Saving Quinton

Chapter 6

Nova

I can’t stop crying. The tears started flowing the moment Quinton locked himself into that room. I didn’t know what to do, so I tried everything I could. I begged. I pleaded. I sobbed as I pounded on the door. But he wouldn’t listen and it hurt me to think about him broken and beat up on the other side, doing God knows what while I couldn’t do anything to stop him, all because of a door. A stupid door with a lock that I couldn’t break.

Finally Lea dragged me out of there and I can barely remember what happened over the next few hours, other than that I ended up back at her uncle’s house in the guest room bed with a blanket over me and I feel so exhausted.

“We should have never gone there,” she says as she lies down on the bed beside me. “That was bad, Nova. Like really, really bad.”

“It was the ugly part of life,” I agree, my tears subsiding. “But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have gone there…he needs my help, Lea.”

“He needs more than your help,” she replies, tucking her arm under her head. “He needs to go to a hospital and then rehab or something.”

“I know that.” I rotate to my side and stare out the window at the stars in the sky and the view calms me. “But I don’t know how I can get him to do that, so I’m doing the only thing I can think of right now.”

“I’m worried about you,” she admits. “I don’t think you should go back there.”

“I have to,” I whisper. “Now that I’ve seen him…seen how he’s living, seen the condition he’s in, I can’t walk away.” I thought maybe my feelings for him would have changed, that maybe last summer was just an illusion built around weed, but it’s not. And I realized that the second I saw him lying in that bed, and when he kissed me, half out of it, it only heightened my feelings. And I didn’t see Landon this time, I just saw a broken guy I wish I could just hug better.

“Nova, please just think about it,” she says. “Think before you go back. Promise me you will. I think you’re going to get in over your head…and those papers I was reading…helping meth addicts is complicated. You need to understand what you’re getting into and if you really want to get into it.”

“Okay, I promise I’ll think about what I’m doing.” But I already know what the answer will be. I’m going back because I’m not ready to give up on him, not when I’ve barely gotten started. I have to figure this out, somehow.

“And read the papers,” she adds, fluffing the pillow and getting situated.

“Okay,” I promise again, wondering just how much insight papers from the Internet can give, but I guess reading them won’t hurt. At the moment I’ll do anything I think can help.

It gets quiet and I close my eyes, ready to fall asleep, wishing upon wishing that I could see a way through this.

“If you were stuck on a desert island,” I say to Landon as he draws line after line in his sketchbook. I scoot forward on the bed, pretending I’m scratching my foot, when really I just want to be closer to him. “What’s the one thing you’d want there with you?”

He frowns down at his drawing, a self-portrait, his face half shadowed, his hair shorter on one side, and his cheekbone shaded to look sunken in so it looks like he’s wearing the mask from The Phantom of the Opera. “I’m not sure…maybe a pencil.” He stares at the pencil in his hand and then looks at his drawing. “But then again, if I couldn’t have both a pencil and paper, there really wouldn’t be any point to taking one and not the other.” He sets the pencil down on the paper and rubs some smeared graphite off his hand with a thoughtful look on his face, while I pretend not to be sad over the fact that he didn’t say he’d want me on the island with him. “But then again…” He looks up at me and his honey-brown eyes burn with intensity. “Maybe I’d just take you.” He strokes his finger across my cheek, leaving a smudge there I’m sure. “Having you there could have its perks.”

I crinkle my nose like it’s an absurd idea when really my stomach is fluttering with butterflies. “How would that be a perk? I’m not resourceful in intense situations…I’d probably do more harm than good.”

He shakes his head, tracing his finger up my cheekbone to a lock of my hair. He twirls it around his fingers as he sets his pencil and sketchbook to the side. “No way, Nova Reed, you’d be a lifesaver.”

“How do you figure?” My voice sounds breathless and I hate it because it gives away everything that I’m feeling—the effect he has on me. And even though we’ve kissed and touched each other, I’m still not certain where he stands—how he feels about me.

“Because…you save me every day,” he says.

My forehead creases as I stare into his eyes, searching for a sign that he’s joking, but he looks so serious. “Save you from what?”

He pauses, searching my eyes, but for what I’m not sure. “From fading.”

His words hit me square in the chest and I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out, just like always whenever he says something so sad. Finally I manage, “I still don’t get what you mean.”

“I know,” he says with a sigh, unraveling his fingers from my hair. “It doesn’t really matter…I was just trying to say that if you and I were trapped on an island, I know you’d end up being the one to save us, because I know you’d never give up and it’d make me not want to give up either.”

I’m not really sure if it’s the answer I want to hear or how it connects to me stopping him from fading in the real world. I could ask him, but he silences me with his lips, kissing me softly, but with passion behind it, gripping my waist. And before I can think too deeply about what he means about wanting to give up, he gently pushes me down on the bed, lying on top of me. He covers my body with his and I melt into his embrace as he kisses me until I’ve forgotten about everything except him and me and the brief warmth engulfing our bodies.

May 17, day two of summer break

Nova

When I open my eyes, the sunlight blinds me and I’m sweating from the heat. No one bothered to close the curtain last night and without any mountains around, the heat of the sun is intense. I throw the blanket off and blink as I gradually sit up. I’m so exhausted that all I want to do at the moment is give up. Curl up in a ball, throw the blanket back over my head, and sleep until the next day, maybe longer. But I can’t help thinking about the dream I had last night. At the time I didn’t think anything of it, and honestly I’m surprised I even remember it. I know you’d never give up and it’d make me not want to give up either.

It hurts, thinking about Landon, because he did give up and leave me. In the end I wasn’t a lifesaver like he thought. I was just a distraction from his pain and I didn’t save him. I don’t want to be a distraction this time around. I want to do things differently. But how? How can I make sure Quinton doesn’t end up like Landon?

After thinking about it for a while, I do something I haven’t done in a long time. I sneak out of bed, grab my laptop, and go out onto the sofa to watch the video Landon made right before he ended his life. I’m not even sure what the point is. Whether I just want to see him again, or analyze the video. Watching his lips move, the pain in his eyes, the way his inky black hair falls across his forehead, it takes me back to that night when I woke up on the hill. Just after he made this video, I would find him, hanging from his bedroom ceiling. Music would be playing, like it is in the video. I often wonder if, had I woken up just a little bit sooner, I would have caught him making the video, instead of right after he hanged himself. Could I have stopped him? Was he waiting for me to wake up and stop him, but I took too long and he gave up?

Finally I shut off the video. I have such a fucked-up mentality over his death, but since there will never be any answers, there will always be a ton of questions.

I swallow hard and cup my hand around my wrist, remembering the one time I almost gave up, too, almost left the world, left my mom to find me bleeding out in the bathroom with a ton of questions she’d never have answers to, like Landon did with me. Part of me really wanted to end it all, to stop burying the pain inside me, but part of me was scared of the what-ifs. What if I did go through with it? What if I just ended my life? What would happen to the people who cared about me? My mom? What would I miss? It was one of the darkest times in my life and it’s permanently branded on my body, a scar put there by my own hand, reminding me never again. I’ll never give up again.

When I return to the bedroom, Lea is still asleep on the other side of the king-size bed, her face turned toward the opposing wall, her breathing soft, and the blanket is pulled up over her. I quietly put the computer away and get ready to go, not wanting to wake her up and argue with her about going back home. Plus, I need to talk to Quinton alone. I get dressed in a pair of red shorts and a white shirt and pull my hair into a ponytail to keep the heat from melting it to my skin. Then I read through some of the papers Lea printed out that talk about helping a drug addict: intervention, talking to the addict, getting him into rehab. They’re very technical and most are like clinical instructions on how to handle drug addicts. What I don’t get, though, is where the information is on how to deal with their mood swings. Or the hopelessness that comes with trying to make someone see that he needs to get better, trying to find the right thing that will bring him back. Or how about how to get his family to come down and support him, because that’s what he really needs? He needs people who know him and care about him, like I needed my mom when I decided I wanted to heal.

