"What can I do to make it better?" he whispers against my cheek. "I'll do anything that you tell me to."
I know I shouldn't say it, but I can't help it. "Stop doing drugs." I stiffen, waiting for him to shout at me, but all he does is lean back, keeping his hand on my hip.
"I can't do that," he says softly, almost sounding disappointed, but maybe that's me just reaching for hope.
"Why not?"
"Because I can't."
I want to press him more, but he's shutting down, the life dying in his eyes. I know that once it's gone, he'll ask me to take him home, so I let him go and search for a way to keep him here beside me.
"Hey, know what we should do?" I say as he sits back in his seat.
He drums his fingers on his knee as he stares at the gas station. "What should we do, Nova like the car?" he asks, giving me a sideways half-smile. It's been a while since he's used my nickname and memories of last summer flow through me so powerfully it makes me light-headed.
"We should play twenty questions again," I tell him. "Like we did last summer."
"That's what you really want to do?" he questions with a crook of his brow.
I yawn as my fingers wrap around the door handle. "Just as soon as I go get a soda."
He studies me, looking torn, but then gives in. "All right, go get your soda and we'll play twenty questions for a little bit."
I get out of the car, not feeling happy, but at the same time not feeling like I'm drowning in hopelessness. Although I do worry that by the time I make it back to the car, he'll be gone. So I rush to buy a soda and when I step back outside, relief washes over me when I see him lying on the hood of my car, smoking a cigarette, staring up at the stars in the midnight sky. The street is fairly quiet and there are no other cars parked nearby. The only noise is coming from the gas station radio speakers and it's set on the oldies station, playing soft tunes. It's almost like we have the quiet he was talking about on the roof. It'd be a perfect moment if I didn't know what's going to happen when I take him back to the apartment. Still, I climb up on the hood with him and take a swallow of soda as the scent of cigarette smoke encircles me.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask him, looking up at the night sky, feeling calm inside as I stare at the constellations.
He puts the cigarette up to his lips and inhales. "Thinking about my first question," he says, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
"Oh yeah?" I say, twisting the cap back on my soda. "Who said you get to go first?"
He slants his head to the side. "You're not going to let me go first?" He's almost playful.
I smile. "I'm kidding. You can go first."
He thinks about it for a moment while sticking his arm to the side and ashing his cigarette onto the ground. "If you could be one place in the world, where would you be?"
"Honestly," I say, and he nods. "I think I'd be all over the world, videotaping everything."
"Everything?"
I nod. "Everything. There's just so much to see, you know, and sometimes it feels like I'm just sitting around, missing everything."
He turns to his side and props himself up on his elbow, cigarette smoke circling around us. "Then why don't you just go?"
"For a lot of reasons," I reply, rotating the soda bottle in my hand. "One being that I need to graduate first...it's important for my future."
"Yeah, I can see that...needing a degree if you have a future," he says with a frown, and it stabs at my heart.
"You could have a future, you know," I say, hoping I don't set him off again.
"No, I can't." He lies back down on his back and fixes his eyes on the stars, growing quiet.
"Okay, my turn." I pivot onto my hip, rest my head on my arm, and set the soda bottle against the windshield. "What were you like before you started doing drugs?" It's a brave question, but I want tonight's game to actually have a point. I want to get to know him more. Understand him, so I can maybe understand what will help him.
He winces like I've slapped him and lets out a sharp cough. "I'm not going to answer that question."
"That's not fair. I always answer yours, even the one about my dad's death, which is hard to talk about."
"When did I ask you about your dad?"
"Last summer," I remind him. "When we were in the tent and we...and we kissed a lot."
More memories swarm around us as I remember and I can tell he remembers, too, because he touches his lips and gets this really strange look on his face. Then he swallows hard and flicks his cigarette onto the ground. "I was normal," he finally answers my question. "Just a normal guy who thought about college and who liked to draw and wanted to be an artist. Who hardly got into trouble, and who had only been in love with one girl...a normal boring guy." He sounds so conflicted, like he misses that guy, but at the same time he doesn't want to.
