Saving Quinton

Chapter 5

Nova

I’m not sure what to do, what to think, how to process what I’m seeing. Deep down I think I knew, but I didn’t prepare myself very well for it. I should have. I should have told myself that this was what I was going to walk into, so that I wouldn’t be sitting here with my jaw hanging to my knees, feeling like I want to throw up, then curl up in a ball and cry until I run out of tears. My OCD is kicking in and the desire to count the windows on the buildings, the stars in the sky, the lines on the back of my hand, anything so I don’t have to look at the horrible view in front of me, is overpowering.

“You were right,” I say to Lea, dumbstruck as I grip the edge of the seat, my palms damp against the upholstery.

“I know.” She frowns at the view in front of us. “I’m so sorry, Nova…I don’t even know what to say.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell her, opening and shutting my eyes, wishing the view would disappear, but it doesn’t.

“I know, but I’m still sorry,” she replies, her hands gripping the steering wheel.

When the GPS first led us to the two-story apartment building, I thought it’d given us the wrong directions, since the building looked more like a very large abandoned motel than a place where people would live, but after double-checking I painfully realized it was the right place. Half the windows are busted out, some are boarded up, and the rest have curtains hanging up to block the windows, probably to hide what’s going on inside—drugs, prostitution, God knows what else. The building sits away from a road that’s lined with secondhand stores, discount and smoke shops, run-down houses, some looking worse than the apartment building. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the nicest place on the block.

Lea parks a ways back in the gravel parking lot and then turns off the headlights, like she’s scared someone is going to see us. We lock the doors and leave the engine running. There are hardly any vehicles around and the ones that are parked in the area look like they haven’t moved in ages. There’s a massive billboard near the entryway, but the paint is peeling off and I can’t tell what it used to be an advertisement for. There are also a group of women loitering at the bottom of the stairway, smoking cigarettes, chatting and being really loud. I don’t want to be judgmental, but they look like hookers, wearing tight dresses, bras for tops, and five-inch stilettos or knee-high boots.

We have the air cranked up full blast and the sky is nearly black, the sunlight about to completely disappear behind the horizon. Behind us the city flashes in the distance, neon colors and sparkling sighs, and I can almost feel the electricity in the air.

“What number did you say it was?” Lea asks as she pushes the emergency brake on.

I check the screen of the GPS. “It says twenty-two, but…” I look back up at the building, squinting to see if the doors have numbers on them. Lights on above some of the doors and I can tell some have numbers, but not all of them.

“Maybe we should come back in the morning,” Lea suggests, biting her fingernails as she eyes the group of women near the stairway. Lea has never been part of the drug world and even though she’s gone to parties, they’ve been mellow parties with kegs and wine coolers, where people hang out and dance, not get stoned and either pass out or trip out of their minds.

I want to say yes to her suggestion and tell her we should go home, but at the same time I can’t help but think of the what-ifs. Like what if I walk away right at this moment and something bad happens to Quinton tonight? Or what if he vanishes overnight? Plus, knowing he’s probably right there, in one of the apartments just in front of me, makes it hard to walk away. What if I miss my chance like I did with Landon? What if I leave and never get the courage to come back? What if something bad happens?

Shit.

Nova, stop it.

Stop thinking about the past.

Focus on the future.

“Okay.” I pry my fingers off the edge of the seat, then reach over my shoulder to grab the seat belt. “I’ll come back in the morning when the sun’s up.”

“We’ll come back.” She pops the emergency brake. “I don’t want you coming here alone and I promised your mom I’d take care of you.”

“I feel like a child,” I admit, buckling the seat belt. “And you’re my baby-sitter…I feel like my mom should be paying you or something.”

“She just loves you,” Lea says as she starts to put the shifter forward. “And I’m happy to do it…it’s not like I have anything better to do.”

I hesitate. “Lea, are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened with you and Jaxon?”

She bites her bottom lip as she fights back the tears. “Not yet…I just can’t yet, okay? Especially not here.”

“Okay…well, I’m here when you’re ready.” I sit back, fidgeting with the leather band on my wrist. I feel restless but attempt to hold still as she starts to back the Chevy Nova out of the parking lot, cranking the wheel to the side. I start to settle down as she gets the car turned around, but then I see a guy walking up beside the car, heading for the apartments with a large bag of ice in his hand.

“Wait a minute…” I mutter, leaning toward the window. “I know him.”

“What do you mean you know him?” Lea asks, pressing on the gas.

I don’t respond, too fixated on an old memory walking just to the side of me, like a ghost. Even in the dark, I recognize Tristan’s blond hair and facial features immediately, although his cheeks are a little sunken and either his pants are just really baggy or he’s lost a lot of weight. Still, I know it’s him.

