Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

Chapter 4

November 29, day thirty-one in the real world

Nova

“Life is strange. Life is complicated. Life is messy. Watch the news. Read headlines. Go help out at suicide hotlines. You’ll hear stories. Heartbreaking stories. I’ve heard my fair share and lived a few of them myself.” I’m sitting in the living room on the sofa with my legs crisscrossed, passing time filming while I try to figure out what to do for the rest of the night. “Today my film professor, Professor McGell, was talking about the heartbreak in the world after he showed us an interview clip with a woman who lost her husband to suicide… a clip that made me think of Landon and Quinton…” I trail off, remembering how much the woman cried in the video and how I wished I could tell her that everything would eventually be okay again.

After staring into empty space for a while, I concentrate on the camera again. “My professor said he wants to do something that could show what people are going through, not just when they lose someone to suicide but to other kinds of death, drugs, abuse. He said he was starting up a program that would be committed to making a documentary about the aftermath of surviving. He said he would have more information on it at the start of the next year. That it would require travel. Part of me wants to join. Take off and do what I’ve always wanted to do. Film stuff that matters. But it’s a four-month program where I’d be on the road, in different countries. I’d have to leave everything behind… I’m not sure I can walk away and just leave everyone behind when they need me.” I shift my legs out from under me and lower my feet onto the floor. “How can I just walk away when Tristan and Quinton are still healing? Leave Lea behind? My mom? Walk away from school for a semester? It just seems too… I don’t know… impulsive, selfish, risky.” I seal my lips shut, not wanting to say the words tickling at the tip of my tongue, but I ultimately let them slip out. “But I really want to do it. So much.”

I leave my recording at that and put the camera down on the coffee table, figuring out what to do next. Classes are coming to an end and I don’t have a lot of homework left to do. Most of my free time is spent texting and talking to Quinton and Tristan. I’m glad, though, because I’m getting to know Quinton better. And with Tristan, I figure as long as he’s here talking to me all the time, then I know for sure that he’s not going to parties and getting into trouble.

After thinking about what I really want to do for the night, I end up getting my cell phone out and texting Quinton.

Me: I saw something really interesting today.

Quinton: Let me guess. A purple dog.

Me: What kind of response is that???

Quinton: With you, it seems like a reasonable response.

Me: Hardy-fucking-har, u r soooo hilarious.

Quinton: I think that might be the first time I’ve ever heard you use the word fucking. It seems… unnatural.

Me: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Is that more natural now?

Quinton: No. Now it’s just making me think of fuck and you.

I pause, staring down at the screen, wondering if he meant that as dirty as it reads. He’s usually so careful with his comments, making sure to never get too flirty. It’s completely sidetracked me from telling him about the filming project. But maybe it’s better I don’t say anything about it to him, so I don’t either set something off or worry him that I’m going to leave. Although I’m not that confident in our relation… friendship… whatever it is, that I know for sure he’d even care if I took off for a while.

Quinton: Sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out that way. It sounded really dirty, didn’t it?

Me: No, it’s okay. And I figured u didn’t mean it.

I’m glad you said it. That’s what I really wish I could type. But I don’t because I’m not brave enough, nor do I think Quinton is ready for anything like that.

Me: Off the subject, but how have things been going with that Wilson guy and those meetings?

Quinton: Okay, I guess. It’s nice to hear someone talk about stuff that I’ve been through. I haven’t really talked to him much personally, but I think I might want to one day.

Me: You should. Talking to Lea helped me deal with Landon’s death a lot, since she’d been through something similar with her father.

Quinton: Can I ask you a really weird question?

Me: You can always ask me anything.

Quinton: I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable… it’s about Landon…

Me: I’m fine. In fact, I sometimes like talking about him because then I know I’m not forgetting him.

Quinton: U think it’s important not to forget, even if remembering is hard?

Me: I think remembering is important but you need to get to a place where it’s not so hard to remember and maybe even therapeutic.

Quinton: Yeah, I guess that sort of makes sense… I’m going to ask you that weird question now… please don’t hate me, but I really just want to understand something.

Me: I never could hate you, so ask away.

Quinton: Yeah, we’ll see… do you, I don’t know, ever feel guilty about Landon’s death?

I pause. I once told him I did, but I guess he was too high to remember. I also remember that he didn’t really want to hear it, which makes me wonder how much he’s changing if he wants to hear it now.

Me: Yeah, I used to. Not really anymore. I mean, I do have days when I overthink it and I feel shitty all over again, but it’s not as hard as it was when it first happened. Back then, I nearly went crazy thinking about all the things I could have done to save him… it was really bad that summer I spent getting high. And honestly, I kind of felt that guilt again this summer… it’s part of the reason why I wanted to help you so much… to make up for not helping Landon.

I push send, but when he doesn’t respond right away, I think maybe I shared a little too much—I’m never sure with him. But then my phone beeps.

Quinton: And how do you feel now? I mean, do u still feel the need to save people?

I can’t help but think about the film project again. While it wouldn’t necessarily be saving anyone, it could help people realize that they’re not alone in this world, which I feel is important. I remember when Landon died and how no one seemed to really talk about it and I felt really alone, confused, and just plain lost. But perhaps if I’d had Lea earlier on, I wouldn’t have fallen so fast and so hard.

Me: Yeah, but not in the helpless obsession sense. I still volunteer at the helpline sometimes and that helps. Plus, you’re okay so that makes me sort of happy.