The song switches to one I know, even though I'm not into oldies. But it's one my dad used to listen to, "Heaven" by Bryan Adams, and it makes me think of the good times in my life, when I used to dance around the living room with my dad, listening to music, and everything felt so easy. I wish I could capture some of that easiness now and spill it over Quinton and me.
"I like the sound of that boring guy," I utter softly. "I hope one day I can meet him."
"You won't, so you should go find another one." He sits up like he's ready to go, but instead he stretches his arms above his head. "What do you see in me, Nova? What keeps you coming around? I mean, I'm not that nice to you, at least not always. I have a shitty life and do shitty stuff."
"All of that's because you're hurting, though, something I get really, really well." I sit up and bend forward to meet his eyes, which are wide and full of panic. "I see a lot of things in you, Quinton. I'm not going to lie. You sometimes remind me of Landon and that's part of the reason why I think I'm so drawn to you," I say, and when his expression falls, I quickly take his hands. "But that's not the only reason...when I'm around you sometimes it seems like you and I are the only two people that exist and nothing else matters and for someone who over-thinks everything, that's really hard to achieve."
I can tell he sort of likes my answer because his pulse starts slamming against my fingers. "Is that all?" he asks and I shake my head, wondering how long it's been since someone said nice things to him.
"No way. I'm just getting started." I hold on to him tighter. "Last summer you made me feel things...things I thought I'd never feel again after Landon died. And it's not because I was high. Trust me. I haven't felt that way again, not until I came back here to see you."
"I'm a junkie, Nova," he mumbles. "I shouldn't make you feel anything."
"You're not a junkie," I argue, tightening my hold on his hands. "You're just someone who's really, really lost and hurting and won't admit it and drugs take that all away for you."
He's starting to look scared, panicky, his eyes sweeping the area like he's looking for a place to run, hide, and get high. So I clutch him tighter and move on.
"If you could do anything right now," I say quickly. "What would you do?"
"Get high," he replies, meeting my eyes, and his are so full of anguish it steals the breath out of me. "What about you? What would you do right now if you could?"
I think he thinks I'm going to say I would save him, and I want to, but I'm not going to say it because I need a break from the repetitiveness and so does he. We both know why I'm here and I'm not forgetting why I came. I'm just trying to work my way into his head the only way I can think of. By trying something that's easy and uncomplicated. Because we need easy at the moment.
"I would dance," I answer, then let go of his hand and slide off the hood of the car. I know I'm being goofy, but it's all I've got at the moment, so I stick out my hand. "Will you dance with me, Quinton?"
He glances warily at the speakers on the trim of the gas station, at the vacant pumps, then over to the street. "That's really what you want to do? Right here? Right now?"
I nod with my hand still ou
t. "Yep, now will you grant me my request?"
He considers this and there's hesitation in his eyes but he still gets down off the hood and takes my hand. The contact gives me a brief break from all the crappy stuff surrounding us. Easy. We're going to do something that's really, really easy. I know it won't erase all the hard stuff. But sometimes taking a break from the complicated stuff is enough to get me through the next step and the next one. One step at a time. One breath at a time. One heartbeat at a time.
One life at a time.
I reach out to put my hand on his shoulder, but instead he pushes me back and spins me around. "You know you're getting in over your head, right?" he says, jerking me to him and crashing me against his chest.
I'm breathless as I put my cheek up to his chest and feel his heart racing beneath it. "Where'd you learn to dance like that?"
"From my grandmother...she taught me right before I went to my first dance in middle school," he says, breathing into my hair as he rests his chin on top of my head and we begin to sway to the music.
"Was it because she wanted to teach you?" I ask. "Or because you wanted to learn?"
"Sadly it was because I wanted to learn," he says. "I thought knowing how to dance would make my crush want to dance with me."
I press my cheek to his chest. "But she didn't want to?"
"Nah, but I wasn't the kind of guy girls wanted to dance with," he says. "I was too shy at the time."
