Saving Quinton

Chapter 10

May 23, day eight of summer break

Nova

Time is starting to blur together. Every day is the same. It’s been four days since I’ve seen or talked to Quinton and I feel like I’m going to explode from the lack of moving forward. I’m trying to keep my plummeting mood hidden from Lea and my mom, but it’s hard when they can both read me like an open book.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to lunch with us?” Lea asks as she collects her purse from the computer desk in the guest room. It’s the weekend and she and her uncle are going out to get something to eat. “I might go shopping afterward.”

I shake my head as I lie down on the bed and drape my arm over my head. “I’m really tired. I think I might just take a nap.”

“You’re probably tired because you keep waking up in the middle of the night,” she says. “You’re a freaking restless sleeper lately.”

Because I keep dreaming of the dead and the soon-to-be-dead if I can’t figure out a way to help Quinton. “Yeah, I know…I have a lot on my mind.”

She looks at me suspiciously, like she can read through my life; like she knows that really, once she leaves, I’m going to go over to Quinton’s for the second time today and see if I can get someone to answer. “Nova, I know you’ve been watching Landon’s video.”

I’m not sure how to respond and thankfully, I don’t have to because her uncle peeks into the room, interrupting us.

“You girls about ready?” he asks. He’s an average-height man, with thinning hair and welcoming eyes. The kind of person who looks friendly, and he is. He’s usually wearing business attire when I see him, but today he’s wearing jeans and an old red T-shirt.

“Nova’s not coming with us,” Lea says, slipping the handle of her purse over her shoulder. “She’s tired.” She gives me a look that lets me know I’m going to get a lecture when she gets home.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he says, stepping into the room. “I was going to take you to Baker and Nancy’s. I hear they have excellent steak.”

“Maybe next time,” I tell him. “I really think I need to get caught up on some sleep.”

“Well, if you change your mind, call Lea and you can meet us,” he says, backing toward the doorway.

“All right, sounds good,” I say, then roll over and rest my head against the pillow.

I hear Lea’s uncle say something to Lea as they leave and it sounds an awful lot like “Are you sure she’s okay? She looks really down.” I can’t help but wonder just how down in the dumps I look, if a stranger can notice this.

A few minutes later the house gets quiet. The air conditioning clicks on. The sun glistens through the window. I’m starting to like the quiet because it eliminates all the worried looks and questions I keep getting. If I had my way, I’d avoid talking to my mom until I could pull my shit together, but like she’s read my mind, my phone suddenly rings and I know without even looking who it has to be.

I probably wouldn’t answer it, but she might have information about Quinton’s dad, so I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my phone.

“Hello,” I say, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling.

“You sound tired,” my mom says worriedly. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

I wonder if she’s been talking to Lea about my lack of sleep or, worse, if Lea’s told her about my watching Landon’s video, although I’m guessing it’d probably be the first thing my mom would ask me about if she knew.

“Yeah, but I think it’s the time change.” It’s a lame excuse, since the time change is only an hour and I’ve actually already gotten used to it.

“Well, make sure you get enough rest.” She gives a heavyhearted sigh. “And make sure you’re not overdoing it.”

“Okay, I will.” I feel the lie burn inside my chest. “So have you heard anything from Quinton’s dad?”

“Yeah…” She’s reluctant and I know whatever happened is bad. “It didn’t go very well.”

“What happened?” I ask, sitting up in the bed.

“I just don’t know if this is going to work,” she says. “If he’ll do anything to help his son.”

“Why not?” I get so upset I nearly yell.

“Honey, I think this might be deeper than we realize,” she says in the gentle motherly tone she uses when she knows I’m on the verge of cracking open. “I mean, I only talked to him for a few minutes, but I got the impression there’s a lot of problems there. Not just between the two of them but with Quinton, and that his dad would rather avoid the problem.”

“I know he has problems,” I drag my butt off the bed and look around the room for my purse. “That’s why I’m here trying to help him.”

“Yeah, but…his father seemed so upset on the phone and not for the right reasons…” She trails off and then clears her throat, like she’s getting worked up. “Look, sweetie, I know you’re really determined to help him, but maybe he needs more help than you can give him.”

“Do you think his dad will come down here and help him?” I ask, picking up my purse from the back of the computer chair and getting my car keys out of it. “If you talked to him a little more?”

“I’m not sure…but I can keep trying while you’re here,” she says persistently. “Please, Nova, come back home.”

“Not until I know for sure his dad will help him.” I walk out of the room and to the front door. “Look, Mom, I got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?” I don’t wait for her to respond. I know I’m being rude—worrying her. But the thing I was counting on—Quinton’s dad—has just been lost.

I need to see him now. Need to look at him. Need to save him.

Somehow.

I’m starting to hate the sight of that door. The one with the crack. The one that keeps Quinton on one side and me on the other. The divider. If I were strong enough, I’d kick it down, but I’m not, so all I can do is keep knocking on it.

“Would someone just open the damn door!” I shout, feeling like I’m going to lose it as I hammer it with my fist. “Please!” My voice echoes for miles like it’s the only thing that exists.

I sink onto the ground, frustrated, feeling beaten down. I want to give up, but I keep seeing Landon’s face that night we lay on the hillside, the last time I ever saw him. There was something in his eyes—I saw it. Sadness. Pain. Internal misery. It’s a look that will haunt me until the day I die, no matter how much time goes by. I don’t want to learn to live with it again and if I walk away from Quinton now, I’ll have to, because I’ve seen the same look in his eyes before. And I won’t let him die like I did with Landon.

So I sit there on the scorching-hot concrete, letting my skin scald, staring at the door, the only barrier between the truth and me. And I refuse to budge until it opens. It finally does. It’s getting late, and the horizon is fading behind me, but still the door opens and Tristan walks out wearing an open button-down long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans, like it’s not sweltering hot out here. He startles back when he sees me and scrapes the heel of his foot on the concrete, splitting the skin open. He doesn’t seem fazed at all, though, ruffling his messy blond hair, and then he yawns as he stretches out his arms and legs.

