the quad yard as my back starts to hurt. I’ve been sitting out here for hours, recording myself, watching the people walk by. What I really want to do is run out there and stop each one. Ask them their story. Listen. Hear it. If they need consoling, I could do it. In fact, that’s what I want to do. Be able to help people. I just wish I could somehow figure out a way to do it through filming.

“Death. It’s around more than people realize. Because no one ever wants to talk about it or hear about it. It’s too sad. Too painful. Too hard. The list of reasons is endless.” The wind gusts up from behind me, causing leaves to circle around my head and strands of my hair to veil my face. The fall air gets chilly in Idaho during this time of year and I forgot to bring my jacket.

Shivering, I get to my feet and collect my bag. After putting my camera away, I start back to the apartment, picking up the pace when I realize how late it is and that I should have been home already. Today is actually a very big and important day. Not because I have a calculus test or had to turn in one of my mini video clips for my film class. Nope. Today is important because Quinton was released from the drug facility. It’s not information I learned directly from him. Sadly, I haven’t even spoken to him since the day he got on the plane with his father and headed back to Seattle to get help. But I have other sources to get me information. Tristan sources, to be exact.

Tristan is Quinton’s cousin and he just happens to be my roommate. They talk occasionally on the phone and I think he hears stuff from his parents, but that’s mainly negative stuff, since Tristan’s parents still blame Quinton for the car accident that killed their daughter, Ryder. It’s a messed-up situation, but I don’t think it’s ever going to change. Tristan agrees. He told me once that he doesn’t believe his parents will ever let their blame go, that they have to hold on to it in order to live each day, no matter how fucked up it is. But thankfully, Tristan is a good guy and tries to make up for it by being Quinton’s friend and forgiving him.

Forgiveness. If only more people could do it. Then maybe there’d be less pain in the world.

When I walk into the house, it smells of vanilla, the scent flowing from a candle burning on the kitchen countertop. There’s a stack of magazines by the front door, along with the mail. And Tristan is sitting on the sofa, staring at his phone as if it’s the enemy.

“Hey,” I say, dropping my bag to the floor. “Are you ready to call him?”

“I feel like a narc,” Tristan gripes as I plop down on the sofa beside him.

I give him a friendly pat on his leg. “But I assure you, you’re not.”

He narrows his eyes at me, pretending he’s mad, but I know him enough now to know he’s not. Just a little annoyed. “But I sort of am, seeing as how I’m calling him, but only so I can get information for you.”

“But you want to know too,” I remind him, grabbing a handful of Skittles out of the candy bowl on the coffee table. “What he’s going to do—if he’s okay. If he needs anything now that he’s out.”

“Yeah, but I’m not even sure he’ll talk to me since he barely would in rehab,” he says as I pour the Skittles into my mouth.

I stop chewing and pull a pouty face and clasp my hands in front of me. “Pretty please.”

He shakes his head and then swipes his finger across the screen. “Fine, but I’m only doing this because you let me live here and because your pouty faces are ridiculously hard to say no to.”

“You don’t owe me for living here,” I say reassuringly. “And you pay rent, so this apartment is as much yours as it is mine.”

“But you take care of me,” he says as he pushes buttons on his phone. “And keep me out of trouble.”

“And you’re such a good boy about it.” I pat his head like he’s a dog, although he’s much cuter than a dog. His blond hair, blue eyes, and smile make him seem like he belongs in a boy band, all perfect and charming. But his past is dark. Haunted. Full of mistakes and addiction, something he struggles with every day.

“I’m not a dog, Nova.” He gives me a dirty look for the head pat and then gets up from the sofa with the phone pressed to his ear, rounding the coffee table and heading toward the hallway.

“Hey, where are you going?” I call out after him, slanting over the arm of the chair and peering down the hallway at him.

“To talk in private,” he says, disappearing into his room. “Because your excessive staring is driving me crazy.” Seconds later, his bedroom door shuts.

I sit back and retrieve my cell phone from my pocket. I’ve been making recordings of myself for a year and a half now and it’s sort of become a habit whenever I’ve got a lot of clutter in my head, like I do right now. For me it’s like writing in a diary, even though I also use some of the stuff for film class. Although it didn’t originally start out like that. I first started doing it during a rough time in my life, about a year after my boyfriend Landon killed himself. He’d made a recording right before he did it and for some reason making recordings myself made me feel closer to him. Eventually I learned to let it go—the need to still connect with him.

I sit up straight on the sofa and press the button that flips the screen at myself, and my image pops up on the screen. My long brown hair runs to my shoulders and my green eyes stare back at me. My skin has a healthy glow to it and freckles dot my nose. I’m not the most beautiful girl in the world, but I look decent when I’m sober and my system is clean, which it has been for a year now.