I don’t know much about Quinton’s family other than that his mom passed away when he was born and even though his dad raised him, it was pretty much like he raised himself. I wonder if I could find out more about his dad…maybe he’d want to help Quinton. I mean, he is his son and I know if my father had been alive when I was doing drugs, he’d have done anything to help me. But I can’t count on it, because not all people are like my mom and dad and would do anything for their child. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look into it, if I can get someone to either give me his father’s phone number or tell me his name and where he lives so I can get him.

I write Lea a note, telling her that I’m going out for coffee and will be back soon. I hate lying to her, but at the same time I hated seeing how terrified she was last night. I put the note on the pillow beside her, then write on the back of my hand no regrets. It’s something Lea and I say to each other all the time and it’s going to remind me today not to regret anything I do, right there on my hand, just in case I even think about trying to take something that I’ll regret taking later.

I tuck my phone into my back pocket and head out to the car, locking the front door behind me on the way out. It’s so hot I feel like I’m melting into a steaming puddle, the heat leaching the air out of my lungs. I walk swiftly to the car and hop in, but curse when the black leather seat burns my legs. I start up the engine, then find Quinton’s address on the GPS, along with the nearest coffee shop, because I’m going to need a caffeine boost if I’m going to make it through this.

“You can do this, Nova,” I say as back down the driveway and turn onto the road. I continue to repeat the mantra in my head all the way to the coffee shop. I order two coffees, not even sure if Quinton drinks coffee or how he takes it, but I make a guess. Then I crank up a little “Help Me” by Alkaline Trio and drive to Quinton’s apartment, trying not to get too upset at the sight of it in broad daylight. But I can’t help it. The sun only makes it look more tragic and fills me with even more hopelessness, but I still park the car. Then I take my phone out of my pocket, flip the video recorder on, and let out a deep breath before I aim the screen at myself.

“Why am I talking to you…I really have no idea, other than that I find it therapeutic,” I say to the camera. “Because when I’m talking to you, I can say what I’m really feeling…and what I’m really feeling is…well, it’s a lot of things. Like for starters, I’m scared, not just for myself, but for Quinton. That place he’s in…it’s horrible. I knew people lived like this in movies and stuff, but seeing it with my own eyes…it’s terrifying.” I pause, glancing at the building. “And I also feel hurt…I mean, he was so, so upset with me last night for being here and all I want to do is help him…the only thing that can get me past that is remembering…remembering how much my mom wanted to help me and how much I shut her out. I didn’t want help, but looking back I think deep down I really did want it, I just couldn’t see past all the dark stuff…until I watched Landon’s video…the one he made right before he committed suicide…in a way, that video woke me up. I’m hoping that Quinton is the same way—that there’s something to wake him up. I have to believe there is, otherwise there’s no hope left. And I’m not ready to accept that yet.” I pause, taking a deep breath before I add, “So here goes. I’m going back in.” I stop talking and click off the camera, putting the phone back into my pocket. Then I get out of the car, making sure to grab the coffees and lock the doors.

The area is eerily silent, like everyone sleeps during the day and only comes out at night. I’m sort of glad, though. It makes walking to the stairs, going up them, and walking to the door so much easier. The hard part comes when I get to the door. I stare at the cracks in it, breathing in the stale air. I’m not sure what to do next, or if I even want to do anything next.

What do I do?

Finally I knock on the door, softly at first, but then I hit it a little harder when no one answers. All I get in return is more silence and I glance back at my car, growing nervous. Should I go? But when I look back at the door, all I can picture is Quinton on the other side, bruised and broken—lost. Just like I was at one point in my life.

I’m not sure what to do and my legs start to feel like rubber as I stand there. Finally I sit down on the ground and lean against the railing, knowing it’s probably filthy. But filth doesn’t matter at the moment and I can handle getting the backside of my shorts dirty. I set the coffees down beside me, read no regrets written on the back of my hand, then touch my exposed scar.

Remember.

I float back into the memory of how bad things were when I fell toward rock bottom, leaning my head back against the railing and staring up at the sky through a hole in the canopy roof above me.

I can’t feel my body. I think I’ve drunk so much that I’ve managed to drown myself. Because that’s what I feel like. Submerged in water, only it’s hot, scorching, yet at the same time my body is connected to the heat so I can’t do anything but let it burn my skin. Slowly.

I want out of it. My body. My thoughts. I want to be above water again or maybe at the bottom. I’m not sure. I’m not sure what I want anymore. What I’m supposed to be doing. So I keep wandering around helplessly, kissing guys I shouldn’t be kissing, not focusing past anything but taking the next step and even that seems difficult.

Maybe I should just stop walking.

I go into the bathroom at my house and don’t lock the door because Landon didn’t lock the door and I want to figure out why he didn’t. Did he want me to walk in or did he just forget…was he just too out of it? I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

I sink down on the cold tile floor, tears staining my eyes and cheeks. I’ve been crying all night, feeling guilty, aching from the inside, but now suddenly I feel nothing. Emptied. Like all my emotions were drained out through those tears and I’m not sure any feelings are ever going to come back. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe Landon took what was inside me with him. Maybe I don’t even have blood left in my veins.

God, I miss him. Is this what he was thinking right before he left? That he missed someone? Or that he didn’t have life in him? That he felt broken?

I have to know—need to understand—what he felt like when he decided it was time to go forever. Because sometimes it feels like I’m heading to that same place, where giving up seems easier than taking any more steps.

I reach up toward the counter and feel around until I find the drawer handle. I pull it open and without looking in it, I feel around until I find a razor. My fingers don’t shake when I take it out. I kind of expected them to, like they would freak out over the fact that I’m going to do this.

I am.

I bring my hand back toward me and stare at the razor in my hand. I’m not even sure how sharp it is or how exactly to do this. It doesn’t look very sharp and the pink handle makes it look almost harmless. I dare touch my fingertip to the edge of the razor and press down. Nothing. So I slide it up and it slowly splits the skin of my finger open. Dots of blood trickle out and onto the floor around my feet. I stare at them, feeling the burn in my finger, but not really feeling it, which makes me think I might be able to go through with this. Is that what Landon did, too? Did he test what the rope felt like around his neck? Did it burn? Was he afraid? Was he thinking about how he was going to miss me? How much I’d miss him? How much it’d hurt for me to see him like that? Was he thinking at all? I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything anymore.

I stretch my arm out in front of me, see the vein. It’s faint and small so I pump my fist repeatedly until it’s purple and bulging like it’s angry. Like it’s shouting at me to stop. Don’t do it. I can’t stop. Not until I understand.

I bring my knee up and rest my arm on top of it, my forearm up. I pump my fist over and over again as I move the razor closer, feeling nothing, not until the blade comes into contact with my skin. I feel a hint of cold and I shiver, but I shove the sensation aside and press the blade down. It stings as the skin tears open. I feel it, along with the warmth of the blood dripping out, but I still don’t understand what he was thinking…what made him go through with it—what made him end his life.

I push the razor down harder and start to graze it along my skin. Cutting my skin open. Letting the blood out. Letting the pain out. It’s trailing down my skin, like a weak river, and the line across my wrist is opening up, but it’s not nearly open enough, just a faint cut, something that will barely leave a scar. I need to do it more.