“What are you doing out here?” he asks calmly, lowering his arms to his sides.

His calm attitude irks me and I scowl up at him, hungry and thirsty and cranky, a bad combination. “I banged on the door for a while. Why didn’t you answer?”

His eyes lift to the sky as he contemplates what I said. “I didn’t hear anyone knock…Quinton has his music up. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hear it.”

I can hear music playing from somewhere inside, but still. “Can I talk to Quinton?” I ask. His lips part and I hold up my hand, silencing him. “And don’t tell me he’s not here, because you just let it slip that he’s the one listening to music.”

His lips tug up into a half-smile. “I was actually going to say yeah, come on in. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself this late anyway. It’s not safe.” He offers me his hand. “Especially when the sun’s about to go down completely.”

“Oh.” I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, uncertain if I’ll really be safer inside. “You make it sound like a bunch of vampires live around here and they’re going to come out and drink my blood at sundown,” I joke lamely because I’m tired and thirsty and hungry. I’ve been sitting outside for probably a couple of hours and I think the back of my neck is sunburned.

Tristan’s blue eyes gradually scroll up my long legs, my shorts, my tight white tank top, and conclusively land on my eyes. “Not vampires, but I’m sure there are plenty of people around here that would love to get a taste of you,” he says as he shuts the door behind us. He has this look in his eyes, glazed and incoherent, like he’s here in body but not in mind, and I think I might have my hands full.

It takes me a moment to find my voice. “I’m not even sure how to respond to that,” I say, squirming uncomfortably.

“You don’t have to respond. I’m just rambling,” he tells me with a shrug and then turns toward the kitchen, stumbling over the hem of his jeans when he steps on it. “Do you want a drink or something? We’ve got vodka and…” He searches through the cupboards, but they’re all empty. He shuts the last one and walks over to the counter and picks up a mostly empty vodka bottle. “And vodka.”

I smile with apprehension. “’No thanks. I don’t drink that much anymore. Remember, I told you that at the bar.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot.” He unscrews the cap of the vodka bottle and sniffs the contents, but doesn’t drink. “It’s hard to keep track of stuff sometimes, you know.”

Even though the floor is covered in sticky puddles, wrappers, even a used syringe, I dare step into the kitchen. “Yeah, I do know how that feels way too well, because I’ve been feeling it every day since I got here. I think this place is starting to crack at my sanity.” I’m tired and being way too blunt.

He screws the cap back on and he briefly appears vexed, but it fades. “Okay, not to steal your line or anything, but I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“You don’t have to respond,” I say as he tosses the bottle back onto the messy countertop, a little too hard and it sounds like it breaks but he doesn’t do anything about it. “You know me. I’m just saying how I feel.”

“Saying how you feel. How nice of you to share that with me. I feel so honored.” He rolls his eyes and strolls back into the living room, toward the sofa covered with pieces of aluminum foil and lighters. His sudden shift in attitude throws me off and I debate whether to say anything about it, whether I want to open Pandora’s box or not.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, following him into the living room. “You’re acting kind of rude right now. Is something up? Did something happen with that Trace guy?” I notice he doesn’t have any bruises on him or anything, so he hasn’t recently been beaten up, but I need to check to make sure he’s okay. “Because my offer still stands if you need help.”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Nothing’s wrong. And what happened with Trace isn’t your business—it’s mine.” He picks up a lighter that’s on the coffee table and flicks it. “And I’m not acting rude—I’m acting like myself, Nova.”

“No, you’re acting kind of cold right now…you were nice the other day,” I say. “Or at least civil, but now…”

He chucks the lighter across the room, then whirls around near the sofa, shooting me a dirty look. “I wasn’t nice to you the other day. You asked me to talk to you and I had nothing better to do so I did. Plain and simple.” He picks up another lighter and starts restlessly flicking it. “And if you’d just stop coming over here, you wouldn’t have to deal with my moodiness, but you seem to be on some pointless save-the-crackheads mission that you clearly can’t handle, but won’t admit.”

His words blaze under my skin and between my anger and exhaustion I say something I regret as soon as it leaves my lips. “I don’t have to deal with your moodiness at all, since I came over here to see Quinton, not you.”

Rage consumes him and suddenly he’s striding toward me, reducing the space between us in an instant. “Well, if you don’t give a shit about me, then leave,” he growls. He’s so close I can see my reflection in his eyes, can see the fear in the reflection of mine.

“I’m sorry.” My voice shakes as I shuffle back and gain space. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Yeah, you did,” he snaps hotly, matching my move and stealing the space right back. “You don’t care about me even though you’ve known me for longer than Quinton, even though you hardly know anything about him.”

“That’s not true,” I say, refusing to cower back. “I do care about you.” I can only handle so much, though, and this is too much. All of this is becoming too much. “I just…” Shit, I’m starting to get worked up, ready to crack, break apart. “I can only handle so much and Quinton seems to really need my help.”

It strikes a nerve and I can see in his eyes that it does. For a fleeting instant his shield crumbles and his hurt is visible, but it swiftly builds back up and he’s annoyed with me again.

He throws his hands in the air exasperatedly. “Whatever, Nova. You show up here with your judgmental eyes and think that everything you say matters, like you can save Quinton just by talking and calling up his dad. You think you can fix everything, like helping us with our drug dealers. Like you have a fucking clue how any of that works.” He points his finger at me and starts for the hallway, walking backward, his dazed blue eyes fastened on me. “I don’t have to deal with this shit.” Then he vanishes down the hall, leaving me in a room that smells worse than dog shit.

I press my fingers to my temples and let my head fall forward. I swear to God, it feels like I’ve walked into a minefield and one wrong step and I’ll set off a bomb. Only the steps are words and the bombs are moody, strung-out people, either high or craving to get high.