After I get the right angle, I clear my throat and start recording. “Tristan can be so serious sometimes, at least when he’s doing stuff he doesn’t want to do. Not at all the same person I knew two months ago or even two years ago. He’s been sober for over three months now and living with me and Lea, my best friend for over a year. It’s good that he’s more serious though because it seems to be keeping him out of trouble. He goes to work at the coffee shop a mile away from the house and attends the university and stays away from parties. I can tell there’s times when he’d rather be out doing something fun than sitting in the house eating pizza with Lea and me, but he always stays, which to me means at the moment everything is okay, at least I hope it is. And I hope it is for Quinton. I wish I knew. Something… anything about him, but he won’t talk to me and never wrote me back when I sent him a letter a month ago. I’m not sure if he’s mad at me, but Tristan assures me he’s not. That he probably feels guilty over putting me through what he did, but I don’t want that for him. He has enough guilt as it is and I’m okay now. I really am. Healthy. Happy. And moving forward.”

I click off the camera, and then I get up and start doing the dishes as a way to keep myself busy. Part of me wants to revert to my habit of counting because I’m anxious right now, but the urge is nowhere near what it used to be. In fact, it’s been sort of silent for the last couple of months. I think maybe that’s because I’ve managed to stay so busy with school, my job at a photography studio, and of course my band.

Yeah, I’m in a band called Ashes & Dust. Jaxon, Lea’s ex-boyfriend, is the singer, the bassist’s name is Spalding and the guitarist is Nikko. I’m the only chick and Lea always makes jokes about how lucky I am, but it’s awkward because things with Jaxon and her didn’t end well. Sometimes things even get uncomfortable between Jaxon and me, whenever Lea’s name is mentioned. Still, it’s awesome that I get to play my drums and I wish I could do it all the time. Life would be so much less complicated if I could.

Tristan is still in his room when I get the dishwasher loaded and I can hear him talking through the door. I think about putting my ear up and listening, but it makes me feel bad, so I go into the living room and crank up the stereo, putting on some Papa Roach. Then I start to rock out, dancing around. I’d play my drums but I’m not allowed to anymore, ever since the neighbors complained about the noise. So sadly I have to dance to vent and I pretty much suck at dancing.

I’m whipping my long brown hair around and really shaking my ass as I belt out the lyrics when suddenly I hear a cough from behind me. I immediately stop dancing and try to ignore the rush of heat I feel on my cheeks as I go over and turn the music down.

I smooth my hair and wipe the sweat from my forehead before I turn around and face Tristan. “So what’d he say?” I ask, breathless.

He crosses his arms and arches a brow at me, trying not to smile. “Nice dance moves.”

I take an embarrassed bow and it gets him to relax. “Thank you.” I straighten back up. “Now tell me what he said. Is he okay? Good? Bad? What?”

“Come sit down.” He nods at the leather sofa and I walk over and have a seat. He sits down beside me, seeming slightly nervous as he fiddles with the bottom button on his shirt. “He’s doing okay,” he says.

“And.” I motion my hand, needing him to give me more details. “Did he seem, I don’t know, in need of help?”

He sighs, sweeping his fingers through the locks of his blond hair. “I think he sounded pretty okay. He’s staying with his dad and he says they’re talking and everything, which they never used to do. He’s supposed to start going to a therapist next week and to a sobriety support group, which is good in my opinion. A support group helped me a lot when I got out of rehab. He told me he’ll probably stay in Seattle for a while and try to find a job there.” He pauses, watching my reaction, like he thinks I’m about to break apart.

“Oh.” I should sound happier than I do—should be more happy for him. And I am, but for some stupid reason I was hoping for… I don’t know… that I could see him again. “That all sounds great, I guess.”

“Then why do you sound so sad?” he questions, searching my eyes for the truth.

I lift my shoulders and shrug. “I’m happy for him. Just sad that I can’t see him.”

“You could always call him… in fact, I told him you might.”

I swallow the lump of nerves that has shoved its way up my throat. “And what’d he say?”

“He said you could.” He looks like he wants to retract the statement as soon as he says it. “Well, I mean, he sounded nervous about it and everything, but I think that’s more because he feels guilty about what happened to you while you were down in Vegas, which he shouldn’t.” He stares down at his hands. “That shit that happened with the drug dealers… that was my fault.”

I remain silent, not just because of what Tristan told me about Quinton but also because of Tristan’s guilt. Even though it was his fault—what happened with the drug dealers and them threatening me and beating up Quinton—it still doesn’t mean he needs to feel guilty about it. “You don’t need to feel bad for that, Tristan.” I slouch back in the sofa and cross my arms over my chest. Everyone’s always blaming themselves for stuff, including me, and I’m sick and tired of it. I just want us to let go of stuff. Move on. “I get that your mind wasn’t in the right place when all that stuff happened.”

He glances over at me. “You’re too forgiving sometimes.”

“And you’re too sad sometimes,” I retort. It gets quiet and I can feel us both moving toward a depressing slump. Before we can get there, I rise to my feet and extend my hand to him. “Come on. Let’s go do something fun.”

He cocks a brow. “Like what?”

I shrug with my hand still extended. “I don’t know. We could go see a movie, maybe? Or rent one, pick up some pizza, and come back here and watch it.”

“No documentaries,” he says quickly, taking my hand, and I help him to his feet. “I know you love them and everything, but I can’t take another one.” He lets go of my hand and clutches his head with a joking smile. “They give me a boredom headache.”

