Nova and Quinton: No Regrets
Page 26

“Life and how shitty it is and how it just loves dealing me the shitty-ass cards.”
“Why is it shitty? Because you’re sober?”
“No, it has nothing to do with that or with you,” he says, and then he sighs. “Look, I get that you want to help me. I get that I’ve been doing good. I get that what I’m planning on doing in the next ten minutes is probably going to f**k up my life, but you know what, I don’t really have a life anymore. Not a good one, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, and when he doesn’t answer I say, “Tristan, talk to me—” He hangs up on me.
“Shit.” I try to dial his number again, but it goes straight to voice mail. I try to text him, but he still hasn’t responded by the time I get into the car and am heading home.
“What party do you think he’s at?” I ask Lea as we make the short drive home. She was planning on hanging out with Brody, but she said their plans got canceled. I think she’s worried about me, though, and that’s why she decided to come home with me.
It’s after nine, the sky starry and the moon a crescent in the sky, and I can’t help but count the stars repeatedly, every time I have to stop at a red light. “Maybe we can track him down,” I say.
Lea seemed mildly upset when I told her what happened on the phone with Tristan, but she’s not freaking out as much as I am. “Nova, there’s no way you’re going to be able to track him down. It’s Friday night, for God’s sakes.”
“Lea, you didn’t hear him on the phone,” I say, making a right onto the main road, which is glossy with ice so I have to drive slowly. “He’s going to do something to ruin his sobriety. I can feel it.”
She lets out a slow breath, her head turned toward the window as she watches the Christmas lights strung across the trees to the side of the road. “Nova, we’ve been through this before. You can’t just save everyone, especially when they don’t want to be saved.” She looks at me with what seems like pity in her eyes, but I don’t know why she’s feeling that way toward me. “So just let it go. When he comes home you can see where he stands and go from there.”
I shake my head, tears about to pour out. “I can’t take this anymore.”
“What? Tristan? Or are we talking about something else?”
I have to work to keep my eyes open, the tears bubbling their way up as I turn into our apartment complex. “Tristan. Delilah. Quinton. Myself. I’m so sick of just sitting by and watching people fall apart.”
She reaches across the seat and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Well, you have me.”
I know she’s right, but at the moment her touch only feels cold. I park the car and we head inside. She follows me, not saying much until we’re inside the apartment and I’m heading to my room.
“Nova, please, just stop fighting to save everyone,” she says. “You need to learn to just let some things go.”
I step into my room, turning to face her as I make to shut the door. “Do you know what happens when you let things go?” I ask, and she just stares at me. “People fall apart and die. And even though it might be a lost cause and you might think I’m crazy, I’m still going to do it, because no one else seems to be.” And with that I shut the door.
I think about calling Quinton and talking to him about everything, but I’m tired of talking to him on the phone. I just want to see him—want to hold him and know that through this entire mess at least he’s doing okay. I know it’s crazy. Selfish. Impulsive. I know that I have work and other things—life—and I can only go for a day. But I need that day more than I need anything at the moment. So before I can chicken out, I quickly start packing my bags, hoping that when I get there, he won’t send me away.
Chapter 11
December 24, day fifty-six in the real world
Quinton
I wake up in the middle of the night with the strangest feeling. I was dreaming about Nova and seeing her again. How she’d feel… the scent of her… how she’d taste. I flip on the lamp and lie in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how not, too long ago, I was staring at a different ceiling, one that was cracked and warped, but the one above me now is flawless. All because of Nova. She got me here because she never gave up on me and she talked me out of going back to a life of getting high all the time.
Nova… my thoughts are flooded with her… what she thinks… I’m struggling with my emotions all centered around her… how much I want her. I’m afraid, though. So afraid that I haven’t even opened the letter that she wrote me while I was in rehab.
Before I can chicken out, I roll over to my side and reach underneath my mattress and take out the envelope. My fingers are tremulous as I carefully tear it open and pull out the letter inside. Then, taking a preparing breath, I unfold it and start to read.
Dear Quinton,
I’m writing to you mainly because you don’t seem to want to talk to me. And I can understand that. You’re working on healing right now and probably have to focus on yourself a lot. But we never did really get to say good-bye the last time I saw you and I hate not having the chance to do that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that saying good-bye is important.
But as I’m writing this letter, I realize that that’s not what I want this to be about. I don’t want to say good-bye to you yet. Actually, I don’t want to say good-bye to you ever. I know that’s probably freaking you out right now, but it’s the truth. The idea of losing you is too much to handle. I want you in my life always, either as a friend or more. And I know you probably think I’m crazy. That we barely know each other and in a way you’re right. We do barely know each other, but at the same time I think we’ve been through more than the average person, which makes us able to understand each other more than a lot of people could. And I honestly can picture us one day down the road, super old and just hanging out, again as friends or more—your choice.
And if you’ve learned anything about me over the last year or so, it’s that I’m stubborn. When I want something, I sort of latch on to it. In fact, that habit can be a huge issue for me—the inability to let go. But that’s the thing. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to work on that and I know I do, but I don’t necessarily believe that I need to let go of everything. I can hold on to the things that are important to me. And one of those things is you. So even though you might not want to hear this, I’m not letting you go. I’m always going to be here for you no matter what.
Your friend forever,
Nova (like the car)
I stop reading it. She’s right. No matter what happens, I want Nova in my life. I never want to stop talking to her. Listening to her. I want her with me. I just need to make sure I create the sort of life that’s worthy of her being a part of. Can I do that for her? Let go and move forward toward a future with her? I glance around the room. Can I let all of this go for her?