It doesn’t help that I’m cranky, too. I seriously consider going out through the front door and back to my car, driving off into the sunset, not stopping until I reach it, forgetting about all of this, like it would be that easy, when it wouldn’t. Besides, I couldn’t even reach the sunset if I tried, since it doesn’t really exist. It’s just an illusion that paints the world with its pretty colors just before night comes and covers it all up with darkness. It reminds me that walking away, pretending Quinton doesn’t need my help, isn’t going to get me anywhere, other than maybe to another video, recorded moments before he dies.

So I end up going down the hall toward Quinton’s room. As I pass by the shut door of the room Quinton locked himself in the first time I came here, I hear people arguing behind it. Their voices are muffled so I can’t tell what they’re saying, but it sounds like things are heated. It makes me a little nervous and that feeling only grows when I reach the end of the hall. Quinton’s door is cracked and the one to my right is wide open. What I see inside makes me seriously wish I had picked the delusional sunset.

Tristan is sitting on the floor just inside the room with a rubber band around his bony arm and he’s flicking his vein with his finger as he opens and closes his fist. It reminds me of when I slit my wrist open, only he’s preparing to sink the syringe that’s beside his foot into his skin.

As if he senses me watching him, he glances up and our eyes lock. It frightens me how cold and empty his are. Before I can say a word, he moves his foot and kicks the door shut in my face and suddenly I understand his erratic behavior a little bit more. It hurts, more than I thought it would, and opens my eyes a little to a much bigger problem. If I save Quinton, help him, there are still so many others slowly killing themselves like Tristan. It feels like such a lost cause. One I can’t change, but desperately want to.

I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself to stay calm. Shut it out. Focus on one thing at a time. Breathe.

But the yelling in the room gets louder and I hear something crash against the door and shatter. My eyes shoot open and I turn around as the sound of crying flows through the door, and then it opens up. Dylan strolls out wearing a white tank top and a pair of jeans held up with a frayed belt. He glances at me frigidly as he shuts the door, giving me no time to see what’s going on inside.

“You looking for something?” he asks, relaxing causally against the door like nothing’s going on at all.

I shake my head, my nerves bubbling inside. “I’m just here to see Quinton.”

He points at something over my shoulder. “His room is that way, not over here.”

I hesitate to turn around and only do when the crying stops. I feel Dylan stand there behind me for a while until finally he goes back into the room.

I free a trapped breath, my muscles unraveling. “What is wrong with that guy?”

“Delilah and him fight all the time.” Quinton appears in the doorway of his room, wearing only his boxers. I can see every scar, every sunken-in area, the weight he’s lost, the sheer lack of health. His eyes have dark rings under them and they’re filled with the same unwelcome look that was in Tristan’s eyes. “I feel bad for her and tried to help her once, but she won’t leave him…” He shrugs. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Maybe I should go in there and talk to her,” I say. “See if I can, I don’t know, do something.”

“Always trying to save everyone.”

“Everyone I care for,” I say, meeting his gaze.

He gives me an indecisive look and then sighs, submitting. “What are you doing here? I thought we ended stuff the other day on the roof.” He says it like he seriously believes that he thought our fight on the roof was the end of things.

It takes a tremendous amount of energy to shrug off his asshole comment. “We didn’t end things,” I say. “We just had a fight and now I’m here to apologize.”

“Apologize for what?”

“For making you mad. That is why you’ve been avoiding me, isn’t it?”

He cocks his head to the side, looking at me like I’m a foreign creature. “No, you didn’t make me mad. You just made me realize that I don’t want you hanging around…that it’s not good for me to be around you.”

“But I want to be around you and you told me you would let me visit you before I go home, which is soon.” The last part is a lie because I honestly have no clue when I’ll head back—when I’ll be able to accept that things may never change. Give up hope.

He studies me even more closely, seeming conflicted and a little irate, and all I want to do is step to the side and let the wall block me from his unrelenting gaze. “You can stay and hang if you want to,” he says as he reaches for a pair of jeans on the floor. “But I…I have to do a few things first.”

“Like what?”

He doesn’t respond, but he does take out a tiny plastic bag filled with white clumpy powder. He holds it up and raises his eyebrows inquiringly, like he’s testing me, daring me to give him a reason to send me away, back out to the other side of that cracked door.

I feel myself curl into a ball inside but outside I stay tall. “Do you have to?”

He nods with need in his eyes and I force the lump down in my throat and don’t say a word when he starts to open the bag and then shuts the door. At least he does me the courtesy of not doing it in front of me this time.

I stare at the cracks in the wall as I wait, tracking them with my gaze, not counting them even though I desperately want to. Then the bedroom door swings open, the one Dylan went in. But he’s not the person that steps out.

Delilah is.

She’s wearing a see-through shirt and her shorts look more like boy-cut panties. Her auburn hair is matted and her cheek is a little swollen. But she seems more alert than the last time I saw her.

She starts to head in the opposite direction from me, ashing her cigarette on the floor, but then pauses when she sees me. “So the rumors are true,” she says, sniffling, her nose red, and I’m unsure if it’s because she’s been crying or because she just snorted something.

“What rumors?” I lean against the wall and she stands across from me, relaxing against the door.

She shrugs, taking another drag of her cigarette. “That you’re here in Vegas.”

“Yeah, I got here a little over a week ago,” I tell her. “And you saw me the other day.”

“Really?” She stares at the ceiling as she tries to recollect. “I don’t remember that.”

“That’s because you were out of it,” I reply, folding my arms.

She sizes me up and I can see the hatred in her. “Why did you come here?”

“To see Quinton.” I ignore her rude attitude.

Smoke circles her face as she exhales. “Why?”

“Because I want to try and help him,” I explain to her.

“With what?”

