Saving Quinton
Page 26

I have no idea where the hell the feeling stemmed from, whether I’ve done too many drugs for one day, or if Nova’s getting into my head even more than I realized. And the truly terrifying part is, part of me wants to go back to her, start answering the door, keep letting her get to me.
Let the hope build.
But the other part of me wants to shatter the possibility into a thousand pieces and keep heading to a young death, let myself rot away quickly until I finally stop breathing forever like I should have done two years ago.
Chapter 10
May 23, day eight of summer break
Nova
Time is starting to blur together. Every day is the same. It’s been four days since I’ve seen or talked to Quinton and I feel like I’m going to explode from the lack of moving forward. I’m trying to keep my plummeting mood hidden from Lea and my mom, but it’s hard when they can both read me like an open book.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come to lunch with us?” Lea asks as she collects her purse from the computer desk in the guest room. It’s the weekend and she and her uncle are going out to get something to eat. “I might go shopping afterward.”
I shake my head as I lie down on the bed and drape my arm over my head. “I’m really tired. I think I might just take a nap.”
“You’re probably tired because you keep waking up in the middle of the night,” she says. “You’re a freaking restless sleeper lately.”
Because I keep dreaming of the dead and the soon-to-be-dead if I can’t figure out a way to help Quinton. “Yeah, I know…I have a lot on my mind.”
She looks at me suspiciously, like she can read through my life; like she knows that really, once she leaves, I’m going to go over to Quinton’s for the second time today and see if I can get someone to answer. “Nova, I know you’ve been watching Landon’s video.”
I’m not sure how to respond and thankfully, I don’t have to because her uncle peeks into the room, interrupting us.
“You girls about ready?” he asks. He’s an average-height man, with thinning hair and welcoming eyes. The kind of person who looks friendly, and he is. He’s usually wearing business attire when I see him, but today he’s wearing jeans and an old red T-shirt.
“Nova’s not coming with us,” Lea says, slipping the handle of her purse over her shoulder. “She’s tired.” She gives me a look that lets me know I’m going to get a lecture when she gets home.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he says, stepping into the room. “I was going to take you to Baker and Nancy’s. I hear they have excellent steak.”
“Maybe next time,” I tell him. “I really think I need to get caught up on some sleep.”
“Well, if you change your mind, call Lea and you can meet us,” he says, backing toward the doorway.
“All right, sounds good,” I say, then roll over and rest my head against the pillow.
I hear Lea’s uncle say something to Lea as they leave and it sounds an awful lot like “Are you sure she’s okay? She looks really down.” I can’t help but wonder just how down in the dumps I look, if a stranger can notice this.
A few minutes later the house gets quiet. The air conditioning clicks on. The sun glistens through the window. I’m starting to like the quiet because it eliminates all the worried looks and questions I keep getting. If I had my way, I’d avoid talking to my mom until I could pull my shit together, but like she’s read my mind, my phone suddenly rings and I know without even looking who it has to be.
I probably wouldn’t answer it, but she might have information about Quinton’s dad, so I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my phone.
“Hello,” I say, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling.
“You sound tired,” my mom says worriedly. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”
I wonder if she’s been talking to Lea about my lack of sleep or, worse, if Lea’s told her about my watching Landon’s video, although I’m guessing it’d probably be the first thing my mom would ask me about if she knew.
“Yeah, but I think it’s the time change.” It’s a lame excuse, since the time change is only an hour and I’ve actually already gotten used to it.
“Well, make sure you get enough rest.” She gives a heavyhearted sigh. “And make sure you’re not overdoing it.”
“Okay, I will.” I feel the lie burn inside my chest. “So have you heard anything from Quinton’s dad?”
“Yeah…” She’s reluctant and I know whatever happened is bad. “It didn’t go very well.”
“What happened?” I ask, sitting up in the bed.
“I just don’t know if this is going to work,” she says. “If he’ll do anything to help his son.”
“Why not?” I get so upset I nearly yell.
“Honey, I think this might be deeper than we realize,” she says in the gentle motherly tone she uses when she knows I’m on the verge of cracking open. “I mean, I only talked to him for a few minutes, but I got the impression there’s a lot of problems there. Not just between the two of them but with Quinton, and that his dad would rather avoid the problem.”
“I know he has problems,” I drag my butt off the bed and look around the room for my purse. “That’s why I’m here trying to help him.”
“Yeah, but…his father seemed so upset on the phone and not for the right reasons…” She trails off and then clears her throat, like she’s getting worked up. “Look, sweetie, I know you’re really determined to help him, but maybe he needs more help than you can give him.”
“Do you think his dad will come down here and help him?” I ask, picking up my purse from the back of the computer chair and getting my car keys out of it. “If you talked to him a little more?”
“I’m not sure…but I can keep trying while you’re here,” she says persistently. “Please, Nova, come back home.”
“Not until I know for sure his dad will help him.” I walk out of the room and to the front door. “Look, Mom, I got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?” I don’t wait for her to respond. I know I’m being rude—worrying her. But the thing I was counting on—Quinton’s dad—has just been lost.
I need to see him now. Need to look at him. Need to save him.
Somehow.
* * *
I’m starting to hate the sight of that door. The one with the crack. The one that keeps Quinton on one side and me on the other. The divider. If I were strong enough, I’d kick it down, but I’m not, so all I can do is keep knocking on it.
“Would someone just open the damn door!” I shout, feeling like I’m going to lose it as I hammer it with my fist. “Please!” My voice echoes for miles like it’s the only thing that exists.