“Oh, poor baby.” I roll my eyes, then walk toward the door, collecting my purse from the table, but when Tristan doesn’t follow me, I turn around. “What’s wrong?”

He dithers in the middle of the living room, massaging the back of his neck tensely. “Aren’t you going to call him?”

I slide the handle of my purse over my shoulder, nerves bubbling inside me at the idea of actually getting on the phone and hearing Quinton’s voice. God, I want to hear it so much, but it’s scary at the same time, because I want him, yet I don’t think he wants me—at least he isn’t ready for whatever it is between us. “I was thinking that I would do it tomorrow… after I figured out what to say.” I pause as he shuffles over to me, trying to figure out what on earth I’m supposed to say to Quinton, especially if he’s read the letter. “What do you think I should say to him?”

The corners of his lips quirk as he stops in front of me. “ ‘Hi.’ ”

I gently pinch his arm. “Come on. I’m being serious. I have no clue where to begin.”

He considers my question intently, his expression twisted in deep thought, then he abruptly relaxes. “Just be yourself, Nova.” He swings his arm around my shoulder and steers me to the front door. “You have this way about you that makes it easy for people to feel like they can talk to you and I know Quinton feels that way, too, since, besides me, you’re the only person he really talked to through all that shit.”

“Thanks,” I say, but I get a little uncomfortable with his touch—always do. Tristan and I have a weird history full of awkward conversations. He’s always sort of flirted with me and once, right after my boyfriend committed suicide, I got really drunk and made out with him. Then I ran away crying and tried to slit my wrist open.

I wasn’t exactly trying to kill myself when I did it. It was just a really low time in my life, perhaps the lowest I’ve ever been, and I was confused. But I’m better now—stronger. I don’t get drunk and make out with random guys and I even have a tattoo right below that scar—never forget—to remind me never to forget any of the stuff that’s happened. Good or bad. It’s a part of me and sometimes I think it’s made me stronger.

Tristan and I leave our apartment and I lock the door behind us. We live in an indoor complex that has an elevator, but it’s so ancient and slow that most of the time we take the stairs. As we’re making our way down, I try not to count them, but I’m finding it hard. I need a distraction from my thoughts of Quinton and the complication building between Tristan and me, so I get out my phone to call Lea to see if she’s in for a movie-and-pizza night. Hopefully she is. That way Tristan and I won’t be alone.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say after she answers, then stupidly add, “Nova.”

“No duh.” She laughs. “You’re such a dork.”

“Gee, thanks,” I reply sarcastically. “That means a lot coming from the girl who colored on her face with a permanent marker the other day.”

“I was trying to have school spirit,” she explains defensively. “How the hell was I supposed to know the damn ‘Go Broncos’ wouldn’t wipe off my face afterward?”

“Um, by the fact that the marker said ‘Sharpie’ on it.” I stop at the bottom of the stairway. “And ‘permanent.’ ”

“Ha ha,” she says as Tristan opens the door for me and I step out into the sunlight beaming down from the crystal-blue sky. “You’re such a smartass.”

“So are you.” I head up the sidewalk toward the carport with Tristan lollygagging behind me, messing around with his lighter.

“I know, and I love that I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Me, too.” I rummage through my purse for the keys to my car. “Anyway, so Tristan and I are heading to get some pizza and a movie, then we’re going to bring it back home. Are you down for a pizza/movie night?”

“Can’t,” she says hurriedly. “I have plans.”

“Plans with who?” I halt at the edge of the carport in front of my car. Tristan stops with me, observing me with curiosity. “I know you’re secretly dating,” I say to Lea. “So fess up.”

“I am not,” she replies, feigning offense.

“You are too,” I retort. “It’s why you’ve been hanging out at all the football games.”

“Hey, I like football,” she argues. “I even turned on ESPN once.”

“On accident,” I remind her. “You were channel surfing and then stopped on it because you thought the reporter was hot.”

“Hey, if I say I like football, then I like football.”

“No you don’t. In fact, you told me once that it was a pointless sport that only existed because guys have this need to prove that they’re tougher than each other.”

“Hey, not all guys.” Tristan hops off the curb and underneath the shade of the carport that runs around the entire complex. Then he rounds the front of my car to the passenger side and opens the door. “In fact, I don’t mind being wimpy at all.”

“Sure you don’t,” I tease, going to the driver’s side. “That’s why you tried to pick a fight with that guy in the campus yard the other day.”

“I did that because he slapped your ass,” he says, ducking into the car, and I open my door and get inside too. We slam the doors and then I rev up the engine. “I normally try to avoid fights.”

“He slapped my ass accidentally,” I protest, buckling my seat belt.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” he says with an eye roll as he guides his seat belt over his shoulder.

“Um, hello,” Lea says through the receiver. “I’m still here, you know.”

“Sorry, we were just arguing,” I tell her, putting on my sunglasses.

“Yeah, I heard.” She uses that tone that has been getting under my skin for the last few weeks, the one that implies that she thinks Tristan likes me. Normally I’d call her out on it, but not with him right next to me.

“So are you in or out for movie night?” I change the subject.

“I already told you I’m busy.”

“Fine. Go on your date, then.”