I glance up and down the hallway, at the garbage on the floor, the used syringes, the empty alcohol bottle. There’s no carpet on the floor. The ceiling is cracked. The entire place looks like it’s about to collapse. “With getting out of this place.”

She laughs snidely. “Yeah, good luck with that.” She puts the cigarette between her lips again and breathes deep. “No one around here wants to be saved, Nova. You should remember that, since you were once in this place.”

“But I got out.”

“Because you wanted to.” She grazes her thumb across the bottom of the cigarette, scattering ash across the floor. “We’re all here because we choose to be here.”

I elevate my eyebrows. “Even you?”

She frowns. “Yes, even me.”

“Then why were you crying a few minutes ago?” I don’t really think that has anything to do with drugs, but I’m trying to get her to talk about it. Despite the fact that she can be a bitch most of the time, she was my friend once.

“I was upset about something,” she says, dropping her cigarette to the floor. “I’m allowed to be upset.”

“I know that.” I move toward her. “Why’s your cheek all swollen?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “I walked into a wall.”

I don’t believe her at all. “How the heck does that happen?”

She shrugs, pressing the tip of her shoe to the cigarette, putting it out. “I was tripping out. Thought I could walk through walls.”

“Are you…are you sure it had nothing to do with the yelling?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she snaps, shuffling forward and grabbing hold of my arm. “Don’t you dare speculate that Dylan hit me. Because he didn’t.”

I flinch as her fingers dig into my skin. “I never said he did.”

She huffs, releasing her hold on me, and flips me off. “Fuck you. You don’t know me. Not anymore.” Then she stomps off down the hallway, throwing her arms in the air.

“Delilah, wait.” I call out as I hurry after her. “I wasn’t trying to make you mad.”

She spins on her heels, her face red with anger. “Then what were you doing?”

“I just.” I squirm uneasily against her heated gaze. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” she says through clenched teeth.

“If you ever need anything, you can call me,” I say in a pathetic attempt to help her.

Her mouth is set in a thin line. “I don’t…won’t ever need anything.”

The helpless feeling inside me magnifies and nearly drowns me as she turns and walks away, leaving me standing at the end of the hallway. I feel like banging my head on the wall, surrounded by a ton of people who need help, but don’t want it. And I’m not strong enough to help all of them at once. What am I supposed to do? Keep trying until I break? Walk away and always regret not staying? Because I know that’s where this will go. I’m already becoming obsessed with the what-ifs again, just like I did after Landon died. And maybe I’ll eventually get over it, heal. But at the same time I want this to turn out good. I want just for once not to have to lose someone because I couldn’t do things right—ride my bike fast enough or wake up a few minutes earlier and convince the person I love that life is worth living.

“What are you doing?” The sound of Quinton’s voice startles me and my heart speeds up.

I spin around. He’s standing in the doorway again with jeans on, sniffing profusely as he puts a shirt on. His eyes are much warmer and more coherent, like he’s killed the monster that was emerging in him, or just put it to sleep.

“I was talking to Delilah.” I walk back down the hall to him.

“And how did that go?” he questions, stuffing the plastic bag into his pocket.

“Not very well,” I admit. “I’m worried about her, not just because of the…well, you know…” I seek the right words, but I’m not sure there are such things. “Not just because she’s on drugs, but because she’s with Dylan.”

“But you can’t help her if she doesn’t want help.” There’s an underlying meaning in his tone.

“But I can try,” I reply, straining a small smile. “What kind of person would I be to give up on people?”

“The normal kind,” he says with honesty.

“Well, I’ve always known I wasn’t normal.”

“No, you’re not.” There’s a mystified look on his face. “But it’s a good thing, I think.” He continues to stare at me for a moment, looking more and more lost, until finally he crouches down to grab a handful of change off the floor. “So where are we going tonight?” He stands back up with a ghost smile on his face. So hot and cold. So up and down. So much like Landon.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask as he stuffs the coins into his pocket.

He presses his lips together, scanning his room, the floor covered in coins and on his mattress a blanket and his sketchbook. “You just want to hang out around here?”

“I’d rather not, if that’s okay.”

“It’s probably not the best place for you, is it?” He frowns, like he just realized where we were standing.

“Or for you,” I dare to say, pressing a point.

He swallows hard, and I can see the monster vanishing, probably because he’s just fed it. “You’re too nice to me,” he ultimately says, and I that’s when I think I see a glimpse of him. The Quinton I first met. The sad one, but still nice, still caring; a good guy who just needs help fighting his inner demons. Who needs to let go of his past.

I force myself to be positive. “Just wait. I’ve got a whole lot more niceness for you that you haven’t even seen yet,” I say, playfully nudging him with my foot.

He shakes his head, but fights back a smile, his honey-brown eyes flickering with a hint of life, and the sight makes me want to throw my arms around him and hold on to him—hold on to the life I see there in his eyes. “How about we go sit in your car and talk?”

I work to keep my arms to my sides and nod, pushing myself to look past all the problems around me, even though it feels like maybe I shouldn’t—that maybe I’m the one who needs to open her eyes. “I think that sounds like a great idea.”

I’m not sure how much crystal he did, but by the time we make it to the car a burst of energy kicks in and his talking goes into hyper mode. “So how are you liking Vegas?” he asks as we climb into my car, parked in the parking lot in front of his house.

It’s such a formal question that it takes me a moment to answer. “Good, I guess.”

I get comfortable in the seat, rolling down the window and letting the warm air in as he tips his head back against the headrest. “Have you done anything fun?”

I scoot my seat back a little so I can stretch out my legs “I went to the Strip the other night.”

“I hear it’s intense.” He rubs his eyes and then blinks as he gazes up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, lots and lots of lights and people…do you go down there ever?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s not really for me.” His eyes land on me and through the dark I can almost pretend that he’s sober. “Too many people.”