He looks like he’s in a hurry, smoking a cigarette as he strides for the apartments, his lips moving like he’s talking to himself.

“Stop the car,” I say, reaching for the door handle.

“Nova, what the hell!” Lea exclaims as I crack the door open before she can even get the car stopped. She taps on the brakes and I push the door open all the way and swing one of my legs outside. But then I pause when the seat belt locks and jerks me back against the seat.

“Shit,” I curse and press back against the seat to unbuckle it.

“What are you doing?” Lea asks with wide eyes as she holds her foot on the brake, keeping the car halted at a crooked angle.

“I know that guy.” I push the door open the rest of the way as Tristan starts to take notice of us—or the car, anyway. He pauses to admire it as I land just outside the car with an ungraceful stumble but regain my balance quickly.

He grazes his thumb across the cigarette, sprinkling ash on the ground before putting it back between his lips. “Hey, what kind of car is that…?” He trails off as I step forward and the lights from the motel and the street give him just enough of a glow to see my face. “Holy shit, Nova,” he says with a bit of a startled laugh, his lips parting and his cigarette nearly falling out of his mouth. He quickly plucks it from his lips and positions it between his fingers, continuing to gape at me. “Where the hell did you come from?”

I point back at my car. “I drove here,” I say, not ready to tell him the real reason. Tristan, while nice for the most part, is also in as deep as Quinton is, and the last thing I want to do is declare to him why I wanted—needed to come down here.

“I can tell that…” He looks at the car with appreciation. The lights around us fall across his face and I’m even more aware of how different he looks: tougher, rougher, harder, drowning in more darkness, and I wonder what exactly he’s been doing to get to this place. “Is that your car?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s mine.” I wrap my arms around myself, even though it’s not cold. It’s almost like a defense mechanism as old feelings press up like shards of glass and vivid memories of the time I spent with Tristan swarm through my mind. “It was my dad’s…or used to be, anyway.”

His brows knit. “You didn’t drive that back in Maple Grove, did you?”

I shake my head. “No, I always rode around in Delilah’s truck.”

“Yeah…she actually got rid of that a few months ago,” he says. “Sold it, you know, so she could have some cash.”

I don’t say anything, because I can’t think of anything to say. Things are awkward and uncomfortable because I know him, even kissed him, yet at the same time I don’t know him. I’ve spent time with him, but the person I got to know doesn’t look like he exists anymore. That Tristan is part of my past and I wonder how hard it’s going to be with Quinton, seeing a different side of him.

Can I do this? Was I naïve to believe that I could? Am I even strong enough to do this? You couldn’t save Landon, but did you even try hard enough?

“Nova, are you okay?” The sound of Lea’s voice brings back some of my strength because I remember that I’m not alone.

I glance over my shoulder at her. The engine’s still running, the exhaust puffing out smoke, but she’s gotten out of the car and is looking over the roof at me with concern on her face.

“I’m fine,” I assure her, but it’s only partly true, because I’m fine yet I’m terrified. I wish I could say that I was braver, that I was walking into this with confidence and certainty that I was the right person to be helping Quinton. But I’m not. I want to be, though.

I return my attention to Tristan, who’s glancing back and forth between Lea and me with a quizzical look on his face. He starts to open his mouth, but I casually interrupt him.

“Is Quinton around?” My voice comes out surprisingly evenly and I think maybe, just maybe, I’m going to be okay.

“Yeah, he is, but…” Tristan glances down at the bag of ice in his hand and then slaps his forehead with his hand, the one holding the cigarette, and the cherry falls to the ground. “Shit, I forgot I was supposed to be bringing this to him.” He rushes off toward the apartments, acting as though he didn’t just burn himself.

Just how numb is he? I hurry after him, across the gravel parking lot, even when Lea calls out for me to wait.

“Can I talk to him?” I ask as I catch up with Tristan. “I really need to.”

He blinks and looks at me as we walk past a beat-up car that has four flat tires. “If you can get him to wake up, you can.”

I hear the sound of gravel crunching behind us as Lea rushes up, panting to catch her breath. “Jesus, Nova, thanks for leaving me.”

“Sorry,” I apologize, but I’m distracted by what Tristan said. If I can get him to wake up, I can? My heart shrivels inside my chest, yet it still beats intensely. “Is he…what’s he on?”

“Nothing at the moment, really.” He waves at the group of hookers/women as we approach them and one of them whistles back at him.

Another one, with really long legs and bright blue hair, struts forward with a grin on her face. “Hey, can I get a taste?” she asks Tristan, tracing her neon-pink fingernails up his arm.

“Maybe later.” Tristan flashes her a smile as he keeps walking, seeming preoccupied as he clutches the bag of ice and mutters something under his breath. When we reach the bottom of the stairway, he unexpectedly stops and so do I, causing Lea to run straight into my back.