“It’s not a date.” She attempts to sound irritated but I can hear the smile in her voice.

“If you say so.” It’s slightly humid inside the car so I crank the air up a notch. “But just so you know, I’m going to wait up all night to see who drops you off.”

“Fine by me,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

“Have fun on your date,” I say sarcastically, getting ready to hang up.

“You too,” she replies with hilarity. “On your date.”

I shake my head, but laugh and then say good-bye. After we hang up, I toss the phone into my bag. I wonder if Tristan could hear any of that. It doesn’t seem like he could as he squints out the window at Stan, our twenty-five-year-old neighbor, dragging a keg toward the entrance of the apartment complex.

“Looks like Stan’s having a party,” he notes, and I hate the interest in his tone.

“Isn’t he always?” I put the shifter in reverse and pull down the visor. The sun is starting to descend and it’s so blinding I can barely see, even with my sunglasses on. That’s how sunsets are in Idaho, though. Because of the shallow hills and nonexistent buildings, there’s not much to block out the light, so the sky turns into one big orange-and-pink reflection at dusk.

“Maybe we should go,” he suggests, watching Stan struggle to keep the entrance door open so he can drag the keg inside. Tristan glances at me with an unreadable expression. “It could be fun.”

I’m starting to press on the gas to back up, but quickly tap on the brakes, stopping the car. “Tristan, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’re still in a really vulnerable place in your life. I mean, I remember what happened when I tried weed four months after I stopped doing drugs… and you did really hard stuff… I know your sponsor would agree with me…” I stop rambling because he looks like he’s about to laugh at me, his lips pressed tightly together, his blue eyes sparkling. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His smile breaks through. “I was just fucking with you, Nova.” Laughter escapes his lips as he reaches for the cigarettes in his pocket. “I wouldn’t go to a party. I care about my recovery enough not to fuck up right now.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That wasn’t funny.”

He keeps on smiling as he puts the end of the cigarette between his lips and lights up. “It kinda was.”

I shake my head, rolling down my window as smoke laces the air. “It’s not funny to make me worry like that.”

“Hey.” He leans across the seat, sticking the hand holding the cigarette out to the side and cupping my face with his free hand, startling me with his unexpected, almost intimate, touch. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny to make you worry about that, but it’s always good to know you care about me.”

I sigh. “I care about everyone, which makes my life too stressful sometimes.”

“I know.” He smoothes his finger across my cheekbone and I try not to flinch, despite the fact that I want to. I wonder what these touches mean and worry that one day things are going to get out of hand and confrontation is going to be inevitable. I hate confrontation. I really, really do. “Which makes you such a good person.”

I plaster on a smile, because I have to. He’s in a fragile state—I know that. And he relies on me a lot. If we weren’t friends, I have no idea what would happen with him. Whether he’d be able to take care of himself or slip back into old habits, and I don’t want to find out.

I casually turn my head toward the windshield, pretending that the only reason is that I’m going to back up the car. “You’re so weird sometimes…” I crank the wheel to the left and finish backing out of the spot. “Always complimenting me.”

“I’m weird.” He gapes at me, pointing at himself. “You’re the one who always says goofy things.”

“I do not,” I protest, even though it’s true. I do say goofy things sometimes, when I get nervous.

“You do, too,” he insists as I straighten up the wheel and drive out of the parking lot. “Like that one time you told me some random fact about a raccoon.”

“I do that when I’m nervous.”

“Still, it’s goofy.”

“It’s not that goofy. It just means I have a colorful personality.”

“A colorful, goofy personality.” He takes a drag on his cigarette and then starts hacking as he blows out the smoke. He hurries to roll the window down, coughing as he spits.

“You’re so gross.” I pull a disgusted face. “Seriously.”

“Hey, I have a cold,” he says defensively as he slumps back in the seat with his arm resting on the sill so most of the smoke goes out the window. “I can’t help it.”

“You’ve had that cold for a couple of weeks now. Maybe it’s time to go get it checked out.” I turn out on the main road that goes straight through the center of town. It’s bordered by trees and, since it’s fall, the leaves have fallen onto the street and sidewalks. It’s a beautiful sight and fall is one of my favorite times of the year.

“Okay, Mom.” He rolls his eyes as he takes another drag.

“Or maybe stop smoking,” I say. “You know those things can kill you, right?”

“You know, you’re sounding sort of preachy.” He ashes his cigarette out the window, grinning amusedly. “But that’s okay. I know you only do it because you’re secretly in love with me.”

I give him a blank stare, working hard to restrain a smile because the big goofy grin on his face looks so silly. “You’re such a dork.”

“Good. I can be the dork and you can be the goof and we can complete each other.”

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. “Okay, easy there, Jerry Maguire.”

His face contorts with perplexity. “Who the hell’s Jerry Maguire?”

My laughter shifts to shock. “Are you kidding me?”

He shakes his head. “No, who is the guy?”

“It’s not a guy… well, it is, but what you just said… it’s from the movie Jerry Maguire…” I trail off as his confusion deepens. “Never mind. But may I point out that the fact that you weren’t quoting the movie makes it ten times cheesier that you just said that.”