“You don’t seem to like the city,” I note, rotating in my seat to face him. “Yet you live here and you used to live in Seattle, which is pretty big, isn’t it?” I tense when I feel him tense, worried that maybe bringing up Seattle wasn’t the best thing.

But he relaxes. “Yeah, but cities haven’t always bothered me.”

“What changed?”

“Me,” he says, scratching at his arm where I know his tattoos are hidden. “I just decided I like the quiet…I already have too much noise in my head and the last thing I need to do is add more.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I’m here because I have nowhere else to go.”

“Not even back to Seattle.” I hope I’m not about to break the thin ice I’m already walking on.

“I’ll never go back to Seattle,” he replies disdainfully, cracking his neck and then his knuckles. “There’s too many fucking memories there.”

It grows quiet as he stares at the building in front of us with a contemplative look on his face, like he’s considering if he wants to bail out and go back in. Before he can, I take the opportunity to say something that I hope doesn’t make him angry, that I hope makes him understand that I understand him more than he thinks I do.

“You know, I used to feel that way about Maple Grove,” I divulge. “Especially since it’s where my boyfriend died. His house was actually across the street…” I swallow the lump in my throat, preparing myself to say the one thing I’ll always hate saying aloud. “Where I found him…after he…well, he took his own life.”

Silence stretches by. I hear cars whizzing by on the streets. Their headlights illuminate the rearview mirror.

“I’m sure that had to be hard for you,” he utters quietly, his breath becoming ragged.

“It was really hard,” I admit. “Especially because I blamed myself for his death.”

He turns his head toward me with his brows furrowed. “Why would you blame yourself over that? He chose to do it. You didn’t make him.” He pauses, composing his erratic breath.

“Yeah, but at the same time, I saw signs that I sort of ignored because I was afraid to admit they existed. Afraid he’d get mad at me…I was afraid of a lot of things and I’ll always regret that fear probably for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, but even if you weren’t afraid and you said something to him,” he says, not looking at me but staring over my shoulder out at the darkness, “it doesn’t mean things would have happened differently. He still might have decided it was time to let go.”

“Yeah, but I’d at least be able to sit here and say that I did everything I could.” I press a point that feels really important now. “That I didn’t give up before it was over.”

“Is that what you’re doing with me?” He looks at me. I think he’s aiming to be rude, but his uneven voice gives away that he’s getting emotional.

“Maybe,” I tell him honestly. “Does that make you afraid?”

He shakes his head, holding my gaze. “No, because I know you’re just wasting time.”

“I don’t agree with you.” I refuse to blink away from his intense gaze. “No time is wasted when you’re trying to help someone.”

He’s baffled by my words, his lips parting as he scratches his head. “So what? You’re going to continue to hang out at this place in the hopes that you’re going to save me?” He gestures at our surroundings. The neighborhood has started to come to life, people standing outside on the stairway of the building, walking around the front. “You really want this to be your life? Because even I sometimes hate it. Plus, it’s dangerous and you shouldn’t even be hanging out here.” He falters over his words like he didn’t mean to let the last part slip out. “But I deserve it. You don’t.”

“Well, I don’t have to stay here all the time,” I say, getting an idea as I start up the engine. “No one does. Everyone has a choice of where they want to be. You. Tristan, especially after seeing what that Trace guy did to him.”

“Tristan will be fine…I’m taking care of him.” He slides back in the seat.

“Are you sure? Because I can help—”

He cuts me off. “I’m not letting you get involved in this shit, so drop it, Nova.”

“Okay…but I just want you to know that I’m here if you need anything.”

“I know that.” His expression softens. “And I want you to know that I don’t want you getting involved in anything that’s part of this.” He gestures at the apartment building. “I want you safe.”

I shift the car into drive. “I know you do.”

We exchange this intense look that makes it hard to breathe. But then he clears his throat a few times and sits up straight as I start to back the car up. “What are you doing?”

Getting you away from your crappy apartment. “I just need a soda. I’m freaking thirsty.”

“There’s a gas station just down the road where you can get one,” he says, pointing over his shoulder at the road. “It only takes like a minute to drive there and a few minutes on foot.”

“I’ll just drive there.” I crank the wheel to turn the car around. “And then we can keep talking.”

“But doesn’t our conversation keep going in circles…you trying to help me when you can’t? It’s kind of a lost cause,” he says as he guides his seat belt over his shoulder and clicks it into the buckle.

I flip on the headlights as I pull out onto the road. “No time with you is a lost cause. It’s actually very valuable.”

I hear his breath hitch in his throat and when he grips the door handle, I worry he’s going to try to jump out, but he startles me when he says, “Nova, you’re freaking killing me tonight.” His voice is just a whisper, choked up, full of the agony he keeps bottled up. “You got to stop saying that shit to me.”

My heart races inside my chest. “Why?”

He lowers his head and rubs his hand roughly across his face. “Because it means too much to me and stuff shouldn’t mean things to me…it messes with my head.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I got a whole lot of more meaningful stuff waiting for you,” I tell him, unsure where the hell this conversation is going to go.

He stares down at his lap. “I can’t take it anymore. Please just talk about something else besides me.” He glances up at me and the lights on the side of the street are reflected in his eyes, highlighting his agony. “Tell me something about you,” he begs, slumping against the seat with his head turned toward me. “Please. I want to hear something about you.”

I turn my head and our gazes collide. I want to cry because he looks in misery and like he’s silently begging me to put him out of it. God, what I’d give to know the right thing to say, something that could take away his pain. The problem is I know from experience there’s no right thing to say that can take away the pain. There’s nothing that can save him from it. He just has to learn to live with it and not give it so much power over him.

“Like what?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice balanced.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You said on the roof that I was easy to talk to last summer and I said it was because you were high, so prove me wrong right now. Talk to me about something—something about you.”