Quinton: I want to stay okay, but sometimes it’s hard, you know. Especially when I really start thinking about stuff.

Me: I know it can get really difficult sometimes, but I know you can do it.

Quinton: Why, though? Why have you always had so much faith in me when you barely know me?

Me: I think I know you more than you think I do. And I think that you’re going to be okay because you’re working on being okay. If you were still running away from the problem, then I’d feel different.

Quinton: I hope you’re right.

Me: I’m always right and the sooner you realize that the easier things will be. J/k ;)

Quinton: You’re so goofy sometimes.

Me: Thanks :)

Quinton: It’s actually one of my favorite things about you.

I smile to myself as I type.

Me: Want to know one of my favorite things about you?

It takes him a moment to respond.

Quinton: Sure.

Me: That you’re a good, strong person.

Quinton: Are you sure u know who you’re talking to?

Me: Yeah, the person who was good to me when I was in such a vulnerable place. The person who managed to pull himself away from a life of addiction. That takes strength, my friend.

Quinton: It takes weakness to get to that place to begin with. To walk away from my life like that. Give up everything instead of being strong and actually just facing my problems. I wish I could be stronger and face them now. And I wish I hadn’t given up everything.

Me: You’ll get there. It’ll just take time. Facing the hard stuff is… well, hard. And as for giving everything up, you can still get it back. You just have to know what you want and work toward getting it.

Quinton: But I’m not sure what I want exactly. I know I like helping people and everything. It keeps me busy and makes me feel like I’m giving stuff back. But other than that, I don’t know what I want to do. Draw and paint, yeah, but that’s not a whole hell of a lot.

Me: Sure it is. U just have to do it.

Quinton: I don’t even know what to draw anymore. All my sketches and paintings over the last couple of years have been trippy. I want to draw things that mean something. I want to draw things that I can put passion into. Like life. Happiness. Sadness. Pain. I want to draw stuff that’s important to me… I want to draw you, too. And not from how I see you in my head. I want to draw you in front of me. Every line. Every inch of you.

Before I have time to react to the text, another one comes in.

Me: I’m sorry if that last text made u uncomfortable. I’m blaming it on the fact that Greg made me share way too much today and broke me down I think.

I take a deep breath, thinking about what it would be like for him to draw me like he described. I remember when Landon first sketched me: halfway through it, he kissed me for the first time. It was magical at the time and it’s heartbreaking to remember it now, but I wouldn’t want to forget how it felt for anything.

Me: I want u to draw me like that. In fact, I’m going to hold u to it and make u do it the next time I see u.

Jesus Christ. Did I seriously just text that? Wow. I can’t even breathe.

Quinton: I wish I could do it right now… see you right now… touch u right now.

My heart pitter-patters inside my chest and I have to suck in a huge breath when I realize I’ve been holding it. My initial response is to skirt around the conversation because of where it’s heading. But then I realize that it’s been a long time coming so I just go for it.

Me: I wish I could see you and touch you, too… I wish you were touching me. In fact, I think about it all the time.

My hands shake as I hit send.

Quinton: Nova you’re killing me right now. I swear to God. Now I’ve got pictures inside my head of us touching each other.

I shut my eyes and bite my lip as images appear inside my mind as well. How it felt when he ran his hands across my body. How his tongue tasted. How his tongue felt. How his fingers felt when they were in me. God, it’s been a long time.

Me: Good, because I do, too… do u remember that kiss we shared right after we got off the roller coaster last summer? It was our last kiss.

It takes him a moment to answer and I grow worried that maybe it was the wrong question to ask.

Quinton: I do. I should have never kissed u when I was like that.

Me: And I probably shouldn’t have kissed u when I knew u were like that, but at the same time, I’m glad u did. It made me realize a lot of stuff… how I feel about you. And how much I want to kiss u, over and over again.

Another pause and I start to feel stupid for being so forward. But then a message comes through.

Quinton: Nova, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but I don’t think I can take much more of this kind of talk with u. It makes me want to do things I’m not ready for. I’m seriously one step away from getting on a plane and flying over there so I can kiss u again—do a hell of a lot more than kiss. But I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet.

I restrain a grin. He said yet. Which means he’s thinking about us in the future sense. That has to be good, right? Part of me believes so, but the other part has to wonder how long is too long. What if the waiting goes on for years?

I shake the thought from my head, not ready to go there just yet. Not ready to give up hope yet.

Me: Okay, we can talk about something else. Anything u want.

Quinton: How about something to cool me off and settle me the fuck down. You’ve got me all riled up.

Me: Popsicles. Snowflakes. Icicles. Does that help?

Quinton: Lol, you are so crazy and I love it.

Me: Good. I’m glad because not a lot of people get me.

Quinton: I doubt that at all. Everyone loves u. I’m sure of it.

I want to ask him if he loves me, too, but I’m not even sure I’m ready for the answer, let alone if he’s ready to give me one. Even though I’ve let go of Landon for the most part, it still feels strange to think about loving someone again, but alarmingly exciting.

Quinton: I actually have a problem I’m trying to figure out. And since you’re a problem solver I thought u could maybe help.

Me: Of course. What’s up?

Quinton: Well, my dad’s moving to Virginia.

Me: What? Why?

Quinton: It’s for work. And he wants me to go but I don’t want to go.

Me: I think if u don’t want to go with him then don’t go. You’ve been through enough already and I think u should be focusing on getting better.

Quinton: But I worry about living by myself. Too much freedom for one thing.