Grinning, he raises his balled fist in the air, like he’s celebrating. “Yeah, now I’m a dork and cheesy. That makes us even more compatible.”

I can’t help but smile again, despite the fact that I think he might be hitting on me, because it’s funny. And I need funny right now. Need happy, otherwise I’ll start focusing on the worry. Focusing on Quinton and if he’s okay.

We continue to talk for the rest of the drive to the pizza place, about goofiness and being dorks. Eventually the topic shifts to school, like how many classes he’s going to sign up for next semester. By the end of the drive, he’s telling me again that I act like his mom. Well, not his mom, per se, because he rarely talks to her, something I don’t understand because he hasn’t opened up to me about it yet. But by the time we get back to our apartment, we’ve veered off the arguing and started chatting about the movie we rented, Anchorman, which he insists is hilarious and can’t believe I haven’t watched yet.

“For someone who’s so into movies, you’re seriously movie-deprived,” he says as he sets the pizza box down on the coffee table.

I put the DVD beside the television, then go into the kitchen to grab a soda. “I’ve seen a lot of movies. Just not this particular one.”

“Yeah, right. I’ve heard you say a ton of movies that you haven’t seen that a lot of normal people have.” He drops down on the sofa, kicks his shoes off, and puts his feet up.

I open the fridge door. “Well, I think we already established that I’m not a normal person.” I grab a can of Dr Pepper for me and a Mountain Dew for him before I bump the door shut with my hip. Then I toss him the Mountain Dew. “Besides, I’ve seen a lot of movies you haven’t.”

He catches the soda. “Like what?” he questions.

I pop the tab and the soda fizzles, then I take a sip as I head for the sofa. “I don’t know.” I sit down beside him, thinking of a good answer. “How about Fight Club. I know you haven’t seen that.”

He taps the top of the can before popping the tab. “Yeah, because it’s old.”

“It’s not that old,” I argue as he leans forward and opens the pizza box. “It was made in the nineties and we were born in the nineties.”

He takes a slurp of his soda, then puts the can down on the coffee table and gets a slice of pizza. “So maybe we’re old.”

“Maybe we are,” I say. “Sometimes I feel older than I am.”

“Me too,” he admits, picking a pepper off the pizza and discarding it into the box. “I think that comes with life experiences, though.”

He’s right. I think we’ve both been through so much that sometimes we both feel older than we are. It’s probably that way for Quinton, too, and it makes me want him here with me, so I can cuddle up on the sofa with him and know that he’s okay.

It gets quiet as I get lost in my thoughts and finally I set my soda down and get up to put the DVD in. Once the previews start, I return to the couch and start eating. Tristan and I chat again about being old until the movie comes on, then grow quiet.

The further into the movie we get, the closer he scoots toward me on the sofa to the point where I feel like I’m on a date. I begin questioning if I should get up and move. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially when he’s in such a vulnerable place. Just like Quinton, who I wish were here with me. Quinton, who’s so far away, but I want him right here. I want to touch him. See if he’s okay. Be with him more than maybe I should—will ever be, maybe.

The longer the night goes on, the more my thoughts drift to Quinton. What he’s doing. Thinking. How the last two months have been for him. I want to talk to him, but I’m afraid of all the unsaid stuff I know there’s going to be between us. I just hope we can say it, otherwise things will be like they were in the past, when he wouldn’t talk to me. It was the same thing with Landon. When we were dating, I thought I knew him. I thought we had a good relationship. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. But there was so much unsaid between us and in the end it never did get said.

“So what do you think so far?” Tristan interrupts my thoughts as he inches closer to me so that the side of his leg is pressed up against mine.

I strain a smile, stiffening as his breath touches my cheek. “It’s good. Really funny.” But I’m barely paying attention.

He slides his arm across the back of the sofa and behind me. I catch a whiff of soap mixed with cigarette smoke. “See, I told you you’d like it.”

I make my lips curve into an even bigger smile and either he doesn’t notice I’m faking being happy or he doesn’t say anything. He returns his attention to the movie, his eyes locked on the screen as he gets another slice of pizza. I start to become hyper-aware of him and his movements, how tired he looks, the bags under his eyes. I think he’s tired and I start to debate whether I should say I’m exhausted as an excuse to get out of the growing discomfort of the situation. It’d be so easy to go back to my room, but at the same time I know my being here helps Tristan stay out of trouble. So I stay put and attempt to concentrate on the movie the best I can.

“What are we doing here?” I ask Quinton as I stand on the edge of a cliff, staring out at the land before us. Rolling hills that go on for miles and miles, until they connect with the horizon.

“We’re getting some peace and quiet,” he says, and I can feel his honey-brown eyes on me so I turn and look at him.

He looks healthier than the last time I saw him, more muscular, his eyes brighter, his hair cropped short like the first time I met him. He’s not wearing a shirt, the defined scar on his chest visible, along with the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One. Even though I know both the scar and the tattoos are related to the accident, I only know from the stuff I’ve put together on my own. Quinton’s never really told me anything himself about what happened that night, and I wonder if he ever will.