I consider what he said as I tap the brakes, stopping at a red light. Something about me. Maybe something that will help him see that people can be helped. “I watched Landon’s…my old boyfriend’s video, the one he made minutes before he killed himself.” I don’t look at him when I say it because I can’t, but his elongated silence says that I’ve stunned him. The light turns green and I drive down the road, heading toward the gas station on the right side.

Finally he says, “When?”

“I already told you he made it right before he died,” I say as I pull into the gas station. “I actually had the video file forever, but I was too scared to watch it. I had it there on my computer and then my phone all last summer, but wouldn’t…couldn’t watch it.”

“No, I mean when did you watch it?” he asks as I park the car in front of the gas station doors and beneath the florescent glow of the signs.

I turn off the engine. “It was the day I took off from the concert,” I tell him, our gazes locked. “The morning after you left me at the pond.”

“And did it make you feel better?” he questions. “Knowing what he thought before he…” His voice cracks and he clears it, putting his hands at his sides.

“Yes and no,” I answer honestly, and when he looks at me funny, I explain. “Yes, because it helped me see what I’d really become—what I was turning into. Even though it was right in front of my eyes, I couldn’t see it and his words reminded me of what I used to be and what I wanted to be again.”

He absorbs my words like they’re oxygen, breathing in and out. “And why do you regret it?”

I shrug, but everything inside me winds tight as I stare out the windshield at the store lights, letting them burn against my eyes so I won’t cry. “Because I still ended up confused over why he did it…he never did give a real explanation, and honestly, I’m not even sure one exists. Plus, it hurt to watch him like that, you know.” I look over at him and even though it’s hard I hold his gaze. “Watching him hurt like that and knowing that soon his pain was going to end—that he was going to die soon and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. That I missed my chance…I never want to miss my chance again.”

“I’m not going to die, Nova,” he says. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, looking back at him, seeing spots from staring at the lights. “What you’re doing…it could kill you.”

“Well, it’s not going to,” he insists. “Trust me, I’ve been trying to die for a very long time and I can’t make it happen, no matter how hard I try.”

The hope inside me poofs out and before I can even get myself together, tears flood my eyes. Quinton’s honey-brown eyes become Landon’s and abruptly it feels like I’m sitting in the car with him and we’re just talking, but I can feel that he’s sad and I’m just watching him getting sadder and sadder and not doing a goddamned thing about it—watching him die.

“Why would you ever say something like that?” I say as hot tears drip from my eyes. I want to hit him but at the same time I want to hug him. I’m conflicted, so instead I just sit there and cry and he just sits there and watches me like he doesn’t care. But then the tears start streaming down my cheeks and splattering on the console and when he sees them falling it’s like he suddenly realizes I’m crying and that he played a part in it.

He leans over quickly and wraps his arm around me and pulls me against him, crushing our bodies together. “God, Nova, I’m so sorry. Fuck. I’m such an asshole…I don’t even know what I’m saying half the time…don’t even listen to me.”

I let him hold me as tears soak his shirt and he kisses the top of my head, whispering apologies. For a fleeting moment, it’s not me and this warped version of Quinton in the car. It’s me and a different Quinton I wish I could meet, the one from before the accident. I’m not really sure what he’s like, but I’ve gotten enough glimpses of him that I can picture a loving, genuinely good guy. And he’s the one holding me right now, rather than the one who made me cry.

Eventually I suck the tears back and return to reality. I start to retreat, but he keeps his arms around me, pressing on my back, and I notice his arms are trembling.

“I’m so sorry,” he says and he’s shaking like he’s scared. “I should have never said that.”

“It’s fine.” I move back enough to look him in the eyes. “You’re probably just tired, right?” I offer him an excuse, hoping he’ll take it and we can let this go.

“Yeah…tired,” he says warily because we both know that’s not the case.

I lift my hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks, but he grabs my hand. Then he moves forward and I instantly tense as he brushes his lips across my cheeks where the tears stain my skin.

“Tired or not,” he says between kisses. “I should never make you cry. Ever. I’m a horrible person who you should just stay away from,” he whispers through another kiss. “God, I don’t deserve to be here with you. You should just take me back home.”

“No, you do deserve to be with me.” My eyes shut as his warm breath touches my cheeks and his chest brushes against mine with every breath he takes. Emotions surface…how much I care for him…how much I wish he could be in my future…my life…healed. I’m painfully reminded of why I came here. Why I needed to help him. And it’s painful because I know how hard it is, how hopeless it’s becoming, but how worth it it is because of the glimpses like these.

“What can I do to make it better?” he whispers against my cheek. “I’ll do anything that you tell me to.”

I know I shouldn’t say it, but I can’t help it. “Stop doing drugs.” I stiffen, waiting for him to shout at me, but all he does is lean back, keeping his hand on my hip.

“I can’t do that,” he says softly, almost sounding disappointed, but maybe that’s me just reaching for hope.

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t.”

I want to press him more, but he’s shutting down, the life dying in his eyes. I know that once it’s gone, he’ll ask me to take him home, so I let him go and search for a way to keep him here beside me.

“Hey, know what we should do?” I say as he sits back in his seat.

He drums his fingers on his knee as he stares at the gas station. “What should we do, Nova like the car?” he asks, giving me a sideways half-smile. It’s been a while since he’s used my nickname and memories of last summer flow through me so powerfully it makes me light-headed.

“We should play twenty questions again,” I tell him. “Like we did last summer.”

“That’s what you really want to do?” he questions with a crook of his brow.

I yawn as my fingers wrap around the door handle. “Just as soon as I go get a soda.”

He studies me, looking torn, but then gives in. “All right, go get your soda and we’ll play twenty questions for a little bit.”