I try not to smile, but it's hard. "I was shy too at one time."
"I can see that," he says thoughtfully.
I pull away slightly and tip my chin up to look him in the eyes. "How? I'm not shy anymore."
The corners of his lips quirk. "Yeah, but sometimes you get embarrassed over stuff you do and the shyness comes out," he says, and when I frown he adds, "Don't worry, it's only happened a couple of times, back when we first started hanging out. And besides, I like it."
I press my lips together and return my cheek to his chest and he puts his chin back on top of my head. "Well, I'm glad you do, because I don't."
"Well, I do." He keeps dancing for a moment, leading me in a slow circle. Then I feel him swallow hard and he says, "I guess you learned another thing about the old me--that I used to know how to dance."
I smile to myself because he didn't used to know how to dance--he still does. And as we rock to the rhythm I stay silent, telling myself that if he can still dance then the old Quinton's still burning somewhere inside him and now that I've seen a glimpse of it, I don't want to ever let it go.
So I hold on to him tightly as we sway to the song. I shut my eyes and feel every aspect of the moment, the heat in the air, the warmth of his body, the way my body seems in tune with his. No regrets. This is one moment I will never regret. I don't care that we're in a shitty gas station parking lot and that we both smell like cigarette smoke. I want it. Want this. Want him. Right now. I know it's not the right time at all, that there are so many things wrong, things hidden deep beneath the surface, but I just need to touch him a little bit more. So without opening my eyes, I kiss my way up his neck and across his scruffy jaw, and find his lips. I'm not sure what I expect him to do, but he opens his mouth and kisses me back deeply, with passion and heat. He manages to keep us moving and at the same time presses our bodies closer, until we're almost one person. I can feel everything about him. His heat. His breath. The slight gasps he makes every time our lips barely part. And with my eyes shut I can pretend that I'm with the old Quinton, the one I'm trying to save.
And part of me wishes I never had to open my eyes again. Part of me wishes I could stay just like this. Forever. Just he and I. Just contentment. The easiness. It makes me want to create more moments like this. I just need to find a way for him to let me.
After we're done dancing, we climb back on the hood and chat a little more. He seems to unwind as time goes by and I'm guessing that he's reached a sort of peaceful balance in his high, one I remember well because it's what drew me to drugs in the first place. Then it starts to get late, the noise dying down so severely it seems like the city has gone to sleep.
I yawn, stretching out my arms as I stare up at the stars. "It's so late."
"I know. We should probably get back," he says, sitting up and hopping off the hood. "It's late and I hate the thought of you being around here at night and driving back to wherever you're staying."
I slide toward the edge of the hood and he helps me down by taking my hand. "I'll be okay. Lea's uncle lives in a pretty good area."
"Still, I worry about you." He seems uncomfortable saying it.
"All right, I'll drop you off and get home then."
He nods and lets go of my hand. Then I take him home and give him a kiss on the cheek before he gets out of the car.
"Nova," he says before he climbs out, his back turned to me, his feet out of the car and on the ground. "I wish you'd stop coming here."
My heart sinks in my chest. For a moment I thought I saw promise that things might change between us--that he'd stop fighting me so much. "You really want me to stop."
It takes him a few seconds to answer. "What I want doesn't matter...what's right does."
"It's not wrong for me to see you." I nervously fiddle with the keychain dangling from the ignition. "And I'm not ready to stop seeing you...are you ready to stop seeing me?"
His head lowers, but he still doesn't look at me. "I can't answer that right now."
"Well, then, let's stop talking about it until you do," I say, and he starts to get out of the car without saying a word. "I'll see you tomorrow?"
He pauses as he's closing the door. "Yeah...I guess so."
It's not much, but it's enough to lift me a little bit out of my slump. "Bye, Quinton. I'll see you tomorrow."
He doesn't say anything and shuts the door. Then he goes back up to his place and I wait until he's inside before I take out my phone and angle it at my face.