“What?” he asks, his brow arching, and I realize I’ve been silently staring at him.

I shake my head, still unable to take my eyes off him. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I was just wondering…” I trail off. “Never mind.”

He reaches out and touches his palm to my cheek. “It’s not nothing, Nova. So please just tell me… I want to know… I want to know everything you’re thinking.”

It’s such an honest request that it takes me a moment to respond.

“I was just thinking about your tattoos and scars and what they mean.” As soon as it leaves my lips, I know I’ve said the wrong thing.

I can see his muscles wind tight, his fingers fold into his palms, his scruffy jaw go taut. I want to retract what I said, but it’s too late and suddenly he’s stepping away from me.

“Don’t go,” I call out, reaching for him, but my feet won’t move. “Please, I didn’t mean it.”

He shakes his head, his skin paling, his muscles shriveling until he looks like a skeleton. His eyes sink in and his cheekbones become more distinct. When his body is finished shifting, he looks just like the Quinton I last saw, the one who lost his body to heroin. The one who gave up on life. The one who wanted to die because he hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, which isn’t what I was expecting.

“For what?” I question, lowering my hand to my side.

“For this.” He starts running toward the cliff like he’s going to jump.

“No!” I scream as he springs onto his toes, leaping toward the edge.

I’m finally able to move my feet and run for him, but it’s too late. He flies through the air and when he starts to drop, he’s falling off the cliff toward the rocky bottom…

My eyes shoot open and I gasp for air. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but when I finally do, I realize that I was dreaming and that I’m not on a cliff, watching Quinton fall, but lying on my side, cuddled up with Tristan on the couch with our legs tangled. My eyes widen as I realize this and I hurry and wiggle out of his arms. I end up rolling off the sofa and falling face-first onto the floor. I quickly sit up, worried he’s going to wake up and wonder what the heck’s going on. I can’t see him because night has settled, the living room nearly pitch black except for the light flowing through the window and from the television screen, which has gone blue, the movie long over. But I can hear the soft sound of his breathing, which hopefully means he’s asleep.

I get to my feet and shake off the lingering terror of the dream as I tiptoe into my room. I close the door behind me and take my phone from my pocket. I want to call Quinton, but even thinking about it with the phone in my hand is terrifying. Besides, what if he’s asleep or something?

It’s ten o’clock and that makes it nine o’clock in Seattle, so it doesn’t seem likely. Still, I dither for about ten minutes, organizing my CD collection while I carry the phone around in my hand, my OCD habits kicking in with my nerves. Finally, after realizing that I’m just going to have to rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with, I flop down on my bed and dial Quinton’s dad’s home phone number, which Tristan gave me.

I rest my head on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling as I listen to the phone ring, trying to figure out what to say. I need to be careful with my words—make sure I don’t say anything that will upset him or put pressure on him. But what is the right thing to say? I’m not sure, especially since I have tons of questions sitting on my tongue, like what’s been going on? Are you okay? Do you miss me? Ever want to see me again?

“Hello.” A man picks up after four rings, sounding tired.

“Um… is Quinton there?” I ask, worried I’ve woken up his dad or something.

“Who is this?” he questions with an edge in his voice.

I hesitate. Does he even know who I am? “Um… Nova Reed.”

He pauses. “Nova Reed, Carry Reed’s daughter, right?” I’d almost forgotten that he knows my mother because she’s the one who convinced him to go look for his son when Tristan and I lost track of Quinton when he was living on the streets in Vegas.

I relax a little. “Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, trying to keep a light tone. “I know it’s late and everything, but I was wondering if I could talk to him.”

He remains silent and I worry that maybe Quinton told him he didn’t want to talk to me. Perhaps he told Tristan I could call only because he felt pressured and then changed his mind.

But then his dad says, “Let me go see if he’s awake.”

“Okay, thanks.” I chew on my fingernails as I wait. I can hear the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. There’s music playing in the background. “Cover Me” by Candlebox. I absent-mindedly get up from my bed and turn my iPod in the dock to the same song, quietly enough that he won’t hear it, but loudly enough that I can. It makes me feel connected to him in a strange way, but then again, my emotions are greatly connected to music, so this would probably be the case under any circumstances.

The music on the other end gets quieter as I go back over to my bed. His dad says something, there’s a reply, then his dad says, “Nova Reed.”

Silence, expect for the lyrics of Candlebox. I hold my breath as I lie down on the bed again, fearing his dad’s going to get back on the phone and say Quinton doesn’t want to talk to me. Instead there’s a thud followed by a rustle. A door clicks shut and then I hear soft breathing from the other end.

“Hello,” Quinton utters quietly, like he’s afraid to speak.

I get tongue-tied, trying to figure out what to say, and then Tristan’s and my earlier conversation pops into my head and I sputter, “Hi.” I roll my eyes and shake my head at myself.

There’s a pause and I scrunch my nose up, waiting for his response, wanting to smack myself on the head for not thinking of something more epic to say after not talking to him for months.

“Hi,” he finally replies, and I detect a hint of humor in his tone. “It’s… it’s good to hear your voice.”

Not the reaction I was expecting, but I’ll take it. “It’s good to hear your voice, too.”