I get out of the car, not feeling happy, but at the same time not feeling like I’m drowning in hopelessness. Although I do worry that by the time I make it back to the car, he’ll be gone. So I rush to buy a soda and when I step back outside, relief washes over me when I see him lying on the hood of my car, smoking a cigarette, staring up at the stars in the midnight sky. The street is fairly quiet and there are no other cars parked nearby. The only noise is coming from the gas station radio speakers and it’s set on the oldies station, playing soft tunes. It’s almost like we have the quiet he was talking about on the roof. It’d be a perfect moment if I didn’t know what’s going to happen when I take him back to the apartment. Still, I climb up on the hood with him and take a swallow of soda as the scent of cigarette smoke encircles me.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask him, looking up at the night sky, feeling calm inside as I stare at the constellations.

He puts the cigarette up to his lips and inhales. “Thinking about my first question,” he says, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Oh yeah?” I say, twisting the cap back on my soda. “Who said you get to go first?”

He slants his head to the side. “You’re not going to let me go first?” He’s almost playful.

I smile. “I’m kidding. You can go first.”

He thinks about it for a moment while sticking his arm to the side and ashing his cigarette onto the ground. “If you could be one place in the world, where would you be?”

“Honestly,” I say, and he nods. “I think I’d be all over the world, videotaping everything.”

“Everything?”

I nod. “Everything. There’s just so much to see, you know, and sometimes it feels like I’m just sitting around, missing everything.”

He turns to his side and props himself up on his elbow, cigarette smoke circling around us. “Then why don’t you just go?”

“For a lot of reasons,” I reply, rotating the soda bottle in my hand. “One being that I need to graduate first…it’s important for my future.”

“Yeah, I can see that…needing a degree if you have a future,” he says with a frown, and it stabs at my heart.

“You could have a future, you know,” I say, hoping I don’t set him off again.

“No, I can’t.” He lies back down on his back and fixes his eyes on the stars, growing quiet.

“Okay, my turn.” I pivot onto my hip, rest my head on my arm, and set the soda bottle against the windshield. “What were you like before you started doing drugs?” It’s a brave question, but I want tonight’s game to actually have a point. I want to get to know him more. Understand him, so I can maybe understand what will help him.

He winces like I’ve slapped him and lets out a sharp cough. “I’m not going to answer that question.”

“That’s not fair. I always answer yours, even the one about my dad’s death, which is hard to talk about.”

“When did I ask you about your dad?”

“Last summer,” I remind him. “When we were in the tent and we…and we kissed a lot.”

More memories swarm around us as I remember and I can tell he remembers, too, because he touches his lips and gets this really strange look on his face. Then he swallows hard and flicks his cigarette onto the ground. “I was normal,” he finally answers my question. “Just a normal guy who thought about college and who liked to draw and wanted to be an artist. Who hardly got into trouble, and who had only been in love with one girl…a normal boring guy.” He sounds so conflicted, like he misses that guy, but at the same time he doesn’t want to.

The song switches to one I know, even though I’m not into oldies. But it’s one my dad used to listen to, “Heaven” by Bryan Adams, and it makes me think of the good times in my life, when I used to dance around the living room with my dad, listening to music, and everything felt so easy. I wish I could capture some of that easiness now and spill it over Quinton and me.

“I like the sound of that boring guy,” I utter softly. “I hope one day I can meet him.”

“You won’t, so you should go find another one.” He sits up like he’s ready to go, but instead he stretches his arms above his head. “What do you see in me, Nova? What keeps you coming around? I mean, I’m not that nice to you, at least not always. I have a shitty life and do shitty stuff.”

“All of that’s because you’re hurting, though, something I get really, really well.” I sit up and bend forward to meet his eyes, which are wide and full of panic. “I see a lot of things in you, Quinton. I’m not going to lie. You sometimes remind me of Landon and that’s part of the reason why I think I’m so drawn to you,” I say, and when his expression falls, I quickly take his hands. “But that’s not the only reason…when I’m around you sometimes it seems like you and I are the only two people that exist and nothing else matters and for someone who over-thinks everything, that’s really hard to achieve.”

I can tell he sort of likes my answer because his pulse starts slamming against my fingers. “Is that all?” he asks and I shake my head, wondering how long it’s been since someone said nice things to him.

“No way. I’m just getting started.” I hold on to him tighter. “Last summer you made me feel things…things I thought I’d never feel again after Landon died. And it’s not because I was high. Trust me. I haven’t felt that way again, not until I came back here to see you.”

“I’m a junkie, Nova,” he mumbles. “I shouldn’t make you feel anything.”

“You’re not a junkie,” I argue, tightening my hold on his hands. “You’re just someone who’s really, really lost and hurting and won’t admit it and drugs take that all away for you.”

He’s starting to look scared, panicky, his eyes sweeping the area like he’s looking for a place to run, hide, and get high. So I clutch him tighter and move on.

“If you could do anything right now,” I say quickly. “What would you do?”

“Get high,” he replies, meeting my eyes, and his are so full of anguish it steals the breath out of me. “What about you? What would you do right now if you could?”

I think he thinks I’m going to say I would save him, and I want to, but I’m not going to say it because I need a break from the repetitiveness and so does he. We both know why I’m here and I’m not forgetting why I came. I’m just trying to work my way into his head the only way I can think of. By trying something that’s easy and uncomplicated. Because we need easy at the moment.

“I would dance,” I answer, then let go of his hand and slide off the hood of the car. I know I’m being goofy, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment, so I stick out my hand. “Will you dance with me, Quinton?”

He glances warily at the speakers on the trim of the gas station, at the vacant pumps, then over to the street. “That’s really what you want to do? Right here? Right now?”

I nod with my hand still out. “Yep, now will you grant me my request?”

He considers this and there’s hesitation in his eyes but he still gets down off the hood and takes my hand. The contact gives me a brief break from all the crappy stuff surrounding us. Easy. We’re going to do something that’s really, really easy. I know it won’t erase all the hard stuff. But sometimes taking a break from the complicated stuff is enough to get me through the next step and the next one. One step at a time. One breath at a time. One heartbeat at a time.