Swallowing my nerves, I get up and circle around my room, taking in each sketch and drawing and feeling the powerful memories connected to them. How much time I spent drawing them or the moments captured within the photos. Then there’s my mom. I don’t want to say good-bye to any of this and maybe I don’t have to completely, but I can let go a little.
One step at a time.
Sucking up the full amount of strength I have in me, I start to take the photos and drawings down. One by one, holding them in my hands as if they were the most delicate things in the world. With each one that comes down, I feel different, as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s body, the body of someone I don’t know. Someone stronger, new. Reborn.
When I’m finished, I haven’t taken all of them down, but enough that they don’t overtake my room. There’s one photo of my mom in a rocking chair, her belly big because she is pregnant with me, and a photo of Lexi and me sitting on her back porch, posing for the camera. There’s also a sketch of her… one I drew a few days before she died. That one I hold on to to remind me of her, because I may be trying to let go, but forgetting her completely isn’t right. She deserves to be remembered, never forgotten. Despite the fact that I’m choosing life, I don’t have to break my promise to her.
“I’ll remember you forever,” I whisper to the air, wondering if she can hear me. “No matter what. I promise… but I think I have to let go just a little…”
By the time I’m done saying it, I’m crying. Tears pour down my face as I take in the bareness of my room, the past no longer overtaking my future, just a ghost, distant memories, and it hurts, yet there’s this strange freedom in the pain because I’m feeling it, not running away from it.
I’m starting to sob, tears choking me, refusing to stop flowing, when my phone starts ringing. It’s five o’clock in the morning and I wonder who the hell would be calling this early.
Quickly pulling myself together, I wipe my tears away, then lean over to pick up my phone and check the glowing screen. When I see Nova’s name on it, panic slams against me as I worry that something might be wrong. “Hey, is everything okay?” I ask as I quickly answer it, worried she’ll be able to tell I’ve been crying.
“No.” She sounds strange. Not necessarily sad, but like she’s repressing something… numbing her emotions. I hate hearing it in her voice and immediately want to fix it, my problems at the moment shrinking inside me.
“What happened?” I ask. God, please don’t let anything be wrong.
“A lot of stuff really, but I…” Her voice catches, her emotions on the verge of spilling out. “I have to tell you something and I need you not to get mad at me.”
“Okay… what is it?” I ask cautiously. She doesn’t say anything right away and I can hear a lot of commotion in the background. “Where are you?”
“At the airport.” She sounds guilty. “The Seattle airport.”
A bundle of emotions rush through me all at once and I almost hang up on her. Nova’s here. In Seattle. This is bad. Really bad. I’m not prepared for this. And I wanted to prepare myself for the first time I saw her again. Wanted to be completely stable instead of sobbing my heart out because I just took a bunch of photos of my old girlfriend down.
“You’re here. In Seattle. Seriously?” I can’t conceal my shock or the fact that I’m on the edge of crying again, just from reliving the memory of taking down the sketches and photos.
“I know you said you didn’t want me to come here,” she says, sounding upset. “But some stuff happened and I just… I just needed to get away from it all, so I packed up my bags and headed to the first place I could think of.”
“You made the decision to come here tonight?” I ask worriedly, not just because she’s sitting in the airport by herself, upset, but because something made her upset enough that she just took off. “Just up and left. Just like that.”
“Yeah. I just really needed to get away before my head exploded. And it was either go to you or have a meltdown.”
“How did you even get a flight?”
“It was a pain in the ass,” she promises me. “I was on a plane for six hours and normally it’s like a two-hour flight.”
“I bet.” I’m not sure what to say to her because I’m still attempting to process that she’s here. Only miles away. “Are you just sitting at the airport now?”
“Yeah… I’m trying to figure out what to do next,” she says miserably. “I know what I want to do and that’s flag a taxi down and come see you, but I totally get it if you don’t want me to do that.”
I wonder what she’d do if I said I couldn’t see her. Would she just hang around in the city or get on a plane and fly back home? That’s probably the best option, since I’m still not as stable as I wanted to be when I saw her again.
But the idea of her being so near and my not seeing her makes my heart throb. “Don’t take a taxi,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ll come get you.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
God, she’s killing me. Too nice for her own good.
“Yeah, of course I’m sure.” But I’m not. At all. Then again, I’m not sure I’ll ever be, but I guess I’m going to have to rip off the Band-Aid.
“Thanks,” she says, getting choked up. “And Quinton, I’m really, really sorry for springing myself on you like this.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” I say, opening my dresser drawer and grabbing a shirt. “Now stay put. I’ll be there in about twenty to thirty minutes.” I hang up, get dressed, then go into my father’s room to ask him if I can borrow the car. He’s hesitant at first, until I tell him why. He reluctantly gives me the keys and tells me he’ll take the bus to work. As small as the gesture is, it means a lot to me, and I wholeheartedly thank him.
I have to let the car thaw out for about five minutes and let the frost melt away from the windshield, so I climb in and dial Wilson’s number, cranking up the heat. After about four rings, he picks up, sounding extremely exhausted.
“This better be really important,” he says, and then he yawns. “Because I am not a morning person.”
“Nova’s here,” is all I say, staring up at the gray sky as the sun begins to rise and kiss it with a hint of orange.