I slice the razor back and forth over my skin, each movement bringing on more pain, yet at the same time I’m letting it out. I’m starting to feel light-headed, like I’m swimming into dark water, drowning. How far can I go? When do I stop? How much is enough?

Suddenly someone knocks on the door. “Nova, are you in there?” my mom asks.

“Go away!” I shout, my voice off pitch and trembling.

“What the hell are you doing in there? Are you okay?” she asks, worried.

“I said go the fuck away!”

“I will not. Not until you tell me what’s wrong…I thought I heard you crying in there.”

When I don’t respond, the doorknob starts to turn and then the door opens. Her expression falls and her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me, razor in my hand, blood all over my arm and the floor. She’s going to freak out and all I can think is: Am I glad she walked in? Am I glad I left the door unlocked? Am I glad she stopped me?

I blink from the memory, breathing in and out, telling my pulse to settle down, to remember, but to not let the memory overtake me. Sometimes, when I really think about it, I tell myself that I didn’t lock the door that day because I wanted someone to walk in on me, wanted them to find me before I bled out—that I never intended to kill myself. I’m not sure if there’s any truth behind it or not. My head was in too weird a place at the time and thinking back it’s hard to decipher what I was truly feeling. But my mom did walk in on me—she did open the door—and I didn’t die. I was madder than hell at her, too, yelled and screamed, not even sure why I was so mad. But I got over it and in the end, right in this moment, I’m so glad that she did.

Getting to my feet, I walk forward and knock on the door to Quinton’s apartment again. I do it ten times just to be sure that no one is going to answer, and then, even though I’m afraid to do it, I grab the doorknob. I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do but I’m not even sure there is a right thing to do, so I do what I know.

Summoning a deep breath, I turn the doorknob, but it’s locked. As I let go and my arm falls to the side, a piece of my hope burns out. I back away from the door and sit back down. All I can do now is wait for Quinton to come to me.

Quinton

The pain’s starting to dwindle, or maybe it’s still there in my body but my mind is focusing on other stuff. Like the sound of the wind just outside, or how cold the wall is against my back, though my skin feels hot, or how my hand itches to draw yet I can’t move my fingers enough to pick up a pencil.

“You are so jacked up right now,” Tristan remarks as he lowers his head to the mirror and sucks up another line. He throws his head back and sniffs, putting his hand to his nose as he releases a euphoric breath. He’s done at least three more lines than me, pushing that boundary he’s always pushing.

“So are you.” I lean forward from the wall and steal the mirror from his hand. I don’t hesitate, putting the pen to my nose and sucking the white powder up in one deep, wonderful breath. Then I set the mirror down on the floor and rub my hand across my nostrils, sniffing as my nose and throat absorb the adrenaline rush.

“True,” Tristan says, drumming his fingers on the tops of his knees as he glances around my room, like he’s searching for something, but he’s not going to find it, since there’s nothing in here. “I think we should do something.”

“Like what?” I massage my bruised hand, my fingers are crooked and I still can’t straighten them, but there’s no pain for the most part. One of my eyes is also swollen and I can barely see out of it, but everything’s good because I’m soaring right now. “Because I can’t do anything that involves using my hand or my foot or my ribs either.”

He snorts a laugh as he starts tapping his foot, so much energy buzzing through him I think he’s going to lose it. “Isn’t that what we were trying to do here? Numb out your pain so you can move?”

I consider what he said and remember that was the point behind doing so much today. “Let me see if I can,” I tell him, then I bend my knees, put my good hand down on the floor and push up. It feels like it hurts yet at the same time I feel at peace with the ache inside me as I stumble to my feet. My left leg tries to buckle, so I put all my weight on the right one and brace my hand on the wall.

“I think you got it,” Tristan says, standing up from my mattress. “Now we can walk over to Johnny’s and get some more, pretending we’re making a pickup for Dylan or something.”

“We don’t have any cash for that,” I point out, then glance at the pennies on my floor. “Unless you think he’ll accept pennies.”

He shakes his head and then smiles as he takes a roll of cash out of his pocket. “Yeah, we do.”

“Where did you get that?” I ask, leaning my weight on my arm as I try to support my body.

He shakes his head and stuffs the money back into his pocket. “I’m not going to tell you, since you’ll be all weird about it.”

I frown at the money that I’m pretty sure belongs to Dylan, the money that Delilah gave to me to make the pickup that led to my ass getting beat by Trace’s guys. “Did you steal that off of me yesterday, because that wasn’t mine. It was Dylan’s.”

“Can we just go?” he asks, and I know he did—he took the money and has no plans to give it back—yet I don’t say anything because in the end that money is what is going to get us more drugs. “Forget about where the money came from. I’ll make sure to pay Dylan back, but let’s just get to Johnny’s because we’re running low.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea? After what happened yesterday? Because I really don’t feel like getting my ass kicked again and this time I don’t think I’m going to be able to run away.” I rest my head back against the wall and roll my eyes a few times, trying to stop them from drying out. “You know, the guy that beat the shit out of me made a threat that you were going to get it, too.”

“So what? I can handle whatever they bring,” he says with a stupid amount of confidence that’s going to end up getting him hurt. I can feel it. “Besides, if they come here then I’ll run, unlike you…” He considers something, looking perplexed. “Why didn’t you at first? It makes me think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Maybe we both are.”

“Or maybe we both need help,” I say, but I only really mean him.

“I don’t need to hear that shit from you, too,” he states with an exaggerated sigh.

“What do you mean me, too?” I ask, lifting my head back up to look at him. “Who else has been telling you that?”

“My parents,” he replies with a shrug.

“I thought you haven’t talked to them since we bailed out on Maple Grove?”

He does another line, sucking air through his nose multiple times as he puts his head upright. “I made the stupid mistake of calling them a few months ago to see if they could lend me some money. I used Delilah’s phone and apparently my mom cared enough to save it in her contacts—although she didn’t care enough to say yes to lending me the money.” He mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like “Stupid bitch.” “Then she randomly called about a day or two ago…told me I should come home and get help…said they missed me or some shit, like they suddenly decided they were going to start caring.”

“Maybe you should go home,” I say, thinking of my own father, wondering what he’s doing and if he ever thinks about me. I haven’t talked to him since I left Seattle, but then again I haven’t tried to call him and I’m not sure if he knows how to get ahold of me. If he does, though, I think I’d rather not know, because that means he can call me but chooses not to. The truth can hurt a hell of a lot more than just thinking about the fucked-up possibilities. “I mean, if they want you to get help, then why not? It obviously means that they care about you.”

He laughs sharply. “They don’t care about me. Trust me.”

“Then why would they call you?” I ask, wishing he would go, get better, live a good life. “I’m sure they care about you—that they miss you…you’re probably hurting them a lot…” I almost say, “all things considering,” since they’ve already lost one child. But I can’t do that—say it aloud. Remind him and myself of what I’ve done.

He ignores me. “You know what, maybe you should go home,” he retorts as he pinches his nostrils with his fingertips.

“This is my home,” I say. “I don’t have anywhere else…I fucked that up a long time ago.”

It grows quiet between the two of us, which happens a lot when one of us brings up the past, even if we’re both forcing euphoria into our bodies. The past can always momentarily hinder the high, although we have gone into some really deep heart-to-hearts about it when we’re both soaring on adrenaline, but we never remember exactly what we said when we crash back down to reality.

He starts messing around with his shoelaces even though they’re tied while I reach for a shirt on the floor. But as I bend over, my ribs ache in protest and I stand right back up, letting out a groan.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan asks, his attention darting from me to the door to the window to the ceiling.

“I think I broke one of my ribs.”