I sink onto the ground, frustrated, feeling beaten down. I want to give up, but I keep seeing Landon’s face that night we lay on the hillside, the last time I ever saw him. There was something in his eyes—I saw it. Sadness. Pain. Internal misery. It’s a look that will haunt me until the day I die, no matter how much time goes by. I don’t want to learn to live with it again and if I walk away from Quinton now, I’ll have to, because I’ve seen the same look in his eyes before. And I won’t let him die like I did with Landon.
So I sit there on the scorching-hot concrete, letting my skin scald, staring at the door, the only barrier between the truth and me. And I refuse to budge until it opens. It finally does. It’s getting late, and the horizon is fading behind me, but still the door opens and Tristan walks out wearing an open button-down long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans, like it’s not sweltering hot out here. He startles back when he sees me and scrapes the heel of his foot on the concrete, splitting the skin open. He doesn’t seem fazed at all, though, ruffling his messy blond hair, and then he yawns as he stretches out his arms and legs.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks calmly, lowering his arms to his sides.
His calm attitude irks me and I scowl up at him, hungry and thirsty and cranky, a bad combination. “I banged on the door for a while. Why didn’t you answer?”
His eyes lift to the sky as he contemplates what I said. “I didn’t hear anyone knock…Quinton has his music up. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t hear it.”
I can hear music playing from somewhere inside, but still. “Can I talk to Quinton?” I ask. His lips part and I hold up my hand, silencing him. “And don’t tell me he’s not here, because you just let it slip that he’s the one listening to music.”
His lips tug up into a half-smile. “I was actually going to say yeah, come on in. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself this late anyway. It’s not safe.” He offers me his hand. “Especially when the sun’s about to go down completely.”
“Oh.” I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet, uncertain if I’ll really be safer inside. “You make it sound like a bunch of vampires live around here and they’re going to come out and drink my blood at sundown,” I joke lamely because I’m tired and thirsty and hungry. I’ve been sitting outside for probably a couple of hours and I think the back of my neck is sunburned.
Tristan’s blue eyes gradually scroll up my long legs, my shorts, my tight white tank top, and conclusively land on my eyes. “Not vampires, but I’m sure there are plenty of people around here that would love to get a taste of you,” he says as he shuts the door behind us. He has this look in his eyes, glazed and incoherent, like he’s here in body but not in mind, and I think I might have my hands full.
It takes me a moment to find my voice. “I’m not even sure how to respond to that,” I say, squirming uncomfortably.
“You don’t have to respond. I’m just rambling,” he tells me with a shrug and then turns toward the kitchen, stumbling over the hem of his jeans when he steps on it. “Do you want a drink or something? We’ve got vodka and…” He searches through the cupboards, but they’re all empty. He shuts the last one and walks over to the counter and picks up a mostly empty vodka bottle. “And vodka.”
I smile with apprehension. “’No thanks. I don’t drink that much anymore. Remember, I told you that at the bar.”
“Oh yeah. Sorry, I forgot.” He unscrews the cap of the vodka bottle and sniffs the contents, but doesn’t drink. “It’s hard to keep track of stuff sometimes, you know.”
Even though the floor is covered in sticky puddles, wrappers, even a used syringe, I dare step into the kitchen. “Yeah, I do know how that feels way too well, because I’ve been feeling it every day since I got here. I think this place is starting to crack at my sanity.” I’m tired and being way too blunt.
He screws the cap back on and he briefly appears vexed, but it fades. “Okay, not to steal your line or anything, but I don’t even know how to respond to that.”
“You don’t have to respond,” I say as he tosses the bottle back onto the messy countertop, a little too hard and it sounds like it breaks but he doesn’t do anything about it. “You know me. I’m just saying how I feel.”
“Saying how you feel. How nice of you to share that with me. I feel so honored.” He rolls his eyes and strolls back into the living room, toward the sofa covered with pieces of aluminum foil and lighters. His sudden shift in attitude throws me off and I debate whether to say anything about it, whether I want to open Pandora’s box or not.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, following him into the living room. “You’re acting kind of rude right now. Is something up? Did something happen with that Trace guy?” I notice he doesn’t have any bruises on him or anything, so he hasn’t recently been beaten up, but I need to check to make sure he’s okay. “Because my offer still stands if you need help.”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Nothing’s wrong. And what happened with Trace isn’t your business—it’s mine.” He picks up a lighter that’s on the coffee table and flicks it. “And I’m not acting rude—I’m acting like myself, Nova.”
“No, you’re acting kind of cold right now…you were nice the other day,” I say. “Or at least civil, but now…”
He chucks the lighter across the room, then whirls around near the sofa, shooting me a dirty look. “I wasn’t nice to you the other day. You asked me to talk to you and I had nothing better to do so I did. Plain and simple.” He picks up another lighter and starts restlessly flicking it. “And if you’d just stop coming over here, you wouldn’t have to deal with my moodiness, but you seem to be on some pointless save-the-crackheads mission that you clearly can’t handle, but won’t admit.”
His words blaze under my skin and between my anger and exhaustion I say something I regret as soon as it leaves my lips. “I don’t have to deal with your moodiness at all, since I came over here to see Quinton, not you.”
Rage consumes him and suddenly he’s striding toward me, reducing the space between us in an instant. “Well, if you don’t give a shit about me, then leave,” he growls. He’s so close I can see my reflection in his eyes, can see the fear in the reflection of mine.
“I’m sorry.” My voice shakes as I shuffle back and gain space. “I didn’t mean that.”