Me: U could get a roommate. It’s hard to get into trouble when u have people watching u all the time. Like Lea. She’d kick my ass if I did anything.

Quinton: Yeah, but how would I know I was getting a good one? One that would help me stay out of trouble instead of get into trouble, because sometimes it’s hard to tell with people.

Me: I could come screen them for u. Break them down and discover all their secrets.

Quinton: I don’t think u would have to break them down. Knowing u, u would just start talking to them and they’d open up to u. U have that way about u.

Me: Everyone keeps saying that, but I don’t get why.

Quinton: U need to give yourself more credit. I’ve said more to u about the accident than I’ve told most people.

Me: U didn’t tell me much. In fact, u were furious when I told u the stuff I knew about the accident that I read on the Internet.

Quinton: I know.

There’s a long pause and the longer it goes on the more I think I might have lost him.

Me: R u there?

Quinton: Yeah… I was just trying to remember what I said to u… some of the stuff that went on in Vegas is a little hazy.

Me: I could tell u if u want me to, but honestly I figure what’s in the past is in the past.

Quinton: I wish it were that easy. That the things that happened in the past would just sort of fade away, but they don’t. I’m realizing that everything that happened… it’s going to stay with me forever.

Me: Although the memories won’t ever fade completely, they will eventually fade. I promise. And one day you’ll even be able to talk about what happened.

Quinton: I hope so. I want to be able to talk about it. Explain to u everything so that maybe you’ll understand how I ended up in that place. I don’t want u to always think of me like how I was in Vegas. Or even during that summer in Maple Grove. I want u to know the person that I sort of gave u a glimpse of while we were dancing in the gas station parking lot.

Me: U remember that???

Quinton: Yeah, that’s actually one of the clearer memories I have.

Me: Good. It was a good memory.

Quinton: Yeah but I was high. I feel like I should do a redo for u.

Me: U always could.

Quinton: Maybe one day.

Me: Yay :)

Me: And just so u know, I never thought of u as anything other than a person who had something really crappy happen to them that was completely out of their hands and you were just trying to find a way to survive through it. You’re not a bad person. U just made some mistakes but only because u were hurting.

Quinton: I don’t completely agree with u. Some of the stuff I did was because I was selfish. I didn’t want to stay in this world and live with the consequences of what I did.

Me: I wish I could hug u right now.

Quinton: God, I wish that too.

My phone grows silent as I try to figure out what to type next. What I want to do is put in all caps THAT’S IT. I HAVE TO COME SEE U. But he texts me before I get a chance.

Quinton: Can I say one more thing and then we can change the subject, because I’m seriously one step away from falling apart again.

Me: Sure.

But I’m kind of bummed out, because things were just getting really good.

Quinton: I think if every person had a Nova Reed in this world, then life would be a little sunnier. Now change the subject quickly before I can’t handle this anymore.

Not knowing what else to type, I send out a panic text.

Me: I think Lea might be having an affair with a professor.

Quinton: Nice subject change… why a professor?

Me: She’s too secretive, which makes me think she’s doing something forbidden.

Quinton: U should follow her one day and see where she goes ;)

Me: Sounds like a great idea. I could put on my detective coat and my vintage glasses and shadow her every move **taps fingers together**

Quinton: You’re a genius. She’ll never suspect anything.

I’m smiling as the front door to the house opens. I glance up from the phone as Tristan walks through the front door with bags of groceries in his hands. He’s hacking so hard, I swear a hairball is going to fly out of his mouth.

“A little help please,” he coughs, dropping the bags in the foyer as he struggles to breathe.

Me: Gotta go. Tristan needs help carrying groceries in.

Quinton: Tell him that’s the man’s job.

Me: I would but he’s been sick.

Quinton: Okay, call ya tonight?

Me: Aren’t u sick of me yet?

Quinton: No way. Never.

Me: Okay, talk to ya later :)

I set my phone down and get up from the sofa to go over to the foyer and help Tristan pick up the spilled groceries. “I still think you should get that cough checked out,” I tell him as I bend over to pick up a can of soup that rolled out of one of the bags.

He leans against the wall, covering his mouth with his hand, and hacks into it. “It’s just a cough,” he says, but he looks pallid.

“Yeah, but you’ve had it for over a month now.” I put the soup can down on the counter and then start carrying the bags into the kitchen. “Coughs don’t normally stick around for a month.”

“I’m fine,” he insists after his coughing settles. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and bends over to pick up the remaining bag, but then quickly puts his hand against the wall to brace himself, like he’s dizzy and about to fall over.

“Jesus, are you okay?” I ask, rushing over to him.

He nods, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and suddenly I notice how damp his skin is. “Yeah, I think I just need to get some rest. It’s been nothing but school and work nonstop for the last couple of weeks and I’m feeling drained.”

“Go lay down and I’ll make you some soup,” I tell him, and he gladly obliges, letting go of the wall and trudging toward his room.

I go into the kitchen with the bags of groceries. There are cupboards on both sides and enough room between them for one person, barely, and I end up banging some of the bags on the edges of the counter. One snags on the handle of a drawer and rips open. Items fall out and scatter all over the floor. A two-liter of soda ends up exploding. Cursing, I pick up the spraying bottle and put it into the sink, then grab some paper towels and start cleaning up the floor. After I wipe it up, then mop away the stickiness, I’ve started to unpack the groceries when my phone rings. I hurry over to the coffee table and pick it up, confused by the unknown number on the screen. I reluctantly answer it as I make my way back over to the kitchen.