His eyes land back on me. “Well, you know what they say the best cure is for broken ribs,” he says, picking up my shirt for me. “More lines.”

I take the shirt from him when he offers it to me. “I’m pretty sure no one says that.”

“I just did,” he says in all seriousness. “Now are you going to come to Johnny’s or what?” He’s practically bouncing, glancing all over my room, drumming his fingers like he can’t sit still.

I try to put my shirt on, but only get one arm in when I decide that I can’t move my body enough, I give up and toss my shirt aside. “There’s no way I can get that on,” I say, trying to figure out a solution, but thinking too deeply about one thing gives me a headache. “I’ll just walk over there without a shirt on.”

He nods as he opens my bedroom door. “That’s a good idea, then maybe you can hook up with that Caroline chick. She has a thing for you and she’s hot. Plus, she’s got connections.”

I shake my head as we walk down the hall. “I’m not hooking up with anyone today.”

He gapes at me like I’m insane. “Why the fuck not?”

I scratch at my arm, right over the tattoos, even though it’s not itchy. “Because I don’t feel like it.”

“You will when we get a few more lines in you,” he assures me as he knocks a glass bottle out of the way and it crashes and breaks against Delilah’s shut door.

I exhale, not believing that’s going to happen, because the real reason for my hesitation isn’t going to go away any time soon. Even with adrenaline storming through my system and my mind and body in a state of artificial contentment, I still can’t stop thinking about Nova…how she showed up last night.

Showed up to see me.

I’m still trying to process it. That someone would actually want to come see me, actually care enough about me to take the time to do so. And what did I do? I ran away. Shut the door in her face. I feel bad, yet at the same time I don’t, because I want her to be here, yet I don’t. I’m very confused and feel guilty for even being confused about my feelings for her, so I force myself to stop thinking, allow the drugs to wash the thoughts away, and keep walking in the direction I’m going, to more drugs.

The whole house is quiet, but that’s normal. Dylan took off sometime last night and hasn’t been back since. When Delilah came home last night, she was on something that was making her pretty happy, so I took the opportunity to tell her I’d finished off her stash. She didn’t seem bothered by it and by the time she wakes up she probably won’t remember I took it. And if she does remember, I honestly don’t give a shit. We all do it to each other—steal from one another. Put our addiction before anything else.

When we enter the living room, Tristan grabs his bag, which is by the front door, while I struggle to jam my feet into my boots. I don’t bother lacing them because it would take too long trying to do it one-handed; then I limp toward the door, focusing on taking step after step because that’s as far as my mind will allow me to look into the future—all it can focus on.

“You gonna be able to make the walk?” Tristan asks as he grips the doorknob.

I nod as he cracks the front door open and lets a single ray of sunlight in. “I’m good…the pain’s wearing on me but that’ll be fixed soon enough.”

He looks a little lost and I feel the same way but focus on what I do understand. We’re getting closer to Johnny’s—to more crystal—and the idea takes over my mind. Shrugging off his confusion, Tristan opens the front door and starts to step outside, but he quickly slams to a stop and I end up running into him, smacking my head against the back of his.

I clutch my nose and stumble back. “Jesus, Tristan, a little warning next…” I trail off at the sight of Nova sitting just outside our door, leaning against the balcony railing, the sunlight and city her backdrop and she outshines them both. For the briefest moment I feel like my old self, aching to run back to grab my sketchbook and pencil and draw her. But running would hurt and I can’t draw because my hand’s all fucked up. Plus, turning back would mean turning away from my next hit.

Nova gets to her feet, picking up the two coffees beside her, then stretches out her legs. “Hey.”

It’s such a casual word, but it doesn’t fit the environment or situation at all, and neither does she. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, sounding like a dick, when really all I want to do is run up and hug her, let her warmth spill all over me.

Tristan steps aside and gives me a strange look, like he doesn’t understand what I’m doing.

“I came here to see you.” She holds my gaze and it throws me off, scares me, confuses me. She steps forward, looking straight at me, like Tristan doesn’t exist, like we’re the only two people in this world. When she’s right in front of me, she extends her hand and hands me a coffee. “I got this for you.”

“What about me?” Tristan asks.

“I forgot to get you one,” Nova says without looking at him. “But I’m sure you’ll live.”

Tristan makes a face and then winds around her, taking his cigarettes out of his pocket. He lights up and then rests his elbows on the railing, staring at the parking lot. “Quinton, make this quick. We gotta go.”

I’m not even sure what he means by “make this quick.” Make what quick? Make talking to her quick? Make drinking the coffee quick? Make fucking her quick…God, I wish it were that one, and for a second the crystal in my body makes me feel like that idea is okay.

Nova glances over her shoulder at Tristan and then turns around and leans in toward me. “Can I talk to you alone for a little bit?”

I shake my head, staring at the coffee, knowing I should take a sip, but I’m not thirsty and my jaw hurts. “I need to go somewhere.”

“Please,” she says. “I came all the way here to see you.”

My eyes lift to hers. “I didn’t ask you to…and if you would have told me you were planning to come here when you called, I’d have told you not to.”

“I still would have come,” she admits with a shrug. “I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s just something I need to do.”

I pick at the label around the coffee. “And what if I said that I’m not going to talk to you? That it’d be a waste of your time?”

“I’d say you were lying,” she replies, trying to act calm, but I can tell by the way she fidgets with the hem of her shirt that she’s uneasy. “Just like you’re pretending to be an asshole to try to get me to walk away.”

“But I’m not going to talk to you,” I say simply, but on the inside I shudder because she’s so right it scares me how much she understands me.

“But you already are,” she retorts, and the corners of her mouth quirk. “Since we’re standing here talking right now.”

I rub the back of my neck, stiffening as I massage my tender muscles. “Nova, I’m not in the mood for this,” I say, because she’s the one thing right now standing in the way of my getting to Johnny’s house. And when I get there this—my confusion and this entire conversation—will be a vanishing thought in my mind. “Please just go away and leave me alone.”

She shakes her head. “Not until you talk to me.”

“I’m busy,” I lie, wishing she’d go, but also wishing she’d stay. Wishing I could stop thinking about Johnny’s and meth, but even thinking about not thinking about it sends my fear and anxiousness soaring.

“I only need like an hour,” she replies without missing a beat. She pauses as I deliberate what she’s asking and I can’t believe I’m even considering it. “Please,” she adds. “It’s important to me.”

Tristan’s taken an interest in our conversation and he shakes his head at me, like don’t even go there, but I want for a moment, just for a second to remember what it was like to be with her, talk to her, feel the presence of someone who cared about life and who maybe could care for me. Just an hour. Do I deserve an hour? I don’t think so, yet I want it. But at the same time I don’t because it’s an hour I have to spend away from lines of crystal, and crystal always makes it easier to think. It’s like a tug-of-war. Go. Stay. Nova. Johnny’s. Feeling. Sedation. Thinking. Silence. Meth. Meth. Meth. I want it.

“Nova, I don’t think…” I trail off as her expression falls and then I say something that surprises all three of us. “Fine, you have an hour.” But I’m not sure how much that time is going to stick. I remember all the times I talked to Nova and how lost I got in her and how time just drifted by.

She cups her hands around her coffee and nods, not smiling, not frowning, just blowing out a stressed breath. “Can you go for a drive with me? I’d rather not stand out here and talk.”

I’d rather she not be standing out here either, not just because it’s a crack house, but because I’m worried that Trace and his guys could randomly show up to make good on their threat and I’d hate myself forever if she were here when something like that went down.

I nod, even when Tristan huffs in frustration. “I think I can do that,” I tell her, but I’m not so sure.