“Look, Nova.” He glances up at the balcony above us. “I’m not sure you want to go inside there…it’s not really your thing.”

“I’ll be fine.” I grip the railing as my own voice echoes in my head. You won’t be fine. What if what you see is bad? More than you can handle? “I just want to talk to Quinton.”

“And that’s great, but like I said he’s not awake right now.” He shifts his weight, his blond hair falling into his eyes, which are blue, but look black because they’re so dilated.

“Well, can I wake him up?” I ask. “I really, really need to talk to him.”

As he assesses me, for the briefest of seconds I see the guy I used to know: the one who was a decent guy, who wouldn’t hurt anyone, who talked to me, hung out with me. But the look quickly vanishes as he glances coldly at Lea. “Who’s that?”

“A friend of mine.” I slant to the side to block Lea from his death stare.

His eyes fasten on me. “Is she cool?”

I understand his code meaning: Does she care that there are drugs around? “Yeah, she’s fine.”

Lea steps forward and rolls her eyes as she gestures at herself. “Do I look like someone who’s going to nark on your little drug nest? Seriously, paranoid much?” She sounds calm, but I can feel the tenseness flowing off her.

Tristan scans her eyes framed with kohl liner, her black tank top and red-and-black shorts, the tattoos on her arms and the piercings in her ears. “I don’t know…are you?”

She crosses her arms and elevates her chin, radiating confidence. “No, I’m not.”

Tristan scratches his head, looking torn. I notice small dots on his arms, some ringed by tiny bruises. I know what they are and so does Lea and when Tristan glances up at the top floor again, Lea aims a pressing look at me.

I’m sorry, I mouth and give her hand a squeeze. The dampness of her skin gives off just how nervous she is and it makes me feel even worse. I look over at the Chevy Nova parked crookedly at the back of the parking lot, about to tell her to go back and wait in it—or go back home—but Tristan interrupts my thoughts.

“Yeah, you can go in and see if you can get him to wake up,” he says, looking back at me and lowering his arm to the side. “But I’m warning you, it’s pretty bad.”

“What’s pretty bad?” I wonder as I follow him up the stairs. I quickly whisper over my shoulder to Lea, “You can go back in and wait in the car.”

“Hell no,” she hisses, glancing over her shoulder at two loud guys who have appeared at the bottom of the stairway. “I feel less safe in there. Just go…I want to get this over with anyway.”

“I owe you big-time,” I whisper.

“Yeah, you do,” she agrees quietly.

Tristan pauses at the top of the steps and moves aside so we can step by him. “He got his ass beat a couple of hours ago and he’s been passed out ever since.”

“Quinton got beat up?” I’m stunned as fear pulsates through me.

Tristan nods. “Yeah, it happens sometimes.”

He says it so casually, like it doesn’t matter, but it does. Quinton matters. And suddenly nothing else matters but getting to Quinton. I rush up the last few steps, urging Tristan to get a move on with a motion of my hand. “I need to see him.” I know it’s sort of a demanding thing to do, but I don’t really care. He’s just walking around with a damn bag of ice in his hand while Quinton could be seriously hurt and he doesn’t even seem coherent enough to fully grasp how absurd it is. And the fact that he doesn’t seem coherent makes me worry even more, because what if Quinton’s dying or something—I doubt Tristan would even be able to tell.

“All right,” Tristan says, as calm as can be, and then signals for me to follow him as he heads to the left. “I’ll lead the way.”

Shaking my head, I follow him across the balcony and past the apartment doors. The entire place reeks like cigarette smoke mixed with weed and it throws me back to a place I don’t necessarily want to forget, but that I don’t like to remember either.

There’s a ton of beer bottles and buckets of cigarette butts around the fronts of the doors, old shoes, shirts, plates of rotting food, and one door is surrounded by a lot of trash bags that smell awful. There’s even a plastic chair and table in front of one of the doors with a guy slumped over it, passed out with what looks like a joint still burning in his hand.

“Is that guy going to be okay?” I nod at the guy as the smoke burns at the back of my throat and nose.

I remember.

God, I do.

It smells and tastes just the same.

Feels the same.

The numbness…the way it momentarily takes everything away.

Stop remembering.

Forget.

Remember who you are now.

As much as I fight it, I remember everything. The feelings of being lost, drifting, numb, yet content at the same time. Detached, floating, flying, running away from my problems. I was sinking, in mud, in drugs, in life. And Quinton was there, sinking right beside me, holding my hand as we went down together, but he told me I was too good for it—that I was better than the things I was doing. He did what he could to get me to stop sinking, even though he wanted to sink himself. That day he left me in the pond, he showed me that aside from the drugs, he was a good guy. He didn’t take advantage of my drifting, my confusion, my mourning.