“I’m sorry for not talking to you sooner,” he says uneasily. “I just… well, I felt like an ass because of the shit I put you through.”

“You’re not an ass.” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger. “And you didn’t put me through anything. Everything that happened was my own choice because I chose to stay and try to help you. You didn’t make me. In fact, you tried to tell me I shouldn’t be there about a thousand times.”

“I treated you like shit,” he says. “And honestly, the really messed-up part is I can’t even remember everything because I was so high a lot of the time.”

“That might be a good thing,” I reply. “Then it’s like we have a clean slate.”

“Clean slates don’t exist,” he mutters. There’s a long pause and considering how moody he’s been in the past, I half expect him to get angry with me, but thankfully he sounds calm when he speaks again. “But maybe we could try to create a new one.”

I perk up. “A happier one?”

“Yeah, maybe… and we can write everything down in bright-colored chalk and everything.” There’s playfulness in his tone that I’ve never heard before and it makes me laugh and feel giddy inside, tummy butterflies and everything.

“We are still speaking metaphorically, right?” I ask. “Or are we really planning on getting a slate and writing everything we do?”

“We don’t have to write. I can draw everything,” he jokes, but hidden in his light-humored tone is nervousness.

“We can do that.” I unsteadily play along, working to keep my footing in the conversation because this brighter, lighter Quinton is new territory for me. From the day I met him, he’s been sad. It’s actually what drew me to him to begin with. The sadness in his honey-brown eyes reminded me so much of Landon. “But when are we going to start on this new slate together… or I guess what I’m trying to say is, when am I going to see you again?”

The line gets quiet and I think he might have hung up on me. But then I listen really closely and I can still hear the music in the background and the sound of his breathing.

“I can’t go anywhere yet,” he eventually says. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I need to get my life on track here before I start doing other things.”

“So you’re going to stay in Seattle, then?” I ask, trying to conceal my disappointment but failing miserably.

“I kind of have to,” he tells me with a bit of remorse. “I have a therapist all set up and sobriety meetings… and my dad… well, he’s trying to work on our relationship and I think… well, I hope it’ll help with stuff. At least I’m hoping it does.”

By stuff, I think he means his guilt, which was the fuel driving his desire to use drugs, judging from the bits of information I picked up during my time in Vegas this summer.

“How are you doing with stuff?” I ask with caution.

“Honestly, I have my good and bad moments… I haven’t been sober in about two years and it’s sort of weird having a clear head. I really don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In fact, I know you will.”

“Maybe, but it seems really fucking hard whenever I think about it,” he says truthfully. “And I’ve only been out for a day.”

“Yeah, but it’ll get easier.” I sit up and rest my head against my headboard, stretching my legs out and crossing them. “You think a lot more now, right? I mean, your head’s not so foggy.”

“Yeah, and sometimes I really hate my thoughts,” he admits. “And it makes me want to…” he trails off, but I know what he was going to say. Do drugs.

“Well, I think you can do it,” I say, aiming to be motivating. “I think you’re strong and you’re going to keep your clear head.”

“You’re always so optimistic and caring,” he says, sounding confused by his own words. “I’ve missed that… missed you.”

A small smile touches my lips and my head gets all foggy, but in a good, what-the-hell-am-I-feeling way. “I want to see you.” Crap, how can I slip up twice in one conversation? “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait, I mean, I do want to see you, but I just didn’t want to put pressure on you.” I bite my lip to shut myself up. “God, I’m so sorry. I went into this phone conversation not wanting to put any pressure on you and I’m totally doing that already.” I sink my teeth down harder on my lip until I draw blood, because it’s the only way to get myself to stop rambling.

“Nova, relax,” he says. “I’m not some breakable object that’s going to shatter at any moment. You don’t have to be so careful around me.”

“I know, but at the same time, at least from what Tristan told me, when you first get out of rehab, it’s really hard and you’re really fragile.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Did he actually use the word ‘fragile’? Because it makes him sound really girly.”

“He actually did,” I say, feeling a little more at ease. “But it’s not really his fault. He’s been living with two girls for the last couple of months and I think we’ve been rubbing off on him. In fact, my friend Lea convinced him to let her paint his fingernails once. Granted, it was the color black, but still. I think he’s one step away from letting us put makeup on him.”

Quinton laughs harder and I feel very proud of myself. I was terrified of this conversation and it’s been okay so far—well, minus my two slipups about wanting to see him. I do have a feeling that he hasn’t read my letter yet because if he had, there could very easily be some tremendous awkwardness between us.

“Thanks. I really needed that,” Quinton tells me after his laughter dies down. “I haven’t laughed in a while.”

“Anytime,” I say, my pride increasing. “I can keep going if you want me to. Tell you all of Tristan’s little secrets that only happen behind the walls of our apartment.” He grows quiet again and I wonder if I said something wrong. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that it’s weird… you two living together.”

“Us three live together,” I remind him, kind of thrown off by the hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Yeah, I know, but still…” He trails off. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t even be getting onto the subject of this anyway.”