As I start to follow her across the balcony, Tristan shoots me an irritated look and then says to me, “If you’re taking off, then I’m going back inside. I’m not going to wait around for you.”

I’m torn because I know what he means by “going back inside.” He’s going to go finish off the last of the heroin he was going to use this morning before he decided to do lines with me because he thought it’d help me feel better enough to move. “Can’t you just wait like an hour? I don’t want you mixing shit.” I say it to him all the time, because he’s always trying to overdo it, making crazy cocktails, almost eliminating that half a step he has left between life and death.

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“Just wait an hour and I’ll be back here and we can go down to Johnny’s…” I trail off, noticing Nova is listening intently just behind me. Leaning in, I lower my voice. “Then we can go down to Johnny’s and get spun out of our minds and an hour won’t even matter.”

He considers this with an undecided look on his face and then reluctantly gives in. “I’ll wait an hour.” He points a finger at me. “But only an hour and then I’m walking over there without you and you can figure out how to get high by yourself.”

“Okay.” I cross my fingers, hoping he can’t keep track of time.

He rolls his eyes again like I’m a burden to him and then squeezes past me and goes into the house. Then I shut the door, still not fully grasping what I’m about to do or why I’m doing it.

“You ready?” Nova asks, eyeing my cut-up chest and then scanning my bruised face, wincing when she sees my puffy eye.

I shrug. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s go.”

“Do you…do you want to put a shirt on?”

“I can’t…I think one of my ribs is broken or bruised.”

Her lips part in shock. “Quinton, I—”

“So we better hurry.” I cut her off as I start across the balcony, limping. “I have to be back in an hour…it’s important that I am.” Besides, whatever is said in the next hour isn’t going to be real because right now my thoughts aren’t real. None of this is. Not her. Not this apartment. Not the pain in my beat-up body.

She hurries after me, her sandals scuffing against the concrete. “Why?”

“Because it is,” I reply evasively. “Do you have the time, by chance?”

She picks up her pace and moves up beside me, taking her phone out of her pocket as she reaches the stairs. “It’s twelve twenty-three,” she says.

“Can you let me know when it’s around one?” I ask her, knowing that if I don’t I’m going to forget to keep track of time. “I want to make sure I’m back in time.”

“Sure.” She stuffs the phone into the back pocket of her shorts and starts down the stairs. I follow her, trying not to look at her, watch her, but I’m drawn to the way she moves and how different it is from the way she used to. She carries her shoulders higher, exuding positivity in her movements and her eyes that reflect the sunlight. It’s amazing to watch and for a moment I get wrapped up in it, the way her expression is filled with confusion, the way her hair blows in the hot breeze, how she bites her lip nervously. But then we reach the bottom of the steps and Nancy, one of our neighbors who like to wear bras for shirts, is standing there, drinking a beer.

“Hey, baby,” she says to me. We’ve hooked up a few times, done a few lines, and she’s always trying to get me to shoot up with her. I always decline, though, just like I do with Tristan, because I fucking hate needles. Not because they hurt or any shit like that. But because needles helped me come back to life, the doctors jabbing all sorts of shit into me. I connect needles with reviving from death and always hate them because of this.

I blink my thoughts away from needles and stare at Nancy for a moment, assessing the way she’s looking at me like she wants to hook up again. I look like shit, but Nancy doesn’t care, just like I don’t care about much of anything. We’re the perfect match in this fucked-up world, yet I can’t get the girl beside me out of my head. She’s more overpowering than perfection and I’m not strong enough to fight it.

Still I try for a moment, smiling at Nancy. “Hey, gorgeous,” I reply as I consider just kissing Nancy and destroying this entire connection with Nova. Right here. Right now. End it. Go on living my life exactly like I am now.

Nova looks at her and then me and makes the connection, but doesn’t say anything, turning toward the parking lot and heading to her cherry-red Chevy Nova parked just across the lot. The car looks so out of place in my world—too nice and shiny And Nancy bats her eyelashes at me, her chest popping out of her top, her eyes glossy from the rush she’s feeling. She’s part of this world. So easy. So simple. I should just do it—kiss her—but I’m too much of a selfish asshole, wanting both worlds, and end up following Nova out to her car. We climb inside and she starts the engine and turns up the air conditioning.

“So where do you want to go?” she asks, scrolling over my body, her eyes lingering on my stomach. “Are you hungry?”

My jaw ticks and my stomach screams, No food! “Nah, I’m good. I’m not even hungry.”

She looks unconvinced. “Are you sure?”

I nod with certainty. “Yep, I’m sure.”

She grips the steering wheel, staring out the window at the sky, like she’s making a wish, and if she is, I wonder what it is. Then finally she puts the car into drive and heads out onto the main road, pausing at the curb.

“Put your seat belt on,” she says, buckling up herself.

Not wanting to have that argument with her again, I do what she asks. As soon as I’m fastened safely in, she drives down the road toward the main area of town. “Infinity” by The xx plays from her iPod but I only know the band and song title because I can see the screen. I remember how into music she is and how I’ve been listening to music a lot over the last nine months because of her.

“So what have you been up to?” she finally asks, turning the music down slightly.

I shrug, unsure how to respond to her question. Plus, I’m trying to restrain myself from saying much, since everything that comes out of my mouth is going to be unreal and driven by drugs and she deserves better than that. “Nothing much. I’ve pretty much just been wandering around.”

She nods like she understands, but I don’t think she does. How could she? “I did that for a bit, too, at the beginning of the school year,” she says.

“But not anymore?” I question, examining her smooth skin dotted with perfect freckles, full lips, bright eyes, soft hair…God, I want to draw her. “I’m guessing no because you look good.”

“I feel good for the most part. And lately I’ve known exactly what I want to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“A lot of things. Graduate. Play the drums.” She hesitates, fleetingly glancing in my direction. “See you.”

I suck in a breath as another drop of crystal drips down my throat and starts to soothe me, relax me, allow me to deal with being here. “But why? You don’t even know me…there’s a lot that you don’t get.”

“You could always tell me the stuff that I don’t get,” she suggests as she turns the car off the main road and into the drive-through lane of a busy McDonald’s.

I swiftly shake my head, getting sick just thinking about the idea of telling her about my past, what I’ve done, the people I’ve killed. “I can’t.”

She straightens the wheel. “Why not?”

“Because I just can’t.” Because then you’ll look at me like everyone else does—like someone who’s taken life. She’ll think less of me, maybe even pity me, and I don’t want that. I’ve seen it enough.

She’s silent as she pulls up to the drive-through menu and rolls down her window. “You know I’ve thought about you a lot over the last several months,” she admits, reading the menu, seeming casual, but her chest is rapidly rising and falling, and I can tell she’s struggling to breathe.

I don’t know how to respond and I even if I could I don’t get the chance because she starts to order some food. I space off, my thoughts running a million miles a minute. All I want to do is ask her questions, find out why she’s here, but at the same time I want to get out of the car and run back to the only place that I can call home. I almost do, but I lose focus, watching her as she rattles off her order, then somehow I end up with a hamburger on my lap and some fries.

Then she pulls around to the front of the building and parks the car in a spot of shade beneath a tree.

She leaves the engine on as she opens up her chicken sandwich and takes a bite. “It’s really hot here,” she says. “God, how can you stand it…I feel disgusting.” She fans her hand in front of her face.

“You look beautiful, though.” I let it slip out, my mouth and thoughts barely under control anymore.

She blinks, slowly, her eyelashes fluttering. “Thank you.” She takes in a gradual breath before rotating toward the window. She starts eating fries, her forehead creased, like she’s confused as hell, and so am I. I’m not even sure what’s going on anymore. Why we’re here. What the point is.