Tristan pauses near the table and follows my gaze to the guy with the joint. “Oh, that’s Bernie, and yeah, he’ll be fine. He does that sometimes.” He plucks the joint out of Bernie’s hands and I think he’s going to smoke it, but instead he puts it out in the ashtray. When he catches me staring at him funny, he shrugs. “What? It’s not my thing anymore.” He starts down the balcony again, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Not really, anyway.”

It takes a lot not to stare at the track marks on his arms and keep my eyes focused ahead. Lea mutters something under her breath, staying just behind me with her arms wrapped around herself. Tristan starts humming some song as he strolls past door after door and I don’t recognize it, but I wish I did for no other reason than that it would be a distraction. I could sing the lyrics in my head, find solitude in music, like I’ve done many times.

When I check on Lea, she has her eyes fixed on pretty much everything, taking in a world she’s never been in. Hell, I’ve never even been in it, not like this, anyway. This is so different from the trailer park—much more dangerous-looking. Its own dark place hidden from the world and the light and I’m not sure what it’ll take to get Quinton out of here, but I need to find that out.

I take slow breath after slow breath, forcing myself not to count them or my heartbeats or how many steps it’s taking me to get to the door. How many stars are in the sky or how many lights there are on a casino just across the street.

Finally Tristan stops in front of one of the doors and looks back at the parking lot, like he’s checking on something. I’m proud of myself for not running to numbers to calm me down, but when he opens the door my pride crashes and shatters like the pile of glass on the floor just inside the door.

“Welcome to our palace,” Tristan jokes as he shoves the door open and the doorknob bangs against the wall behind it, causing the really bony guy slumped on the couch to let out a grunt as he turns over. I think I recognize the intricate tattoos on his arms, most in black, but some in crimson and indigo, but I’m having a hard time placing him.

As I enter, stepping over the threshold and out of the light of the porch, the first thing I notice is the smell. It stinks. Not just like weed or cigarette smoke, but like garbage, rotting food, dirt, grime, sweaty people, and there’s this really musty smell, like a humidifier is on nearby, yet I can’t see one anywhere. It’s all mixed together and it stings at my nostrils. I wonder if this is how the trailer smelled or if I was just oblivious to it—if I was oblivious to a lot of things.

On the floor are three 1970s lamps with beads hanging off the shades, one of which is tipped over but still on. There’s a large blanket with a tiger on it hanging over the window and the ceiling fan is on, but it’s missing one of the blades and it makes this thumping sound as it moves. There’s no carpet on the floor, and there are holes in the walls, water stains on the ceiling, and crack pipes on the floor. It reminds me so much of the trailer they used to live in, only much shittier (and that’s putting it nicely). I’m both repulsed by it and drawn to what’s hidden beneath the surface, the crevices, the pipes on the floor. My senses are heightened because I know that just one or two hits and I’d probably feel twenty times more subdued at the moment, instead of so anxious I feel like I’m going to combust. At least if it were weed, but Delilah told me on the phone that they were into meth now.

“So this is our place,” Tristan says, switching the bag of ice to his other hand as he weaves between the two old sofas, then he gestures at the person on one of them. “And that’s Dylan…you remember Dylan, right?”

I slowly nod, trying not to look so stunned, but I can’t help it. Yeah, Dylan was always a little scraggly-looking, but he looks like a skeleton now, his bald head showing every bump and divot in his skull and his arms as scrawny as mine. And Tristan looks worse under the dim light of the living room, his skin pallid and his hair really greasy and thinning. There’s a red mark on his forehead from the cigarette and he has a few scabs on his cheeks and neck. Only two things run through my mind at the moment. One, what the hell is Quinton going to look like? And two, what the hell would I look like now if I hadn’t walked away from this life?

“And that’s the kitchen.” He nods at a ratty curtain draped over a clothesline.

I don’t say anything because there’s nothing to say and I follow him across the living room, noting that the pungent smell in the air is amplified as I get closer to the curtain. It makes me wonder what the hell’s behind it, but also lucky that I don’t have to see, since it’s probably going to push at my anxiety even more.

As Tristan starts down a narrow hallway, I peer over my shoulder at Lea. She’s horrified, her enlarged eyes looking around at the glass bongs, the roach clips, the ashtrays, and a syringe on the floor. When her gaze meets mine, I can tell she’s realizing the extent of what I went through last summer. And although I don’t think I ever made it this far, I still was hovering over the fall that could lead to this, and this could have become my life—I could have ended here.

“So try not to freak out,” Tristan tells me as he halts in front a shut door near the end of the hallway.