“Hello,” I say, taking cans of soup from a bag.

“Hey.” A woman’s voice comes through from the other end that sounds familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Is this Nova… um… Reed?”

“Yeah.” I stack a soup can in the cupboard and then turn around and lean against the counter. “Who is this?”

“It’s Nichelle Pierce, Delilah’s mom.” She pauses like she’s waiting for me to say something to her.

I’m not sure what to say, though. She’s the one who called me and I’ve met the woman maybe three or four times, when Delilah and I would have to go to her house to get something, back when we were seniors in high school and still lived at home. For the most part, though, Delilah hated going to her house, because she said her mother made her feel insignificant.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” she finally says, sounding annoyed. “So I’m just going to come out and say it… Delilah’s missing.”

I’m not surprised at all, considering what went on with Quinton, who was roommates with Delilah before, and how we couldn’t find him for months. “Have you checked around Vegas, by chance?”

“Yeah, I have, but I haven’t found any sign of her…” She clears her throat. “Look, I’m really worried about her and I didn’t know who else to call, since I don’t know any of her other friends. Have you heard from her at all or do you know where she might be?”

“I haven’t,” I tell her, wondering if I should tell her about the last time I saw Delilah in Vegas. What a mess she was. How crazy her boyfriend Dylan was acting. How her life was full of drugs and drug deals gone bad. “Not since about June.”

“Did she say anything about going anywhere at all when you saw her?” she asks. “The last time I talked to her was about a year or so ago and all I know is she was going to Vegas to live her life or whatever.”

“Honestly, I didn’t talk to her very much when I saw her,” I say, and then I cautiously add, “She was a little… out of it, though, and her boyfriend seemed pretty… strange.”

“Strange how?”

“I don’t know…” I hope she’s not going to take what I say next badly. Sometimes parents have issues with hearing that their child’s gotten into drugs. “They were both into drugs and I think Dylan was a little violent with her.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says with zero shock in her voice. “He always did seem to fly off the handle over the stupidest things.”

I shake my head, irritated that she doesn’t seem to care about her own daughter. Delilah and I might not have left our friendship on a good note, but there was a point when we were close and she helped me through some hard times in her own crazy way.

“That’s all I know about her,” I tell Nichelle. “Well, that and the apartment she was living in with Tristan and Quinton burned down, but I don’t think anyone was hurt.”

“I didn’t know that.” She seems mildly shocked. “Do you happen to know the address of the place she was staying at… the one that burned down?”

“I don’t remember it, but if you give me a minute I can maybe find out.” I walk out of the kitchen and head for Tristan’s room.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.” I move the phone away from my ear and cover it with my hand as I nudge Tristan’s ajar door open with my elbow and step inside.

He’s curled up in his bed with a blanket over him, his head nuzzled into his pillow. I can hear him breathing softly as I walk over to his bedside and I’m fairly sure he’s asleep. I feel bad for waking him, but he’s the only person, besides Quinton, I can think to get the address from.

“Tristan,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir, so I tap him on the shoulder with my finger. “Hey, I have a question for you.”

He rolls over to his back as his eyelids flutter open and he blinks around dazedly. “What are you doing in here?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

“I need the address to your old apartment in Vegas.”

He yawns, stretching his arms above his head, his eyes reddened with exhaustion. “Why?”

I lift my hand with the phone in it. “Delilah’s mom is looking for her and wants to know the address.”

He noticeably tenses. “Well, the place burned down, so…” He shrugs, rubbing his eyes. “Does it really even matter what the address is when the place isn’t even there anymore?”

I nod, watching him closely. “Yeah, it does, so what’s the address?”

He rolls his bloodshot eyes, like I’m being ridiculous. “Five five five Mapletonville Drive,” he mumbles, then rolls over so he’s facing the wall and his back is turned toward me. “I’m going back to sleep now. I feel like shit.”

I remember when he first told me the place had burned down, how it seemed like he’d left out some of the details of what happened. Now I’m really starting to question if there’s more to it. I think when he’s feeling better I’ll have to press him to tell me, but for now I let him rest because he looks terrible.

I walk out of his room and close the door behind me. I can’t help but speculate about if something bad did happen to Delilah when the apartment burned down. If maybe Dylan did something to her. But what would that say about me, though? Since I just left her in that place, knowing how he treated her?

I can’t stop thinking about it as I walk back into the kitchen, telling Delilah’s mother the address Tristan gave me.

“Thanks,” she says when I finish.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, returning to putting the groceries away. “Can you let me know what happens? When you find her?”

“Sure.” She doesn’t sound like she’s going to, though, and I hang up feeling irritated.

The irritation only builds as I make Tristan some soup, my thoughts stuck on Delilah and where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s okay. I should have pressed her more when I was down there. Should have told someone about how Dylan was treating her.

Dammit, is there ever going to be a time in my life when I don’t regret the decisions of my past? I’m starting to think no and that regret is just a part of life and I can’t get hung up on it. Still, by the time I take Tristan his soup, my old counting habit is surfacing with my stress and all I want to do is count all the noodles in Tristan’s soup and all the specks of brown in the tan carpet.

When I enter his room, Tristan is lying on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling with his arms tucked under his head, and the lamp on. “Eat this,” I tell him as I make my way over to the bed, balancing the steaming bowl in my hand.

He turns his head toward me and frowns at the bowl. “I’m too tired to eat,” he gripes. “And I’m not even hungry.”