“Nova,” I say as another drip hits me and I can focus again. “What do you want from me? I mean, you show up here out of the blue and you just want to hang out? It doesn’t make any sense.”

She chews the bite of food and then shuts her eyes. At first I think it’s because she’s going to cry or something, but when she opens them, her eyes aren’t wet with tears.

“I came here to help you,” she confesses, looking directly at me, intensity radiating from her expression. “I…I called because I wanted to find out about you signing that release to use the video. I’ve actually been looking for you for a while, but it’s been really hard to track you down.”

“Okay…” I pick at the fries, not even close to being able to eat them, my jaw too sore from grinding my teeth and my belly too queasy from the crystal I devoured before I left, so I immediately set them back down. “But I don’t get why you think you needed to come down here to help me. I’m fine and I don’t get why you don’t get that or why you’d even think differently.”

Her bluish-green eyes unhurriedly scroll up my body with zero indication that she believes in any way that I’m okay. “Because Delilah told me something on the phone…about you.”

I stiffen, my pulse accelerating, my lungs tightening, stealing my air away. “What did she tell you?” What the hell have I told Delilah? God, I have no idea.

She deliberates something with caution, wetting her lips with her tongue and licking some salt off them. “Do you remember the concert we went to together?” she asks.

“Of course…how could I forget?” It’s actually one of the few things I can remember. The sun, the smell, her, Nova, all over me.

Her lips curve slightly upward like she’s happy that I can remember. “Yeah, I’ve never been able to forget either, all that time that we spent together, how I was…and how I just ran off in the middle of it all.”

“It was good that you did,” I say and I mean it. “You never should have been hanging out with us to begin with—you never belonged in our world.”

“I know it was good that I left when I did,” she agrees. “And I learned something about myself, not then, but later on, after I got better.” She gazes off at the gas station in front of us as a car backfires. “I’ve spent the last few months learning a lot about myself and I discovered that I want to help people, you know. I’ve missed a lot of chances of being able to help because I was too afraid to see the truth or I couldn’t take care of myself enough.” I’m not sure what she’s getting at and I’m about to ask her, but when she looks at me, something in her eyes stops me. “I want to help you get better.” She says it like it’s as easy as breathing, but it’s not. It’s harder than finding a bottom in a bottomless pit.

“You can’t,” I say, very aware of the tattoos on my arm—Lexi, Ryder, No One—and the fact that she can see them. Permanent reminders that I can’t be helped—that I shouldn’t be helped. But Nova doesn’t know what they mean, since I never told her. If I did, she wouldn’t be here. “Nothing you can say or do will ever be able to help me—I’m not helpable.”

“Yes, you are and I know I can help you.” She rotates in her seat and brings her knee up on it. “If you’ll just let me, you’ll see that.”

I almost laugh at her because she doesn’t get it. How could she, when she doesn’t even know anything about what’s going on? “You don’t even know what you’re talking about—you don’t even know me at all. You can’t help someone you don’t know and besides, I don’t even want to be helped. I’m fine right where I am.” I belong right where I am. Everyone knows it. My dad. Lexi’s parents. Tristan’s mom.

“I wish it’d been you that died,” I hear Tristan’s mom sob. “I wish it’d been you—it should have been you.”

I blink, fighting back the tears as I lie in the hospital bed, surrounded by people who hate me. “I know.”

She starts to sob harder and runs out of the room, leaving me alone with my guilt consuming me, and all I want to do is feel death again.

I tear myself away from the memory as Nova’s quivering hand slides across the seat and takes hold of mine. Heat. Warmth. Comfort. Fear. All these things surge through me and all I can do is stare at our hands, fingers tangled, connected. It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve felt a connection, the last time being with her last summer.

“I went to therapy for a while,” she divulges as she clutches my hand. Her fingers are trembling and I notice that just below the scar on her wrist is a tattoo: never forget. I wonder what it means, what she doesn’t want to forget. “It was kind of helpful…it made me realize that I was running away from my problems instead of facing them. All the stuff I did…the drugs, how I cut my wrist, all of it was because I wasn’t dealing with Landon…my boyfriend’s death.” She says it like it’s so easy to talk about and I have no idea what the fuck is going on. I mean I remember her telling me her boyfriend had taken his own life, but she was bawling her eyes out and now she looks so calm. I remember the scar on her wrist, too, but she never flat-out said she did it herself until now.

“That’s good,” I say, not sure what else to say. What I want to do is just hug her, feel her, be the kind of person to comfort her, but I can’t do that to her—offer her this revolting ghost version of myself. “I’m really glad for you.”

“It is good,” she agrees, stroking the back of my hand with her finger. The feel of her skin on mine makes me shudder and I don’t know why. I’m numbed by drugs. I shouldn’t feel anything, yet I do. I feel everything. The heat of the sun. The slightest variation in our body temperatures, the soft coolness of the air as it hits my cheek. How much I want to kiss her.

“It made me realize who I was and what I wanted out of life…I want to live and I mean really live, not just go through life in a daze. And I want to help people who were going through the same thing I went through…people who won’t ask for help when they need it.” She pauses. “I actually spent a lot of time volunteering for a suicide hotline, helping people.”

“That’s really great.” I’m happy she’s made a life for herself, one where she can use her good heart to help people. “I’m so glad you moved on from all this shit…” I glance down at my bruised and scarred chest and my scraped-up hand, markings of who I am now. “I’ve always told you that you didn’t belong in our world.”

“I don’t think anyone really does,” she says with all honesty. “I just think that sometimes people think that they do.”

I press my free hand to the side of my head as it begins to throb. She’s messing with my head and it’s giving me a headache. It’s like her words have a hidden meaning, yet I can’t figure it out what it is.

“I don’t agree with that,” I say, still holding her hand even though I know I should let go. Just a little bit longer. Just a few more minutes of warmth before I step into the cold. “I think that sometimes people do terrible things and deserve to rot and die.”

She winces, her breath catching, but she quickly gathers herself and scoots closer to me on the seat. “You didn’t do anything terrible.”

I clamp my jaw tightly and pull my hand away. “You have no idea of the things I did…what I’ve done.”

“So tell me,” she says, like it’s that easy when it’s not. “Let me understand you.”

“You can’t—no one can. I already told you this. No one can help me who’s alive, anyway.” Remorse skyrockets through me as I accidentally let the truth slip, but there’s no taking it back. Sometimes, when I’m really high, at that point where I almost feel detached from my body, I think that maybe Lexi can help me, even though she’s dead. Sometimes when I get that far gone, she doesn’t feel dead—or maybe it’s that I don’t feel alive—and I swear she can hear my thoughts, almost touch me. She tells me that it’s okay. That she forgives me and loves me, like she did yesterday when I was getting beaten up. But the comfort is only brief, since when I come out of my daze, I realize that it wasn’t real and that no one will ever forgive me. That I’m a junkie who killed two people and there’s no changing that.

“Quinton, you’re not alone,” Nova says, her eyes watering as she inches closer to me, looking like she feels sorry for me. I want the look to go away so goddamned bad I’m considering shouting at her, but then she gets close enough that her bare knee touches the side of my leg. “And if you’ll talk to me, you might be able to realize that. That you’re not alone. That people care…that I care.”

Heat swelters me—her heat. I feel it. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything and I want to jump out the door and run, yet I want to melt into her, too. I can’t think straight. I need her to stop this. Need her to stop trying.

“What if I told you I killed someone?” I say, hoping that maybe it’s what will finally cut the ties…the connection between us that needs to be severed. “Would you still want to understand me then? Would you still care about me?”