My body goes rigid. “Why would I freak out…God, Tristan, how bad is he?”

“Personally, I think he looks worse than he really is.” He grips the doorknob, pressing his other hand to his chest, the one holding the bag of ice, and the bag knocks against his stomach. “But I’m not sure if you’ll agree.”

My muscles ravel into even more knots as he opens the door, then my breath hitches in my throat at what’s on the other side of it. A room about the size of a closet with clothes and coins all over the linoleum floor, along with a mirror, razor, and small plastic bag. And just beside the doorway, there’s a lumpy mattress on the floor, and Quinton’s lying on it.

Quinton.

His arm hangs lifelessly over the side of the mattress and his eyes are shut, his body motionless, and the leaky ceiling is dripping filthy water on him. And his face…the bruises…the swelling…the cuts…if I couldn’t see his scarred chest rising and falling, I’d think he was dead.

“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand, tears stinging at my eyes, my gut twisting in knots.

He looks dead. Just like Landon. Only there’s no rope, just bruises and cuts and a room full of the darkness that’s consumed his life.

“Relax.” Tristan sets the bag of ice down on the floor just inside the doorway. “I already told you he looks worse than he is.”

“No, he looks as bad as he is,” I argue in a harsh tone, my heart plunging into my stomach as I push my way into the room and stop when I get to the mattress. “What happened to him?”

“I told you, he got beat up,” Tristan replies, standing in the doorway right in front of Lea.

“And why didn’t you take him to a hospital?” Lea asks in a clipped tone, giving Tristan a hard look that makes him lean back a little.

“Um, because hospitals draw attention, especially when you’ve got all kinds of shit running in your blood,” Tristan says with zero sympathy and I realize I don’t like this Tristan very much. The old Tristan I knew was a lot nicer, but this one seems like an asshole. “And the last thing we need is more attention drawn to us.”

Lea glares at him as she crosses her arms. “Wow, what a friend you are.”

“I’m not his friend,” Tristan points out. “I’m his cousin.”

“And that changes things because?” Lea asks with irritation.

“What the fuck is your deal?” Tristan retorts, stepping toward her.

They start arguing but I barely hear them, their voices quickly fading into the background as I focus on Quinton. I want to help him—it’s what I came here to do. But this…I don’t even know what to do with this. He’s hurt, bleeding, unconscious. I don’t know how long he’s been like this, what he did to end up like this, what kind of drugs he has in his system, or if he’ll act like Tristan when he wakes up.

I need to do something.

I carefully kneel on the mattress and it sinks beneath my weight. He’s changed since I last saw him, his jaw scruffy, but more defined, since he’s lost weight. His hair’s grown out a little and he looks shaggy and rough. He’s shirtless and the muscles that once defined his stomach and chest are gone, his lean arms now lanky. The only things that are really the same are the indistinct scar over his top lip, the large scar on his chest, and the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One. Before, I wondered what they meant, but now I’m pretty sure I know. Lexi was his girlfriend, Ryder was his cousin and probably Tristan’s sister, and No One is Quinton. How can he think of himself as no one? How can he think he doesn’t matter? God, it’s like I’m back with Landon again and I’m looking at him withering inside himself.

“Nothing I say or do matters in this world, Nova,” he says to me as he leans back on his hands, staring at a tree in front of us. “When I’m gone, the world will keep moving.”

“That’s not true,” I say, stunned by his declaration. Sure, he gets depressed sometimes, but this is dark and heavy and hurts me to hear. “I won’t be able to keep moving.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, sitting up and cupping my cheek with his hand as we sit at the bottom of the hill in his backyard. The sun gleams down on us and there’s not really a point to what we’re doing other than to be with each other, which is fine with me.

“No I won’t,” I argue. “If you die, I’ll die right along with you.”

He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “No you won’t, you’ll see.”

“No, I won’t see.” I scoot away from his touch, getting frustrated. “Because you’re not leaving before me,” I say. “Promise me you won’t. Promise me that we’ll grow old together and that I’ll go first.”

He starts to laugh like I’m amusing, but it’s stiff and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nova, you know I can’t promise that when I have no control over life and death.”

“I don’t care,” I say, knowing I’m being irrational, but I need to hear him say it. “Just tell me that you’ll let me go first. Please.”

He sighs tiredly and then scoots across the grass, getting close to me and placing his hand back on my cheek. “All right, I promise. You can go first.”

I can tell he doesn’t mean it and I want to cry, but I don’t. I just keep silent, stewing in my own thoughts, fearing to press him—fearing I’ll make him mad at me. Fearing the truth. Fearing that whatever’s going on his head, I won’t be able to handle it or help.