“God, you’re like a little kid.” I set the soup down on the nightstand beside his bed. He shoots me a dirty look and I return it. “And if the soup’s not gone by the time I come back, you’re going to be in big trouble.” I wave my finger at him sternly.

That gets him to laugh a little bit. “Fine.” He sits up, reaches for the bowl, and stares at the soup in it.

“It’s good. I promise.”

“I’m sure it is.” He picks up the spoon and starts absent-mindedly stirring the soup. “So why’s Delilah’s mom suddenly looking for her?”

“Who knows?” I shrug. “From my understanding, she’s always been a shitty mom to Delilah.”

“Yeah, I got that, too, but then again, aren’t a lot of mothers?” He glares at his soup like it’s the enemy and pokes one of the noodles with the spoon.

“I like my mom,” I state, sitting down on the edge of the mattress and crossing my legs. “She’s always been good to me.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones, then.” He peers up from his soup, his blue eyes appearing gray in the low lighting of the room. “Do I really have to eat this?”

I nod sternly. “Yeah. All of it, too.”

He sticks out his tongue, but takes a bite anyway. I leave him to it and spend the next few hours cleaning, because it keeps my thoughts focused on eliminating mildew in the shower and crumbs on the carpet, and I even get a few loads of laundry done. I’m folding up the clothes in my bedroom, making stacks on the bed, when my phone starts ringing again. After the call I got from Delilah’s mom, I’m hesitant to answer it, since I’m not sure I want to deal with any more drama for the night.

But it’s Quinton and that’s definitely a call I don’t want to miss. “Hey,” I say, positioning the phone between my cheek and my shoulder so I can continue to fold the clothes and put them into orderly piles on my bed. “I’m glad you called.”

“I said I would.” He sounds okay, which gives me a strange sense of peace inside. “I would never stand you up on one of our phone dates.”

“Yeah, but we texted so long on the phone, I thought you’d be sick of me by now.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be sick of you,” he says. “In fact, I think we made it pretty clear how not sick of you I was. How I-want-to-touch-you-so-badly-I-can’t-stand-it not sick of you I am.” There’s an extended pause. “Jesus, that sounded cheesy, didn’t it?” he says, sounding disappointed in himself.

“A little.” I smile, but it’s almost agonizing as I think about Delilah and where she is. “But I liked it. It makes me feel like I’m getting to know the real you.”

He chuckles. “You know what? I can kind of remember being cheesy at one point in my life.”

His happiness makes my sadness vanish. “I’m so glad you called tonight.” I put a pair of boxer shorts on top of the pajama stack on my bed.

“Why? Is something wrong?” he asks worriedly. “You seemed okay earlier when we were texting, but you sound a little sad now.”

I pause with the folding, regretting that I even brought it up. The last thing he needs is to hear any of my problems when he’s got so much on his plate. “No, I’m fine. Nothing major’s going on. Just school stuff.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” I feel bad for lying to him, but at the same time I know it’s the best thing. “Let’s talk about something happy.”

“I’m probably the wrong person for that,” he says with honesty, his mood deflating. “You might want to try Tristan or Lea.”

“Tristan’s pretty sick right now, so he’s not feeling that happy either.” I put a folded-up shirt on top of the pile. “Besides, hearing your laugh is already making me feel better.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who made me happy enough to laugh. I was a little bummed out before I called.”

“How come?” I pick up two socks and pair them, adding them to the pile of socks.

“I don’t want to gripe about my problems when you’re having a bad day,” he says.

“Please, tell me,” I beg, going over to my closet and getting a few hangers out. “In fact, it’ll make me feel better to listen.”

“You’re too easy to please, but if that’s what you want, then…” He sighs heavyheartedly. “It’s nothing major, but remember earlier how we were talking about moving? Well, I was sort of hoping my dad would change his mind, but when he got home tonight he told me that he listed the house with a Realtor, and he had boxes for us to pack our stuff in. And I think he might be excited about it or something.”

“Did you ever tell him that you definitely didn’t want to go with him?” I collect a stack of jeans in my arms and turn for the dresser.

“Sort of… I mean, I said I’d think about it, but I know I won’t move,” he says gloomily. “And I don’t want him to sell the house… it’s the only real thing I have left of my mother.”

I stop in front of the dresser, wanting to cry for him. It hurt a lot to lose my father, but at least I got to spend twelve years with him. Quinton’s mother died giving birth to him and he never got to know her.

“I understand that completely,” I say, opening the dresser drawer. “Even though it took me forever to drive it, I could never imagine getting rid of my father’s car.”

“Did you…” He struggles for words. “Did you ever get that dent fixed that Donny… that… drug dealer put in the fender?”

I’m actually surprised he remembers that, seeing as how he was so out of it when it happened. “Yeah, you can’t even tell it happened anymore.” I place the stack of jeans in the drawer, then walk back over to the bed.

“Yeah, but it did. And it’s my fault it did… I’m sorry, Nova.” He sounds like he’s choking up. “For everything… all that shit that went down in Vegas.”

I pick up a hanger and a shirt. “You don’t need to be sorry for anything. I told you that and I mean it. What happened in the past is in the past. We’re moving forward now. Remember, a clean slate.”

“You sound just like my therapist,” he states as I put the shirt on the hanger. “He keeps pushing me to let go of the past and take down my pictures hanging up in my room… but I don’t want to forget everything. In fact, I need to remember, otherwise it’ll make it easier for me to go back… if I forget all the bad stuff that happened.”