She winces and I think, There you go. Now are you scared? Now do you want to understand me?

“I don’t believe that,” she tells me, quickly composing herself.

“But I did,” I say in a low voice, leaning in. “I took two lives, actually.”

“Not on purpose, I’m sure.” She barely seems worried and it annoys me because I don’t understand the reaction. Everyone around me told me what I fuckup I was, how much I messed up, how much I ruined everything. And she’s just sitting here, looking at me like it’s perfectly okay.

“No, but it was still my fault.” My voice cracks, revealing that I’m not really okay with talking about this, just pretending.

“Not necessarily,” she insists and then shifts so she’s pretty much sitting on my lap, her knees on mine, her back against the dashboard so she’s looking at me straight on and I seriously forget how to breathe. The sensation is so intense that it actually hurts, in my chest, my gut, my heart, what’s left of my broken, insignificant soul. “I think that maybe you think it was your fault, but I know that sometimes blaming yourself is the only way to deal.” She places her hand on my cheek and I feel a spark of life inside me, one I thought had burned out a long time ago.

“That’s not what I’m doing…I don’t even deal with it.” I pause, wondering how she got me to say that aloud when she doesn’t even know what the heck I’m talking about. I’ve been so shut down for months and now she shows up and I can feel that pull to life again. I’ve taken a breath again and it’s time to return to my drowning because I can feel the painful prickle of memories surfacing. What death felt like on my hands; Lexi’s blood, my own, the guilt, all still memories decaying inside me.

“I need to go back.” I ball my hands into fists to keep from touching her and I stare out the window, avoiding her overpowering gaze. “I’m done talking. I just want to go back now.”

She hesitates and I expect her to argue, but instead she puts the car in reverse. “Okay, I can take you back, but can I ask for a favor before I do?” she asks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath, wishing I could stop breathing altogether. “Sure.”

“Can I come visit you tomorrow?” she requests in a soft tone. “I’m not going to be here for very long and I’d like to see you and talk to you a little bit more before I have to go.”

I should tell her no, save her like she’s trying to save me, but even in my cracked-up head I can’t bring myself to let her go just yet, so I greedily say, “Yeah, if you want to, but I hope you don’t.” I open my eyes and watch her reaction.

She smashes her lips together, battling her nerves. “But I do want to see you. I really, really do.”

I’m not sure what to do with that, so I decide to do nothing, shutting myself down, and it’s easy because seconds later I’m thinking about something else, getting home, getting to Johnny’s, getting my next hit. Then nothing will matter. Not this. Not the future. My past. What I did.

It’ll all be gone.

I don’t say much to her on the ride back to my place, but she talks lightly about music, how she’s been playing again, and I love hearing her talk that way. I love hearing her happy. It makes me almost want to smile and I haven’t wanted to smile in a really long time, but I don’t think I quite get there.

Then we’re pulling up to my building and the slight elation I was feeling deflates into the darkness that engulfs the place where I live and my mouth begins to salivate, knowing what’s waiting for me as soon as I get Tristan and get to Johnny’s. I want it more than sitting in this car, more than eating, breathing, living.

“So when should I come over tomorrow?” she asks, the tires of the car grinding against the gravel as she stops the car a little ways from the building.

“Whenever you want,” I tell her, because it doesn’t really matter. I know I’m going to be up all night and all day after I get enough lines in my system. Then I start to get out of the car, ready to get inside my apartment. Ready to forget all of this. Ready to be free again from my emotions, my conflict, my memories. I’m ready to return to my prison.

“Wait, Quinton,” she calls out, and I pause, turning to look at her.

Her lips part, like she’s about to say something, but then she shuts her mouth and scoots over toward me. I freeze up, wondering what she’s doing. Then she opens the glove box and takes out a pen and tears a corner off an envelope. She jots down some digits and then hands the paper to me. “This is my number, just in case you need to call me for something.”

I stare down at the paper in my hand, baffled that she gave it to me. “I don’t have a phone.”

“I know,” she says, tossing the pen down on the dashboard. “But Delilah does and I want to make sure you have that just in case.”

I try not to get worked up over the fact that she gave her number to me, like she actually doesn’t mind if I call. Like she wants to talk to me. No one has given me their phone number in a very long time and I’m not sure what to do with it. Part of me wants to throw it away and get rid of the temptation to call her, but instead I find myself putting it in my pocket. Then I start to get out of the car, and she leans over and gently places a kiss on my mouth. I’m not sure why she does it, if it’s simply a friendly kiss or if she’s experiencing the same kind of pull I am. But the kiss feels twisted and wrong in a way, because I’m high and I wonder if she can taste it on me—the decay inside me. But in another way the kiss feels so damn right, like if I was living a normal life, one where I hadn’t gotten in a car accident, and I’d simply broken up with Lexi and met Nova, we would have kissed like that all the time.

I’m so sorry, Lexi. For forgetting you. For living. Moving forward in life, while you remain motionless.

Thoughts of Lexi stab at my mind, yet I still kiss Nova back, slipping my tongue into her mouth, getting a brief taste of her before I pull back. “I’ll see you later,” I whisper against her lips and then lean back and take the food when she hands it to me, feeling like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. But I shove the sensation aside and go back to my apartment, where I belong.

When I open the door, I’m flooded by a musty cloud of smoke and my senses of taste, sight, smell, touch, go haywire. God, I need to feed my addiction. Now. In fact, waiting to get back to my room seems nearly impossible.

Delilah and Dylan are sitting on the sofa, heating up some crystal on a piece of aluminum foil. Delilah is fixated on it, cuddled up to Dylan’s side, watching him drag the lighter back and forth and create smoke. They both have bags under their eyes and I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve slept…I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve slept.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dylan asks, glancing up from the piece of aluminum foil. He looks down at the McDonald’s bag in my hand, confused because we rarely eat. “And where did you get that?” He’s got a fresh bruise under his eye and there’s dried blood on his lip.

“From McDonald’s,” I say, heading for my room, not wanting to talk about Nova to either of them because it feels wrong to talk about her in such a crappy-ass environment. “What happened to your face?”

“You and Tristan happened to my face,” he says, irritated. Then he hands the aluminum foil and lighter to Delilah as he gets to his feet, scooping up something I didn’t notice before on the coffee table. A small gun. What the fuck? “Do you want to tell me what happened with Trace…why you look like you got the shit beat out of you?”

I stop near the curtain that shields the kitchen from the living room and flex my bruised fingers as I eyeball the gun, trying not to look alarmed, but it’s a fucking gun for God’s sake. “He sort of kicked my ass.” I pause, deciding whether I should ask. “Where did you get that?”

Dylan glances unconcernedly at the gun in his hand. “I got it the other day to protect myself.”

“Protect yourself from what?” I ask as Delilah’s attention lazily drifts up from her crystal. Her eyes widen as she spots the gun in Dylan’s hand and when she looks at me she appears horrified, very unlike herself, since usually she pretends she doesn’t give a shit about anything.

“Baby, put the gun down,” she says, her voice quiet—scared. She’s scared and I am, too, honestly.

“Fuck you,” Dylan snaps at her, and then he looks at me. His expression is stone-cold as he ambles toward me, the veins in his neck bulging, anger simmering in his eyes about ready to burst. “I had to get this after you two fucked up and now we’re all on very thin ice.” He points his finger at the bruise below his eye. “You see this fucking thing right here? I got this because I was jumped by Trace and his guys.” He jabs a finger roughly against my chest. “Because you two worked for me and messed him over…like it’s my fault you’re dumbasses.” He leans forward, his breath hot on my face. “Do you know how stupid you are to mess around with Trace?” He steps back and rakes his hand over his bald head, his other hand at his side, grasping the gun. “Jesus, I knew this was coming and I’m sure it isn’t over with yet. The guy’s a relentless douche.”