I blink from the memory and focus on Quinton. “My poor Quinton,” I utter under my breath, like he belongs to me, even though he doesn’t. But at that moment I wish he did and I could just pick him up and take him out of here. Clean up his cuts and feed him because he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. I become hyper-aware of just how much I care for him and want to make him better—help him. And this time I’m not going to silently watch him slip away.

Hesitantly I reach for him, but then pull back fearing I’ll hurt him, and instead lean over him with my hands to my sides, clenched into fists. “Quinton,” I say softly. “Can you hear me?”

He doesn’t respond, breathing in and out, his chest rising and sinking. I dare to touch his cheek, gently cup it in my hand, feel how cold his skin is. “Quinton, please wake up…I’m so sorry…for not seeing…for not being able to see…” I struggle for words through the abundance of emotions surfacing. Regret. Worry. Fear. Remorse. Pain. God, I feel his pain, hot beneath my skin, flooding my heart, and I wish I could pull it out of him. “Please, please open your eyes,” I choke.

My only response is the softness of his breathing. I check his pulse with my other hand and it’s there, murmuring against my skin. I try to tell myself there’s still hope, that I can get out of this, but looking around…looking at him, taking in the silence that’s almost as quiet as death…I’m not so sure anymore. And it hurts, almost as much as if I’d lost him, just like I lost Landon.

Quinton

I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming. Or maybe I’m dead. I’m hoping for the latter, but I don’t think it’s the correct assumption because this feels different from the first time I died. If I’m dreaming, it’s a beautiful dream, one where I’m with Nova and we’re happy. I’m surprised I’m seeing myself with her and normally I’d stop my thoughts from going there, but I’m not awake enough to care. Plus, I feel really good, better than I have in a while. Everything feels light. Breathless. Hazy and weightless. My memories of my past are fading. I can no longer feel the blood on my hands or the weight of guilt on my shoulders. Something wonderful is taking over. I’m not in the darkness, locked within myself. I’ve been swept up by light and I feel like I could do anything at the moment as I lie on my back, gazing up at the sky. Nova hovers over me, cupping my cheek, and her skin is so damn warm and she smells amazing. And her eyes…bright blue with specks of green, her skin dotted with freckles, and her full lips that look so delicious I want to taste them…and I’m going to, because nothing matters at the moment. It’s not real, which makes it easier to take what I want—admit what I want.

I lean up, not even thinking about what I’m doing, and press my lips to hers. It hurts my mouth but the pain is worth it—it’s worth everything just to taste her again. I could do it forever, and I want to, but when I slip my tongue deep inside her mouth, she pulls away, her eyes widening and swarming with confusion. I open my mouth to tell her to come back to me, because I want her—need to kiss her again—but then her lips start moving and the haze from my brain gradually starts to lift.

“Quinton, can you hear me?” she asks, her voice soft, distant. Or maybe I’m the one who’s distant.

“I…” It hurts to talk, my throat too dry, and the brightness of the sun is stinging at my eyes.

“Are you okay?” she says, and the sunlight dims as the blue sky changes into my shitty bedroom ceiling, cracked and stained with water. That stupid drip comes into focus, haunting me again.

I suddenly realize that I’m in my room. Awake. And Nova’s here. With me. My thoughts start racing as I try to recollect what happened. I was planning on those guys beating me to death. Why didn’t that happen? Because it was too easy? Do I deserve not to be let off so easy—do I deserve worse than death? But if that’s true then why’s Nova here?

“What are you doing here?” It’s painful to talk, but I force the words to leave my mouth. “Or am I dreaming?”

She repositions her hand on my cheek, but doesn’t pull away, the startled look in her eyes diminishing. “You’re not dreaming…you were unconscious but…are you okay?” She seems nervous and it reminds me of how innocent and good she is, and how she shouldn’t be here in the crack house that I call home.

“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice feeble as I try to sit up, but my arms aren’t working and I fall right back down on the mattress.

“I came here to see you,” she replies, absent-mindedly touching her lips, and I wonder if I really kissed her or if I was imagining it.

She stares at me with her fingers on her lips and it’s uncomfortable because she’s really looking at me. I’ve been so used to people looking through me, as if I were a ghost, seeing the drugs, the person that I am now, the worthlessness all over me, instead of who I used to be. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be really looked at and for a split second I enjoy it. Then she looks away and I feel like I’m dying, my brain registering the pain in my legs, arms, chest—everywhere. And I’m crashing. Badly. My hands start to shake, my heart rate picking up as soon as I realize this.

“Go put some ice in a plastic bag,” she says, snapping her fingers at someone.

I hear a mutter and then Tristan steps into my view. He glances down at me and the haziness in his eyes lets me know he’s high on something, but I’m glad he’s at least here and it doesn’t look like he’s been beaten up. “Dude, you look like shit,” he tells me with a dopey-ass grin.