The subject of what? Tristan and me living together? I’m not 100 percent sure what he’s trying to get at, but I let it go, deciding it’d be stupid to push him. “So what is the weather like over there?”

It takes him a second to answer. “Cloudy and windy. How’s the weather over in Idaho?”

“Dry and sunny.” I scoot back down on the bed and roll to my side to face the frosted window. “Although it’s a little cold.”

“Yeah, it’s the same way here, too.” He wavers. “Nova, we don’t have to talk about mundane things like the weather. Like I said, I’m not fragile.”

I’m not sure where to go from here. We’ve been through so much together, yet at the same time I don’t really know him, not the sober version, anyway. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“How about you and me,” he says, his voice cracking. “And what we are.”

His bluntness makes me stutter. “I-I’m not sure how to answer that. I mean, I don’t really know the answer.”

“Neither do I and I’m not sure how we can figure that out or… or if we should.” He pauses. “God, I just replayed what I said in my head and I didn’t mean for that to come out the way that it did. What I meant was that right now, I kinda am still trying to fix myself and I don’t want you to feel obligated to wait around for me to get better.”

My heart slams excruciatingly against my rib cage. “You read my letter, didn’t you?”

“No… why? Did you say something like that in your letter?”

“No,” I say quickly. “And you don’t even have to read it if you don’t want to. Or maybe you threw it away already.”

“I still have it,” he tells me reluctantly. “I was just too afraid to read it, afraid of what you said. Afraid it might mean too much.”

“You should probably just burn it. I sometimes ramble when I write, like when I talk, and I don’t know how you’re going to take the stuff I said.”

“I don’t want to burn it. And besides, I’ve always liked your rambling. It can actually be insightful sometimes.”

“You say that now,” I tell him, forcing a teasing tone. “But try living with it.”

He’s silent for a moment and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Whether he thinks I’m crazy? Amusing? I remember that when I was younger I wished I could have mind reading powers, and I’m starting to wish that again so I could crack his head open and see what on earth he’s thinking.

“Nova, I’m going to read the letter,” he says. “I just want to make sure I can handle whatever’s in there.”

“I wish I could answer that for you,” I say. “But I don’t know what you’re expecting. Really, it’s just my feelings. About you and me.” Feelings I can still barely admit to myself. I was actually surprised at what came out of me. How much I care for him and how much I see him when I look into the future.

“Then I’m not sure I’m ready yet.” There’s an ache in his voice. “If it’s rejection then I’m worried it’ll break me and if it’s the opposite… if you want me as more than a friend then I’m not sure I’m ready for that, either. Because honestly, I’m really weak right now and even taking care of myself feels really hard.”

I get what he’s saying a little too well. It took me over a year to watch Landon’s video after he committed suicide, because I worried whatever was on there was going to shatter me into pieces. When I did finally watch it, though, I didn’t shatter. In fact, I started picking up the pieces of my life, but only because I was ready to.

“Then wait to read it until you’re ready,” I tell him. “And for now, I’m okay with just being your friend.” It feels like such a huge lie when I say it and actually kind of hurts my heart a bit.

“I would love that,” he says, unwinding. “So tell me something friendly.”

I snort a laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds amused. “Tell me something you’d tell Lea or Tristan.”

“Um, well, I watched Anchorman for the first time tonight.” God, I’m so lame.

“And what’d you think of it?”

“I fell asleep,” I admit. “But only because I was tired to begin with.”

“Yeah, but it’s not for everyone,” he explains. “Although I know Tristan loves it.”

“Yeah, he’s the one who made me watch it,” I divulge. “He acted like I was crazy because I never had.”

He pauses again. “I’m jealous of him,” he confesses. “And I only said that because my therapist has been pushing me to talk aloud about stuff that’s bothering me… and it’s bothering me… that you and Tristan get to spend so much time together.”

“It’s not like that,” I promise. “We’re just friends and roommates.”

“I know, but I just wanted you to know that it’s making me feel… jealous,” he says hesitantly. “Although, if something did happen between you two, I’d understand.”

“We’re not going to get together. Trust me,” I say, thinking about what happened back on the sofa and how much I would rather it had been Quinton than Tristan. “And besides, we fight all the time.”

“Really? You two never did before.”

“Yeah, we did. And he can be kind of cranky… I think he sometimes has a hard time adjusting to the boredom.”

“I can see that,” he states with understanding. “I’m already getting sick of staring at my walls and I’ve only been out for a day, but talking to you helps.”

“Well, I can talk your ear off.”

He laughs. “Please do.”

I smile at the beauty in his laughter. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“You.”

“What do you want me to tell you about me?”

“Everything… I want to know everything about you, Nova like the car.” Amusement laces his tone as he says the nickname he gave to me pretty much the first day he met me.

My smile takes up my entire face. Not because of his comment but because it’s the first real moment I think Quinton and I have had without drugs and anxiety filling in the blanks in our conversation. And so I do the only thing I can do. I start talking. In fact, I talk well into the early hours of the next day. And for a moment everything feels perfect, but I have a hard time believing it’s going to stay because it never seems to. Things just always sort of happen. Life always just sort of happens. And no matter what I do, I can never keep the bad out completely, despite how much I want to.