Breaking Nova (24 page)

“Good morning,” Quinton says in a lazy tone, and I jump from the sound of his voice.

“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, breathless, pressing my hand to my chest as I sit up.

His eyelids lift open, and it gets to me every time; the honey-brown shade pooled with even more sorrow. “I can tell.”

I take note of his plaid shirt and black cargo shorts, which is a different outfit from what he was wearing last night. His eyes are red and puffy, but I can’t tell if he’s high or if he’s been crying. “Have you been up already?”

“Yeah, I had to… I went to talk to Tristan.” He pauses. “You know you wiggle a lot in your sleep.”

“Well, you talk in your sleep.” I say, rubbing the tiredness from my eyes.

“Oh, yeah.” He arches his brow. “What’d I say?”

“That Nova is the most awesomest person in the world,” I joke in a tired voice, resting my arm on my stomach.

He chuckles softly. “Yeah, that does seem like something I would say.”

“You don’t think I’m awesome?” I fake a frown.

He grazes his thumb across my lip. “I think you’re beautiful.”

I strangle down the urge to run out of the tent, because in the light of day—in my refreshed mind—the word is harder to hear. “You keep saying that.”

He gives me a big, goofy grin that looks so out of place on his face it can probably only mean one thing. He’s stoned. “That’s because you are.” He explores my body with his penetrating eyes, making sure to cover every inch, and even though he’s not touching me, it feels like he’s touching me all over. When his eyes rest on mine again, he seems uncertain. “I think…” He shuts his eyes, his expression contorted in pain. “I really want to draw you, Nova.”

“I’m not sure if I can let you,” I utter softly.

His eyes open and the pain hidden in his pupils is magnified. “I’m not sure if I can.” He massages his forehead with his heel of his hand, like he’s trying to rub away the stress. His shirt sleeve slips down a little, revealing the names tattooed on his arm.

“Who are Ryder and Lexi?” I ask, extending my fingers to touch the names inked on his skin.

He stiffens and then slides his arm out from underneath me. “How about I go find us some breakfast or something?” His voice is tight, nearly a shout as he ruffles his hair into place with his hand. Without waiting for me to respond, he unzips the tent and leaves me alone with my question echoing in my head.

I start to get up to see if he’s okay, but my stomach rolls with nausea from all the beer I drank last night, and I lay back down with my arm over my head. I stare at the ceiling, recollecting every time Landon had run away from me when I asked the wrong question. Then one night he’d taken off and never returned, just like that. Just like Quinton’s doing.

Without taking my eyes off the ceiling, I stretch my arm out and feel around the side of the tent until I find my phone. I open the Landon file, staring at it, counting the seconds down. But when I hit two minutes, I feel too tired to keep going, weighted down by worry, anxiety, my bad decisions, and my exhausting routine. For the first time in over a year, I skip out on the last three minutes of my routine. My limbs and fingers feel heavy as I click the camera on, noting the paleness of my skin and the redness in my puffy eyes as I clear my throat before speaking.

“I remember the night I went to visit Landon’s grave. It wasn’t too long after they put the headstone on his grave.” My voice sounds hoarse. “It was my mom that suggested we go visit—‘Maybe we can go with the Evanses’—like it was a great idea or something.”

I stare at my eyes, begging them to show me what I’m feeling on the inside. “It’d been a couple of months since he was buried, and I’d barely made it through his funeral… well,
barely
might be exaggerating. I’d puked my guts out in the bathroom afterward. I think deep down I knew I wasn’t ready to go to his grave, but I couldn’t admit it to my mother… or maybe to myself. Going and staring at a stone that marked the date he was born and the day he decided to go…” I suck in a breath. “Yet, I’d agreed, because that’s what I always did, I agree and go along with things because I could never think of an excuse.”

My hand trembles as a tear rolls down my cheek. “So we went with the Evanses, and his mom cried the entire time, and so did my mom. I probably should have said something—or done something—to make it easier for everyone, but all I could do was stand there.” More tears flood my eyes, but I don’t move, capturing the realness of the moment. “I felt disconnected, like it wasn’t real, like someone had made a mistake and put the wrong name on the headstone and that really Landon was at home sketching the mountains or maybe the trees outside while he smoked weed and lost track of time, because that seemed more plausible then him deciding he’d rather be underneath the ground than up here with me.”