“I feel like shit,” I mutter, managing to get my hand up to my face to rub my eyes. “You look like you got away.”

“I did, and you should have run with me, you dumbass…I thought you were for a while until I realized I was alone.” Tristan chuckles under his breath. “Wait until you see yourself in a mirror.”

His amusement seems to piss Nova off and she gets to her feet, tugging the bottoms of her shorts down, fury burning in her eyes. “Go get a fucking bag to put the ice in,” she says, not yelling, but her tone is cold, abrupt, harsh, and she sort of shoves him. This isn’t the Nova I remember at all and she kind of scares me.

She seems to scare Tristan, too, who surrenders with his hands in front of him and backs toward the doorway. “Fine. Jesus, Nova. You don’t have to get crazy about it.”

“You haven’t even begun to see me get crazy,” she snaps, pointing at the door. “Now go get a damn bag.”

After Tristan leaves, she turns to the doorway and says, “What am I going to do?”

I can’t see who she’s talking to and it makes me wonder who the hell is in here. Delilah? I doubt it, since I don’t think she’d be asking Delilah that question.

“I don’t know,” someone replies. I still can’t see who it is, but I can tell the voice belongs to a female and I hate how excited I get over the fact that Nova’s not here with a guy.

Suddenly a girl with black hair and big blue eyes steps in. “He looks…” She assesses me, then looks at Nova. “He looks like he needs to go to a hospital.”

“No hospitals,” I croak. “I don’t have the cash to pay for that.” And I don’t deserve to heal so easily. I should suffer for getting up and running away from my death.

Nova stares down at me with reluctance. “Quinton, I really think you need to go to a hospital.” She kneels back down on the mattress, sweeping her long brown hair to the side as she leans over me. Her fingers gently enfold my wrist and, moving slowly, she bends my arm so I can get a good view of my hand. It’s twice the size it normally is and my skin is purple and blue. Even where her fingers are, the skin is swollen and raw, and it seems like her touch should hurt, but all I can feel is heat—her heat. God, I’ve missed her heat. I’ve spent the last year wrapped up in coldness, feeling the numbness of drugs and sex with random women and now she’s here and I feel like I’m burning up.

“It’s just a bruise,” I say, not looking at my hand, but at her. I want to hold her, hug her, kiss her, touch her, but I also want her to go away. Stay. Leave. Right. Wrong. Lexi. Nova. Guilt.

Guilt.

Guilt.

Guilt.

It was all your fault.

As my past strikes me in the face, I jerk my hand away from her, not carefully, and this time I feel the pain, but I don’t react to it. Instead I finally struggle to sit up on the mattress. As soon as I’m upright, sharp pains stab at my side, making it hard to breathe. I gasp, clutching at my side as I hunch over.

“What’s wrong?” Nova asks with genuine concern, and it only makes it harder to breathe.

“Nova, just go,” I grunt, trying to focus on my breathing, but it’s like I’m being punched over and over again…my thoughts drift back to earlier today…

Donny strikes me with the tire iron, over and over again. I fall to the ground. I’m not even sure why I fall, other than that I’m tired of standing. I’m ready to give up and I do as he slams the heavy metal bar into shoulder, my rib cage, kicking me, punching me, beating me repeatedly.

I can see it in his eyes that he wants to kill me and I welcome it as I lie in the gravel, the rocks piercing my skin, the sky blue above me.

“Go ahead.” I choke on the blood gushing up in my mouth as I stare up at him. “Kill me.”

He smiles, then hits me again with the bar, and I feel one of my ribs crack as the metal slams against it. It sucks the air out of me, causes blinding pain to erupt through my body. But I feel nothing. I’m numb. Dead.

I give up.

He tosses the bar to the side and rolls up his sleeves, switching to hitting me with his fists. And when he aims one of them at my head, I sprawl my arms and legs out to the side, making sure he finishes me off. Just do it. I’m done.

“You act like you want this,” Donny says with eagerness and confusion on his face and then his fist collides with my cheek.

“Maybe I do,” is all I say, the taste of blood filling up my mouth. I do—I know I do.

“God, you crackheads are such worthless pieces of shit,” he says with a smile. “Nothing to live for. No one to care whether you live or die.”

He says it like he’s not a crackhead himself and I wonder if he is, or if he just deals, sells shit to people, helps fuck up their lives for cash. I wonder if he has something to live for. Someone who cares about him. What would that be like, to have someone, like that, like I did once with Lexi?

Or Nova. I blink the thought from my head and try to force it out as he moves to hit me again, with a look on his face that makes me wonder if he’s going to kill me.