I get what he’s saying, but I still wish he didn’t feel so bad about some of those things. Besides, they weren’t all bad. Like the couple of kisses we shared, the dance. The few talks we had a year and a half ago during the summer we spent together when we first met, getting high and going to a concert. And the couple we had this last summer in Vegas. Those moments were genuine. “I think it’s okay to hold on to the past just a little, but at the same time I know I always feel better when I’m moving forward and letting go. As for the pictures, I actually had all Landon’s boxed up for a long time. I finally took them out and put them in a album, which I look through every once in a while.”

“And it doesn’t hurt to look through them now?” he asks.

I go to the closet and hang the shirt up. “Not really. In fact it feels good to remember some of the stuff, because there were some really good moments.”

He’s quiet for a while. “Still, it feels like everything’s going to fall apart the moment I take them down from the wall. Even in Vegas, I had sketches lying around. I just can’t imagine not having them around me to remind me of… everything.”

“You’ll get there,” I promise, returning to my bed. “I know you will.”

“I sure hope so, otherwise I’m going to have a nagging therapist to answer to every other day.” His tense tone relaxes a smidgen. “Although things could be a lot worse. I could be living in that shitty apartment again in Vegas.”

“You regret that, then?” I’m so glad to hear him say it. “Being in that place?”

“You know what, in the beginning when I was coming down I didn’t,” he says with honesty. “But now, yes. I don’t want to go back to that place again. I think it was a good thing when it burned down… of course I wouldn’t be saying that if anyone got hurt, but some of the stuff that went on there was really fucking bad.”

His comment suddenly reminds me of Delilah. “Speaking of that, can I ask you a question?” My voice carries caution as I slide the remaining clothes to the side and sit down on the bed. “Warning, it’s kind of an intense question.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I want to help you with whatever it is.”

I hope I’m not crossing a line by asking. “Were you around when the apartment burned down?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. “Yeah, why?” he finally asks with wariness.

“Well, Delilah’s mom called me today, asking if I knew where she was, which was weird since she never cared where Delilah was all during the few years that I knew her.” I flop down on the bed on my stomach. “She said she was missing and I just want—need to know if she’s okay. And I was wondering if maybe you knew.”

“If Delilah is okay?”

“Yeah, or maybe where she could be, possibly.”

Silence takes over the line and my heart squeezes inside my chest with the fear that maybe he does know something and it’s really, really bad.

“I don’t really remember much.” He eventually speaks with hesitation. “Other than the fire was started intentionally and…” He swallows hard. “A gunshot was heard right before it happened.”

“Gunshot?” My eyes widen and I cover my mouth as I start to breathe loudly.

“Yeah, and it came from… God, this is so hard to talk about.” He gradually exhales. “It came from our old apartment.”

I’m shocked. Appalled. Terrified. Sickened. Many different things that are so overwhelming I’m suddenly sick to my stomach.

I lower my hand from my mouth. “You think Dylan shot her?” I don’t even know why I say it, other than that I can’t forget how strange and creepy he was acting and how Delilah had signs of abuse on her.

“I’m not sure, since I was living downstairs with… someone at the time, but it could have been a lot of things. Anything from a drug deal to the simple fact that maybe Dylan’s gun went off. But no one was found in the remains of the fire, so no one was hurt,” he says, his voice cracking at the end. “And even though I hate to say it, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Delilah was living on the streets somewhere high or… even working as a prostitute.”

I suck back the tears threatening to spill out as I rest my cheek against my bed. “Dylan had a gun?” My voice is just a whisper.

“Yeah, at least he did right before I moved out, which was only a couple of weeks before the fire,” he says. “But I don’t really think he’d do anything with it. I think he just had it to make himself seem tougher than he was.” He doesn’t sound that convincing, though, and I’m not even sure he believes himself.

I realize how much we’ve been talking about death for the last few minutes and how that’s probably not the best thing for him. No matter how much I want to get answers, the last thing I ever want to do is make him hurt more than he already does.

“This conversation has really gotten dark, hasn’t it?” I ask and I take his silence as agreement. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Like what?” He sounds depressed, which pretty much matches how I feel.

But I can handle being sad. It’s him I’m worried about. So I try to think of something cheerful to say, but I’m having a hard time. “How about work? How’s that going?”

“Okay, I guess,” he replies, and I can tell by the deflated tone of his voice that I failed in thinking of a better topic. “I mean, it’s painting houses, so it’s not too complicated, and the hours are flexible, so that’s good.”

“But you don’t like doing it?”

“Not really,” he admits. “It’s not really my thing.”

“What is your thing?” I ask, really wanting to know what he thinks about the future, because he rarely ever talks about it. “You said earlier that you wanted to paint and draw. Is that what you want to do? Be an artist?”

“Maybe. Although if I did, I’d have to accept that I’d more than likely be poor for the rest of my life and that I’d also probably have to have a side job.”

“Does it really matter, though? If you’re doing something you love?”

“I guess not, but being poor would sort of suck, at least that’s what Lexi always used to say.”

The lengthiest pause passes between us at the mention of Lexi. He never, ever talks about her. I can tell that it was completely accidental and that he probably wants to take it back. Dammit, this conversation is really turning into a depression-fest. I need to find a way to salvage it somehow.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back to school?” I ask, trying to casually skip over the topic.

“I already told you, maybe one day.” His voice is uneven and I can tell he’s on the verge of crying. “I mean, I used to think about it a lot, but I don’t know… it’d be really real, you know.”