I pause as my emotions become too uncontrollable and I begin to chatter. “After the visit was over, I went home and… I don’t know…” My eyebrows knit. “I just wanted to understand what he felt like right at the end… what the hell he was thinking that made him go through with it. So I went into the bathroom and started cutting my wrist open. It’s not like I wanted to die… at least I don’t think so. Honestly, I have no idea what I wanted or want. An explanation? A way to travel back through time? A way to do everything differently? Or maybe I’d just lost myself with Landon—”

The sound of the door zipper moving causes me to drop my phone. I quickly sit up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand right as Quinton sticks his head in. My teeth are still clattering together and there are a few stray tears on my face.

“I think I…” His voice trails off as he takes in the sight of me. “Nova, are you okay? What the hell happened?”

I shake my head, stretching the bottom of my tank top up to my cheeks to clean off my face. “It’s nothing.”

He crawls into the tent, zips the door up, and kneels down in front of me, appearing regretful. “I’m sorry I kind of yelled at you… I just… I don’t even know why I did it.”

“It’s fine,” I assure him, pulling the bottom of my shirt back down over my stomach. “That’s not why I’m crying.”

“I know,” he replies, releasing an uneven breath. “But I needed to say it… I feel bad yelling. I should have never raised my voice at you.”

It feels like I need to say a lot of things, because I didn’t say so much when I was with Landon. “It’s okay. I promise… But…” I struggle for the right words that can maybe get him to open up to me, but my mind is exhausted from the alcohol last night and thoughts of Landon just now, so no words ever come. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You can… you can talk to me if you want to, Nova.”

I force a smile. “I’m fine. I promise.”

He smiles back, but it’s a sad smile. He starts to scoot back toward the door, taking hold of my hand, and his palms feel a little sweaty. “Now, come on. I just found out that there’s this little diner place like three miles up the road, so we can actually have real food instead of granola bars and that shit we ate last night.”

“I think it was hot dogs. That’s why we put them on the hot dog forks.”

“They may have been hot dogs, but they sure as hell didn’t taste like it.”

“I think Delilah burnt them,” I say. “She sucks at cooking.”

“So do I,” he states. “I once burned a Hot Pocket in the microwave.”

“How do you burn a Hot Pocket in the microwave?”

“By leaving it in there for over ten minutes,” he says with an amused grin. “I was high, and instead of trying to set the time, I just pushed a bunch of buttons, figuring it’d work. I still ate it, though.”

We smile at each other, on the verge of laughing, but I’m not sure if it’s real or if it’s just something we know we’re supposed to do, and as quickly as it ascends, we’re sinking back into the desolation again.

He stops in front of the door and traces the folds between my fingers. “Nova, I really like you… but there are things… stuff that I can’t talk about. I’m not sure if I can be with you like I was last night.”

An elongated pause passes between us. He continues to trace the folds in my fingers with his head tucked down, and I analyze his demeanor, sad and broken, and God, I hate to think it, what if he’s suicidal? What if below the surface, there’s even more pain eating away at him, and I’m the only one who sees it because I’ve seen it before but didn’t recognize it until it was too late? I’m about to ask him why he’s so sad, even if it means getting yelled out or hated or completely jumping out of my comfort zone.

“I have to ask you something,” he says, before I get a chance. “And as much as I hate to ask it, because I hate being nosy, it’s going to bug me if I don’t.” He peers up at me.

My chest tightens in anticipation. “Okay…”

“Were you… were you just talking to yourself in here?” he asks and then quickly adds, “I mean, it’s cool and everything… we all do it… but you were crying so…”

So he thinks I’m crazy. “Yes and no.’ ”

“Care to elaborate?” he asks with an oh-shit-please-don’t-let-her-be-insane look.

Not really.
“I just…” I try to think of a lie, because telling him about my video-making endeavor feels too private. But he has my hand in his and it’s comforting and familiar, and all I want to do is tell him the truth, like I used to do with Landon. “I’m making this video…” I trail off as his expression abruptly alters from confused to amused.