Good, I think, yet for the briefest of moments I feel conflicted. I’m not even sure where the feeling stems from. Myself or thoughts of Nova. Or the simple fear that this could be it—that this time there’s going to be no ambulance to show up and revive me. Paranoia sets in.

What the fuck.

“But I’m going to let you live,” the guy says as he swings his fist down to strike, anger burning in his eyes, which are bloodshot. He’s high and I know there’s little control inside him, that even though he says he’s going to let me live, he could easily take it one swing too far and probably wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late. “So you can tell your little pussy friend that just took off that he better watch his back.”

He slams his fist into my ribs again and the pain erupts through my body and I want to shout at him to not do me the favor of letting me live. To finish me off. But instead, as he brings his arm up to hit me again, I do something I wasn’t expecting. I get up and run, like a fucking wimp, running away from death, running away from what I deserve.

Fuck, what am I doing? Why didn’t I tell him to finish me off? He probably would have if I’d made him angry enough. But instead I ran. Chose life. To come back to this? It’s time to nail the damn coffin shut.

“Quinton, are you okay?” The sound of Nova’s voice jerks me back to the present and I get angry because she’s fucking with my head. Even after nine months, she consumes my thoughts almost as much as Lexi. She makes me hesitate with stuff and I don’t like it.

I look at her, getting pissed off because she’s here when I thought she’d let me go—she should have. Plus, there’s barely any drugs left in my system and I feel like I could fucking claw someone’s eyes out.

“Nova, just go away,” I say, moving my legs off the mattress. My knees are stiff and my joints ache. I’m also missing a shoe and my foot is cut up and scraped raw on the top.

Nova sits down beside me, shaking her head. “Not until I help you…Quinton, I want to help you.”

For a second my heart skips a beat, but then the scar on my chest burns, telling my emotions to shut the hell up. I need to stop reacting to her and I need to get a line in my system so I won’t even feel any of this—feel her.

“I don’t want you to help me.” Trying to appear more confident than I feel, I push to my feet and stand up. My knees promptly begin to wobble, but I fight the compulsion to fall to the floor. “Now I’m asking you to go.”

She glances at her friend, who briefly scrutinizes me, seeing what I really am, what Nova won’t see. “We should probably listen,” she says to Nova, apparently seeing something she doesn’t like, and I wish Nova would get on the same page.

Nova smashes her lips together so forcefully the skin around her mouth whitens. “No.” Her eyes lock on me. “I’m not going until you let me help you.”

I start to spastically shake even more and try to blame it on the fact that I need to do a line, but it’s not just that. It’s her. Her eyes. Her words. The simple fact that she’s right in front of me, just within arm’s reach, yet I can’t touch her. I’d be leaving my own self-made prison if I did. I’d be trying to escape from the bars I built around myself for a reason, made of guilt, the foundation formed by a promise I made to never forget the love of my life, whose life ended because of me.

“You can’t help me,” I snap. “Now just get the fuck out before I make you get out.”

She flinches as if I’ve slapped her, yet it seems to bring more determination out of her as she scoots closer to me. “I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well let me help you at least clean off those cuts you have all over you—they’re going to get infected.”

The idea of her taking care of me like that both pleases and appalls me. I want her to stay, which means there’s only one thing I can do. Fighting the impulse inside my body to grab her and crush my lips against hers, I get up and limp toward the doorway, dodging around her friend. I head across the hallway to Delilah’s room. The door’s wide open and the room is unoccupied, which is what I’m looking for.

“Where are you going?” Nova chases after me, but I slam the door right in her face. Like the asshole that I am. I lock it and she starts to bang on it, shouting for me to open up, but I ignore her and flop down on the dirty mattress. Then I reach down between it and the wall where I know Delilah hides her stash and take the small plastic bag out. There’s barely enough for a line in there, but it’ll have to be enough for now, at least until Nova stops banging on the door.

I can hear her talking to someone on the other side as I scrape the remaining crystal out of the bag and onto the Tupperware bin beside the mattress. It sounds like she’s crying, but I could be wrong and honestly I don’t care. I only care about one thing, knowing it’ll make everything feel better and then everything—the fight, Nova—won’t matter.

There’s a pen on the bin and I pick it up as someone knocks on the door. They say something but I don’t hear them as I lean down and suck the tiny white crystals up my nose, feeling the gnawing ache in my body slowly evaporate.

“Quinton, please open up,” Nova says through the door with one soft tap of her hand. There’s a plea in her voice that rips at my throat, but the white powder entering my system quickly heals it. Sure it’s only temporary, but all I’ll need is another hit once the wound starts to open again. I’ll never have to feel again if I follow the process.

Nova says something else, but I cover my ears with my hands and ball up on the mattress until her voice fades out.

And I fade with it.