“But sometimes real is good.” I pause as I hear the front door open. Moments later my door opens and Lea sticks her head in. A week ago she cut her hair to her chin and she always wears it down now. It looks good, but right now it’s wet, like she’s been swimming in the indoor pool at our apartment complex. But she’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, not really swimming attire, since usually she just goes in her swimming suit.

“Hey,” she says, looking flushed as she steps inside my room. “I brought some takeout from that Italian restaurant if you want some. It’s in the kitchen.” Lea’s been hanging out at this restaurant down on the corner of Bralford and Main a lot and is always bringing home food with her. I wonder if it has to do with whomever she’s dating.

“Hey, can you hang on a second?” I ask Quinton.

“Yeah, sure.” He almost sounds relieved to have a break from talking.

“Thanks.” I move the phone away from my mouth, roll onto my back, and say to Lea, “Sure, but can I ask you something?”

Her expression fills with wariness. “Yeah, as long as it’s not more accusations about me secretly dating some guy.”

“It’s not.” I sit up on the bed and swing my legs over the edge, putting my feet onto the floor. “I just want to know why your hair’s wet.”

She shrugs nonchalantly, combing her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it was raining.”

I glance at the window, noting the glass is dry, and so is the grass down below. “It doesn’t look like it’s rained.” I return my attention to her. “And how do you not know if it was raining when you just walked in from outside?”

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. I’m a pretty oblivious person.” She glances at the phone in my hand. “Who are you talking to?”

“Quinton.”

“Well, I’ll leave you alone, then.” Her lips curve into a smile; she’s pleased she has an easy escape from my excessive questioning.

“Don’t think this conversation is over,” I call out as she walks out of the room with a skip to her walk. “I’m going to find out what you’re keeping from—”

She shuts the door, cutting me off, and I put the phone back to my ear, dumbfounded. “Sorry about that,” I say. “But she’s definitely acting weird.”

“Yeah, I definitely think it’s detective time,” he says, his mood seeming to lift ever so slightly. “Go grab that pencil and paper and follow her.”

“I wish I would have followed her earlier,” I tell him. “She just came home with her hair drenched and she says she has no idea why.”

“Maybe she went swimming?” he suggests. “That seems logical, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I lie back down on my bed and prop my feet up on the wall. “But she didn’t have her bathing suit on. And besides, if she had gone swimming, wouldn’t she have just said so?”

“Maybe she doesn’t want you to know.” He pauses, considering the possibilities. “Because she’s dating her swimming instructor and she doesn’t think you’ll approve of him. Or maybe you are right. Maybe she’s having an affair with a professor and the only place they can meet is in the swimming pool after hours where they can have sex in the water.”

I suddenly get a picture of the time Quinton and I almost had sex in the water. I was confused at the time and was glad he backed out, but now… well, thinking about having sex with him in general gets my skin burning and makes my stomach somersault.

But I try my best to pretend the word “sex” coming out of his mouth doesn’t have any effect on me. “You sound so scandalous. Has that older lady that you’ve been helping out been making you watch soap operas again?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Why? Is it starting to show?”

“Yeah, kind of,” I reply. “How is Mrs. Bellington doing?”

“Good. Although her family put her in a nursing home the other day clear across town so it’s really hard for me to visit her,” he says, then pauses. “You know, she kind of reminds me of you.”

“A seventy-year-old woman reminds you of me.” I frown, taken aback a little. “Wow, I feel kind of stupid right now.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “It’s a compliment. And besides, she reminds me of you because of some of the stories she’s told me about when she was younger.”

I relax a little. “Like what?”

“Like how she spent time in the Peace Corps.”

“I’ve never been in the Peace Corps, though.”

“Yeah, but I could easily see you being a volunteer, going around, trying to help the world,” he says, his mood lightening. “Spreading Nova peace everywhere.”

“Is that really how you see me?” I wonder, feeling a little uncomfortable with how much he actually might see me—more than Landon, maybe. “As a do-gooder?”

“In the best way possible.” His tone is much more upbeat than it was a few minutes ago. “You’re a good person, Nova Reed. Too good to be talking to me, probably, but I don’t want to stop you.”

“No way,” I argue defensively. “You’re perfect for me.” I shake my head at my cheesiness. I’m one step away from Jerry Maguiring it like Tristan did the other day. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it sounded.”

“It’s okay. You can call it payback for me being cheesy earlier, but I think I’m just a little on emotional overload between this phone chat and our text conversation earlier. You’re giving me a high dose of the feel-goods and I’m starting to get really nervous about how I’m feeling right now. It’s freaking the shit out of me.” He stops talking and if I listen really closely I can hear the scratching of a pencil across paper. I wonder if he’s drawing and, if he is, what he’s drawing a picture of. “So would you mind if we call it a night and go to the song?”

We started the song thing a week ago, when Quinton asked me for some good ones to listen to. Instead of telling him, I turned some on for him. Every night since then, I’ve picked out a song and we’ve listened to it together before I hung up.

Honestly, I’m not really ready to stop talking, but if that’s what he needs then I’ll give it to him. So I get up from my bed and go over to my dresser to turn on my iPod. “Sounds good, but what kind of one do you want for tonight? Happy? Sad? Angsty?”

“How about a mellow, relaxing one?” he requests. “Because I think I need to chillax a little.”

“Hmm…” I consider my options, then scroll to one that I hope will relax him. “Okay, you ready?” I ask, with my finger hovering over the play button.

“Yep, hit me with your best shot.” He laughs at his own joke, since the other night I picked “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” by Pat Benatar.