“You don’t know anything for sure…maybe Trace is satisfied now that he beat the shit out of me and you,” I say, knowing it’s a stupid thought process and that there’s no way that could be possible, but Dylan is all worked up with a gun in his hand. I glance over at Delilah as she gets up from the couch, watching us with caution. At first I think she’s going to come over and try to talk him down, but then she eyes the door like she’s going to run.

“Yeah, because that’s the way the world works,” Dylan snaps, swinging the gun around while he turns in a circle. Delilah freezes in place while I realize just how severe this situation is: that he’s high and he’s got a gun and I’m standing right here in front of him. The question is: do I care? I’m not sure.

He stops spinning and lowers the gun. “You two better stop fucking up,” he warns in a low tone. “I have a lot riding on connections and I don’t want you messing up any more of them.”

My heart is thudding in my chest as I think about how ruining his connection with Trace is only part of the problem. Tristan has also been stealing drugs and money from Dylan, like he did the other day. But as far as Dylan knows I was the last person with the money. Does he know it’s gone? Does he think I took it? Will he shoot me if I tell him it was Tristan? Do I care? Jesus, my thoughts are racing a million miles a minute, flowing in a crooked stream through my brain. I’m losing control and I need to get out of here.

Dylan tosses his gun onto the coffee table, making both me and Delilah jump. I seriously expected it to go off, but it doesn’t and the air starts to cool, although Dylan still looks like he’s going to hit me, his jaw set tight, his fist clenched, his arm kinked and ready to strike.

But then he settles down and backs away, putting up his hands. “Take care of this mess—fix things with Trace. Get him drugs or pay him back—do whatever you have to to make this good again. And pay me back that fucking money you two were supposed to use for the exchange at Johnny’s before your dumb ass got beat,” he says in a voice that carries a warning. “Or else you’re out of the house. You and Tristan both. I’m tired of your shit.”

I want to tell him that this apartment doesn’t belong to him, since we’re renting it together, but the gun is lying on the table, so instead I nod, even though I have no idea how I’m going to do either of those things. Then I go back into my room without saying another word. Tristan is waiting there with a mirror out in front of him along with a spoon and a syringe and a small plastic bag filled with crystallized powder. He’s just staring at it with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.

When the door creaks, he glances up, looking relieved, and as soon as I see what he has in front of him, our emotions match. “Thank God,” he says. “I thought I was going to lose my mind if I had to wait a second longer.”

“We have a huge problem,” I announce as I kick the door shut behind me. “Did you know Dylan has a gun?”

Tristan nods his head distractedly as he stares at the spoon. “Yeah, he made a point to show it to me yesterday when he threatened me and told me that I needed to patch things up with Trace and to pay him back the money we took.”

Anger flickers when he says “we,” but I quickly simmer down, remembering I owe Tristan more than I’ll ever be able to pay him back for killing his sister. “You should have said something. He completely blindsided me with it just now.”

He shrugs, glancing up at me. “Sorry, I forgot.”

I want to get mad at him, but at the same time I sort of understand how he could forget—how easily our spun minds can make things disappear. “So what are we going to do about it? I mean, he’s super pissed and I guess Trace gave him a shiner—kicked his ass like he did mine.”

“We’ll look for the gun when he’s asleep or something and get rid of it,” Tristan suggests, stretching his arms above his head as he blinks tiredly, probably ready for his next boost of adrenaline.

“Okay, but even if we do that, we still have to worry about Trace coming to kick your ass.”

“If he does then he does,” Tristan says indifferently, his hands flopping onto his lap.

I bend down and lower myself to the floor beside the mattress, moving slowly because my body still aches. “I think we need to take care of it.” Not for me, but for him.

He rolls his eyes. “Just because Trace threatens us doesn’t mean he’s actually going to do anything about it.”

I look down at my banged-up body. “You really think so?” I ask.

Tristan grunts unenthusiastically. “Fine, I’ll figure out a way to pay him back or something. Or better yet, we could just find where Dylan hides his dealing stash and give him that.”

“Yeah, I don’t think pissing Dylan off is going to help this situation at all.” I bring my knee up and rest my arm on it. “We just need to find a way to pay Trace back what you owe him.” I glance at the spoon and mirror on the floor and the bag of crystal. “And I’m guessing we need to find a way to pay Dylan back, too, since I’m assuming you already spent that money you stole from him.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he says, still looking like he doesn’t give a shit, like he doesn’t care what happens to him, and it makes me angry, not at him, but at myself. Because deep down, I have to wonder why he’s here in this shithole. That maybe part of the reason is because I killed his sister and he couldn’t handle the pain, just like I can’t. “I’ll go break into some houses and get some cash. I should be able to scrounge enough up over the next week or so.”

I’m not so sure, but it’s a start. “We should get started like tonight.”

Tristan nods and I rack my brain for a better way to get him out of this, one that I know for sure will work. What I want to do is call his parents and tell them to come get him. I’m not sure how well that’d go over, though, considering they hate me and Tristan probably would get really pissed and refuse to go with him. And what if they said no?

“Where’d you get that?” Tristan asks as he catches sight of the bag of food in my hand.

I blow out a stressed breath as I glance down at the bag and remember I have other problems, too, at the moment, like how determined Nova looked to spend time with me—be with me. “Nova made me take it.” I set the bag down beside my feet and lift my hips to take the piece of paper with her phone number on it out of my pocket.

Tristan scratches the back of his neck and then collects the spoon from the floor. “Yeah, she seems to care about you, doesn’t she?” He rotates the spoon in his hand as I grab my empty wallet and tuck the paper inside it, deciding to hold on to it for a while.

“She cares about everyone,” I mumble as the awkwardness between us rises.

“Yeah, but she really seems to care about you,” he says, watching my response with interest.

“Maybe.” I remember her words in the car, how she said she wants to help me. Me, the fucked-up druggie loser. I take the spoon away from him and toss it aside, then pick up the mirror and the plastic bag full of crystal. The crystal is calling to me, promising me that it’ll let me forget everything that happened today with a simple taste.

Tristan drops the spoon back onto the floor and steals the plastic bag from me, opening it up, then dipping his finger in the white powder. “So how did it go with Nova?” he asks distractedly. “I mean, what does she even want?”

My hands start to quiver with my need to feel the taste of it—to forget everything that’s happened today. Nova. Dylan. Trace. Lexi. Ryder. Everything and everyone. “To help me.”

His concentration is diverted to me. “What?”

“She says she wants to help me.” My eyes are glued on the bag in his hand, not on his words, not on Nova anymore. Everything is slipping away, which is why I love it—need it to survive.

He studies me, skimming the tattoos on my arm. “Why?” He says it like he can’t understand and neither can I. I’m worthless. He knows it. I know it. Everyone knows it except for Nova.

“I have no idea.” I pick up the spoon and fiddle with it to keep myself busy, bending the handle back and forth. Focus. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

He arches his brow as he glances at the spoon in my hand. “Do you want to try that? Because I’m telling you, it’s so much better than what you’re used to. In fact, we could do a speedball.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not going to do that…I hate needles and mixing drugs,” I say, chucking the spoon on the floor. “I just want to get spun.”

He scoots off the mattress and onto the floor in front of me, putting the mirror between us. “Then let’s get spun.”

So we do and for a moment I forget my past, my future, how Nova made me feel something today. I forget about the heavy cloud hanging over us. How much bad shit could go down at any moment.

I forget about everything.