Balling his hand into a fist, he covers his mouth with his hand, hiding a smile. “Like a sex video?”

“What… no!” I swat his arm, shaking my head. “Why the hell would you ask that? I was in here by myself.”

He lowers his hand from his mouth, humor lacing his voice. “Oh, you can make a sex video by yourself.”

My cheeks flush and I grab the pillow beside me, hugging it with one arm, as I bury my face into it to hide my mortification. “Well, that’s not what I was doing.”

“What kind of video then?” he asks with interest, and I peek up at him. His hand is on his lap and his fingers are softly stroking my wrist.

“It’s just a video about me,” I say, shivering when his finger grazes a sensitive area on my arm. “Or my thoughts. I guess kind of like a documentary.”

“Or like a Novamentary,” he says. The moment is so real, so raw and fresh, that I can’t help but want to find a way to capture it and keep it forever, because soon it will be replaced by alcohol and weed or numbers and order. Tossing the pillow aside, I pick up my phone. “How about you say something for my Novamentary?”

“You want to record me?” he questions warily, and I nod. “Well, I’m not that great on video.”

“Neither am I.” I aim the phone camera at him, and I have to admit he looks stunningly beautiful on it; clear honey-brown eyes, long lashes, short, soft hair, and very kissable lips. “Delilah did it, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” I keep the camera aimed at him for a little bit longer and then start to lower it when he doesn’t say anything.

“Wait.” He compresses my wrist between his fingers. “I’ll say something.” He pauses. “Do you want honesty?”

I’m taken back by his question, but nod. “If you’re comfortable with it.”

He releases my wrist from between his fingers and scoots away from me. I think he’s going to leave, but then he crisscrosses his legs and supports his elbows on his knees. “Once upon a time there was this guy.”

“I thought you were going to tell something honest,” I interrupt. “Not a fairy tale.”

He holds up a finger. “Give me a minute… I promise it’s not a fairy tale.”

I relax, watching him through the screen as he cracks his knuckles and pops his neck, then stirs in his own silence. His neck muscles are rigid and his skin has gone pale.

“Once upon a time there was this guy,” he starts over. “And he was a good guy. The kind that girls could take back to their parents and who held open doors and who fell in love with the girl he knew he was going to marry.” His forehead furrows and he gazes over my shoulder. “Or at least that’s what he believed… but shit happened and the guy ended up dying, only somehow he made it back, but the good in him remained dead and all that was left was this really bad guy who fucks up shit and who really, really wishes he’d stayed dead.”

He stops and blinks, and for a moment it looks like he’s forgotten where he is, who I am, and who the hell he is. We stare at each other, and I’m trying to figure out what to say to him because he’s openly talking to me—or the camera, anyway—and the pain I’ve seen inside him is slipping out through his words. I want to ask him how the guy died, what happened to the girl, and why the guy thinks he’s such a bad person.

I lower the camera. “Why do you think you’re a bad guy?”

“Because I am,” he says it so simply as if it’s factual, but from what I’ve seen—from what I’m seeing right now—he’s not.

“No, you’re not,” I say. “Not even close.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t even know me, Nova, so you can’t say that about me.”

“I know some things about you,” I tell him. “You make me smile, and no one’s done that in a very long time.”

He offers me a halfhearted smile. “Just because I can make you smile doesn’t mean I deserve to smile.”

“Why? Because you do drugs? Or… or is it because of something else?”

“It’s everything.” He almost sounds frustrated, as if he wants me to stop telling him he’s good. “Everything I do—have done—is bad.”

“That’s not true,” I tell him and set the camera down on the floor. “What we do doesn’t define us, although I think some people would probably disagree with me.” I scoot forward and only stop moving when our knees touch—when I make a connection with him. “I think that sometimes things just get confusing and we get lost, and sometimes you can’t figure out which path is the right path… which is the right decision.”
Quit or move forward. Heal or break. Fight or die. I’m still figuring that out.

His eyes crinkle around the corners as his expression softens. “Are you confused and lost, Nova?”

I nod and I feel something break inside as my confession hovers between us. “All the damn time.”

He swallows hard. “I completely understand where you’re coming from.” He sucks in a breath, and then the mood shifts as he rubs his hands together. “So how about some breakfast?”