There's very little light, but I can still make out my outline on the screen, which is enough. "So I got this idea tonight," I tell the camera. "It might be stupid, but it's all I got. It's called fun. And I'm not talking about getting-drunk-and-partying type of fun. That's the last thing Quinton and I need. I'm talking about the plain, easy kind of fun. The dancing, music, laughing, playful, peaceful kind of fun...the kind we shared tonight. It seemed to help him relax, not putting pressure on him, pretending that we were just two people hanging out...and I can pretend as long as it can get me somewhere...I just hope I can keep getting to him...keep learning about him...understand him." I pause, biting my lip as a guy walks out of Quinton's apartment, strolls up to the railing, and stares down at my car. He flicks his cigarette over the edge and then rests his arms on top of the railing. The light over the door hits his back, making it hard to see his face, but it sort of looks like Dylan. If that's the case then it's time for me to go, before he ruins my vaguely decent night.
I shut the recording off and toss my phone aside, feeling a little bit lighter as I drive away. I just pray to God that when I return tomorrow morning, the Quinton I had toward the end of tonight is still thriving.
Chapter 11
Quinton
May 26, day eleven of summer break
I'm changing and I don't like it. I'm feeling things and I don't like it. My self-destruction plan is becoming complicated and I don't like it. I don't like anything at the moment, yet I keep doing the same things over and over again. Keep seeing Nova. Letting her affect me--change me.
But I can't seem to help it.
Dancing with her was...well, it was amazing. Touching her like that--kissing her like that--it should be forbidden, especially after making her cry like I did. I made a silent vow to myself the second Nova dropped me off that day when we were on the roof and I showed her one of the ugliest sides of myself and made her cry. I vowed I'd never hurt her again and that I'd stay away from her, but I suck at the last part.
I don't know how to shut it off--turn away from her--without feeling
like I'm going insane. She's taking me over, almost as potent as the drugs, but unlike with drugs, I'm very conflicted about my emotions. The last time I felt something was at that concert and I ultimately made a choice to shut myself down, not let myself have Nova, not drag her down. Not feel anything. Create my own prison. But Nova seems to know how to get through the bars and pull me out like she did last summer. And the emotions I tried to kill with drugs have burst to the surface again. Sometimes I think I should embrace them. Sometimes I think I should run from them. Sometimes it makes me angry and I worry I'll fly off the handle one of these times and say something to hurt her again.
Fortunately that hasn't happened yet. I've seen Nova every day for the last four days and managed not to flip out and make her cry, but that's partially because I always make sure I'm at the perfect high whenever she comes around. Her visits are starting to become a routine. Like today. I wake up at around noon or one, get my morning boost, get dressed, and then wait around and draw until she shows up. I almost get excited knowing she'll be here to see me. All of this stuff seems good, but there's one huge problem. The more time I spend with her, the guiltier I feel about Lexi. Like I'm leaving her behind to rot in her grave, deciding that I should live instead of putting myself back into the grave I should have been put in with her.
I'm not sure what the hell is wrong with me. What kind of person would just move on from the girlfriend he killed? So I try to fight it--my feelings for Nova--but she consumes my thoughts, takes over my life, even my drawings. I'm actually drawing a picture of her when she shows up today. It's one of her sitting on the edge of the roof where we chatted that day I yelled at her. The perfection I saw as she looked at me and I explained my love for the scene below. It's an amazing drawing that makes me sad to see, that I've gotten to that place where I can put so much effort into drawing another girl.
The last thing I want is for Nova to see it, so when she enters my room I quickly shut my sketchbook. "Hey," I say, tossing it aside onto the mattress.
She's all smiles, two cups of coffee in her hands as she materializes in my doorway, wearing a blue dress that shows off her legs, her hair done up so I can see the freckles on her face and shoulders. "So I have a plan for today." She sticks out her hand, offering me a cup of coffee, looking so happy even though there's a mirror on my floor that's coated in white residue, like she can see past all that stuff, like how I've treated her in the past, like the scar on my chest that marks the terrible thing I did.