“Hey, no recapping the previous night’s song choice.” I press play. Moments later, Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” comes on. I crank up the volume and stay near the speakers so he can hear it.

He’s quiet, absorbing the guitar solo until it gets to the lyrics, then he finally says, “Excellent choice, although I’ve heard it before.”

“Yeah, I figured, but is that a bad thing?”

“Nah. In fact, I like that I have. Usually you’re so music-superior over me, but now I feel like we’re equals.”

“That’s because I’ve taught you well, young grasshopper,” I joke, turning up the volume a notch.

“Did you seriously just quote Kung Fu?” He’s stunned.

“Yeah, so what? I’m cool like that.” I plop down on my bed on my back, bouncing a little before settling and returning my feet to the wall and tapping them to the beat of the music.

“You know what? You seriously might be the coolest person I’ve ever met, Nova Reed.”

“And vice versa, Quinton Carter.” I lean over and pick up my drumsticks from my nightstand. Then I start drumming them on my legs to the beat as we listen to the song together.

When it gets to the chorus, he tells me, “This song makes me think of you.”

I stop tapping the drumsticks and set them aside. “How so?”

“I don’t know… the lyrics just make me want to see you.”

I rotate to my side, trying not to grin. “That’s secretly why I picked it. So that you’d want me to come out there and see you.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that.” He seems irritated with himself. “I’m sorry, Nova. I wish I was, but I’m afraid. Not just of how it’ll feel or if I’ll be able to handle it, but of what it’ll mean for us. And what we’ve got now is so great at the moment. I just don’t want to ruin that.”

It stings a little, but I let it go, because he’s only being honest. “That’s okay. We’ll see each other one day, right?”

“Yeah, one day.” But he doesn’t sound that committed, which seems somewhat strange. I mean, we’ve been spending all this time on the phone, and it felt like we were headed somewhere, but maybe this is how he plans on things being. Maybe he can only talk to me when there’s a few-hundred-mile barrier between us.

We don’t really say much after that and when the song’s over, we say good-bye and hang up. It’s about eleven o’clock, not extremely late, but at the same time, all I want to do is go to bed.

After getting into my pajamas, I decide that before I go to sleep I’ll make a recording. I do it lying on my back, with the camera above me, the good one my mom gave me, because the clarity is always better. Plus, it’s right there on my nightstand.

After I hit record, leaving the iPod on so there’s music in the background, I sort of just lie there for a while. I wonder, if anyone actually watches this, if they’ll think I’m nuts. Probably. But maybe that could be my point. Maybe one day I’ll put every video I’ve ever made together and title it Diary of an Erratic, Over-Thinking, Do-Gooder Madwoman. Definitely not a life-changing video.

I summon a deep breath and pull myself together before I speak to the camera. “You know, a while ago I kept having that dream about Quinton jumping off the cliff. I think it was my subconscious letting out its fear of him falling back into drugs again. The dream stopped, thankfully, after I started talking to him regularly, and I can hear the clearness in his voice—the soberness. But now I’ve started having these weird dreams where he’s standing on one side of a long stretch of land and I’m on the other and we’re just waving to each other. When I first started having it, I wondered if it was a representation of us reuniting soon, but now I’m starting to speculate if it really just means that we’re going to remain long-distance friends forever. If maybe we’ll never move forward in our relationship.” I press my lips together, gathering my thoughts. “You know, when I first met Quinton, I was in a strange place. One filled with confusion and memories of Landon. Stuck in the past and I didn’t know what I wanted for my future. Then there was this summer where all of my thoughts were consumed by the urge to save Quinton… which I didn’t really do, but he’s getting better and that was the whole point of going to Vegas. Now I really don’t have too much to think about other than if Quinton’s doing well, so I can feel my future out there, flashing before me, like a stupid neon sign that’s reminding me that I’m going to have to go somewhere with my life. And I’m not talking about career-wise. I’ve already got sort of a map for that with college and my part-time job at the photography shop. And while it’s in no way what I want to do with the rest of my life, I know that I want to do one of two things. One, make a career of helping people, like I hope I’m doing when I help at the suicide hotline, or two, do something in film, which is why I’ve been taking film classes… although I wish I could just get the balls to take a break and go help with the documentary…”

I daze off momentarily, thinking about how many people I know who have stories to tell. Then I blink back at the camera. “But anyway, that’s not the point of this recording. The point is that I’m headed somewhere with my career, but when it comes to relationships, I’m not headed anywhere. I haven’t gone out on a date since the end of my sophomore year. I’m twenty, veering toward twenty-one, and I’m still a virgin, which is just plain weird. I almost got there with Landon once, but I waited too long and then he was gone. And then I was going to let Quinton take my virginity when I was high out of my mind, but he was too good of a guy to take advantage of me.” I recollect the time in the lake, when he nearly slipped inside me, but then backed out and left me there. It was the moment the memory I’d been suppressing finally broke through. The moment I remembered finding Landon hanging from his ceiling by a noose.

“But I think the really strange thing is that I don’t even think about dating. I’ve been asked out a couple of times this year but declined. I used to do this because I was still hanging on to my love for Landon, but now… well, I think it’s because my feelings are caught up in someone else… and sometimes I have to wonder if I’m in love with Quinton, but I’m not sure where that’s going to get me since I’m pretty sure he doesn’t love me back. Yeah, I know he cares for me, but love… I’m not sure. And what really scares me is, what if he never does?”