One life at a time.

I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder, but instead he pushes me back and spins me around. “You know you’re getting in over your head, right?” he says, jerking me to him and crashing me against his chest.

I’m breathless as I put my cheek up to his chest and feel his heart racing beneath it. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

“From my grandmother…she taught me right before I went to my first dance in middle school,” he says, breathing into my hair as he rests his chin on top of my head and we begin to sway to the music.

“Was it because she wanted to teach you?” I ask. “Or because you wanted to learn?”

“Sadly it was because I wanted to learn,” he says. “I thought knowing how to dance would make my crush want to dance with me.”

I press my cheek to his chest. “But she didn’t want to?”

“Nah, but I wasn’t the kind of guy girls wanted to dance with,” he says. “I was too shy at the time.”

I try not to smile, but it’s hard. “I was shy too at one time.”

“I can see that,” he says thoughtfully.

I pull away slightly and tip my chin up to look him in the eyes. “How? I’m not shy anymore.”

The corners of his lips quirk. “Yeah, but sometimes you get embarrassed over stuff you do and the shyness comes out,” he says, and when I frown he adds, “Don’t worry, it’s only happened a couple of times, back when we first started hanging out. And besides, I like it.”

I press my lips together and return my cheek to his chest and he puts his chin back on top of my head. “Well, I’m glad you do, because I don’t.”

“Well, I do.” He keeps dancing for a moment, leading me in a slow circle. Then I feel him swallow hard and he says, “I guess you learned another thing about the old me—that I used to know how to dance.”

I smile to myself because he didn’t used to know how to dance—he still does. And as we rock to the rhythm I stay silent, telling myself that if he can still dance then the old Quinton’s still burning somewhere inside him and now that I’ve seen a glimpse of it, I don’t want to ever let it go.

So I hold on to him tightly as we sway to the song. I shut my eyes and feel every aspect of the moment, the heat in the air, the warmth of his body, the way my body seems in tune with his. No regrets. This is one moment I will never regret. I don’t care that we’re in a shitty gas station parking lot and that we both smell like cigarette smoke. I want it. Want this. Want him. Right now. I know it’s not the right time at all, that there are so many things wrong, things hidden deep beneath the surface, but I just need to touch him a little bit more. So without opening my eyes, I kiss my way up his neck and across his scruffy jaw, and find his lips. I’m not sure what I expect him to do, but he opens his mouth and kisses me back deeply, with passion and heat. He manages to keep us moving and at the same time presses our bodies closer, until we’re almost one person. I can feel everything about him. His heat. His breath. The slight gasps he makes every time our lips barely part. And with my eyes shut I can pretend that I’m with the old Quinton, the one I’m trying to save.

And part of me wishes I never had to open my eyes again. Part of me wishes I could stay just like this. Forever. Just he and I. Just contentment. The easiness. It makes me want to create more moments like this. I just need to find a way for him to let me.

After we’re done dancing, we climb back on the hood and chat a little more. He seems to unwind as time goes by and I’m guessing that he’s reached a sort of peaceful balance in his high, one I remember well because it’s what drew me to drugs in the first place. Then it starts to get late, the noise dying down so severely it seems like the city has gone to sleep.

I yawn, stretching out my arms as I stare up at the stars. “It’s so late.”

“I know. We should probably get back,” he says, sitting up and hopping off the hood. “It’s late and I hate the thought of you being around here at night and driving back to wherever you’re staying.”

I slide toward the edge of the hood and he helps me down by taking my hand. “I’ll be okay. Lea’s uncle lives in a pretty good area.”

“Still, I worry about you.” He seems uncomfortable saying it.

“All right, I’ll drop you off and get home then.”

He nods and lets go of my hand. Then I take him home and give him a kiss on the cheek before he gets out of the car.

“Nova,” he says before he climbs out, his back turned to me, his feet out of the car and on the ground. “I wish you’d stop coming here.”

My heart sinks in my chest. For a moment I thought I saw promise that things might change between us—that he’d stop fighting me so much. “You really want me to stop.”

It takes him a few seconds to answer. “What I want doesn’t matter…what’s right does.”

“It’s not wrong for me to see you.” I nervously fiddle with the keychain dangling from the ignition. “And I’m not ready to stop seeing you…are you ready to stop seeing me?”

His head lowers, but he still doesn’t look at me. “I can’t answer that right now.”

“Well, then, let’s stop talking about it until you do,” I say, and he starts to get out of the car without saying a word. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

He pauses as he’s closing the door. “Yeah…I guess so.”

It’s not much, but it’s enough to lift me a little bit out of my slump. “Bye, Quinton. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He doesn’t say anything and shuts the door. Then he goes back up to his place and I wait until he’s inside before I take out my phone and angle it at my face.

There’s very little light, but I can still make out my outline on the screen, which is enough. “So I got this idea tonight,” I tell the camera. “It might be stupid, but it’s all I got. It’s called fun. And I’m not talking about getting-drunk-and-partying type of fun. That’s the last thing Quinton and I need. I’m talking about the plain, easy kind of fun. The dancing, music, laughing, playful, peaceful kind of fun…the kind we shared tonight. It seemed to help him relax, not putting pressure on him, pretending that we were just two people hanging out…and I can pretend as long as it can get me somewhere…I just hope I can keep getting to him…keep learning about him…understand him.” I pause, biting my lip as a guy walks out of Quinton’s apartment, strolls up to the railing, and stares down at my car. He flicks his cigarette over the edge and then rests his arms on top of the railing. The light over the door hits his back, making it hard to see his face, but it sort of looks like Dylan. If that’s the case then it’s time for me to go, before he ruins my vaguely decent night.

I shut the recording off and toss my phone aside, feeling a little bit lighter as I drive away. I just pray to God that when I return tomorrow morning, the Quinton I had toward the end of tonight is still thriving.