Breaking Nova (26 page)

“Hey, I have an idea,” Delilah announces as she picks at the overly cooked marshmallow on the end of her stick. “Let’s play truth or dare.”

Dylan shoots her a dirty look as he stirs the fire, the logs inside it hissing and smoldering. “I already made it pretty clear that I fucking hate games.”

She rolls her eyes as she puts a blob of marshmallow into her mouth, and then wipes her sticky fingers on the side of her shorts. “Then you can watch.”

Shaking his head, Dylan returns back to his chair by the cooler. “Do whatever the hell you want as long as I’m not a part of it.”

“I’ll play,” I tell her, sticking the hot dog fork into the fire. I have three marshmallows on it and they instantly start to bubble against the flame. “I like games.”

Quinton smiles up at me, squeezing my hips. “I know you do,” he says with honesty, and it’s strange because he does know that part of me, which means he’s getting to know me. He looks over at Delilah, who’s sitting on a log beside Tristan. “I’m game.”

The three of us stare at Tristan and he looks hesitant, but shrugs. “Whatever.”

Delilah slaps her hand against her knee and shoves the rest of her burned marshmallow into her mouth. “Okay, who wants to go first?” When no one offers, she adds. “Okay, I will then.” She balances the stick on the rocks in front of her feet and then swallows the mouth full of marshmallows. “Okay, mine’s for Nova, and if you turn down the question or the dare you have to take a shot.”

Nodding, I gulp down the rest of my beer. “All right, I choose truth.”

She sticks out her tongue at me. “I so knew you would.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, offended.

“It means you’re predictable,” she says, kind of being a bitch.

I’d say more to her, but everyone is watching, so all I say is, “What’s your question?”

She wavers, staring up at the sky thoughtfully. “Have you ever made out with a guy just because you were drunk?”

“You know I have,” I answer in a tight voice, glaring at her, wondering what the hell her problem is. Is she just being a bitch because she’s mad at me for something, or is she on something? Out of the corner of my eye I catch Tristan looking at me, and it makes me extremely uncomfortable. “So I don’t know why you’re asking it.”

“Because truth or dare is all about causing drama, and I thought that one would,” Delilah replies, then waits for a soap opera scene to unfold. But it never happens. Yes, there’s awkwardness between Tristan and me, and Quinton seems to be a little uncomfortable, too, but thankfully no one says anything. Looking disappointed, Delilah leans back on the log, resting her weight on her palms. “Quinton, truth or dare?”

He shrugs and I feel his chest rise and fall as he lets out a tired sigh. “Dare, I guess.”

A devious grin creeps across Delilah’s face and she looks evil in the firelight. “I dare you to kiss me.”

I tense, knowing I shouldn’t, because he’s not my boyfriend or anything, and I’m not even sure what I want from him. All I know is that I don’t want to share him. I glance over at Dylan, who simply shrugs and pops the top off another beer.

“I don’t care what she fucking does,” he says and throws his head back, guzzling the beer.

Everyone kind of glances around uncomfortably, then Quinton shifts his weight. “Nova, can you get up?”

I nod, quickly stand up, and shuffle to the side. I consider running out into the crowd, instead of watching, but I can’t determine which one is more painful to endure. So I stand there next to the fire, trying not to cry as he makes his way around the fire toward Delilah. I can feel Tristan watching me, and Delilah wets her lips with her tongue in anticipation. I’m not sure why she’s doing it. Is this just a side of her I’ve never seen or is it the drugs, because I’m beginning to understand that they can make a person act completely different from the ordinary character. Happier. Sadder. Angrier. Bitchier.

Quinton gets to his feet and heads in Delilah’s direction. Right as he’s about to reach her, he veers to the left toward the box of alcohol bottles nestled up next to the tent. He selects a bottle of cheap vodka, and twists off the cap. Putting the bottle to his lips, he bends his head back and knocks back a shot. “I’m declining on this one,” he says, his muscles twitching as the burn of the alcohol gets to him.

Delilah shrugs as he sets the bottle back into the box. “Your loss.”

She grins at me and I don’t know why, because I really want to hit her. And then I realize that the fact that I want to hit her means I might be feeling something for Quinton, and I’m not sure how to handle that. I’m about to get up and knock back my own shot, when Quinton walks up to me and holds out his hand.

“How about we ditch the game and go for a walk?” Quinton asks me with his hand extended out.

I nod and lace my fingers through his, the contact instantly giving me a sense of familiarity. “Okay.”

“Hey,” Delilah protests, sitting up straight like she’s about to stand up. “We have to finish the game first.”

“I think I’m done with the game,” I say, letting Quinton pull me to my feet. We hike toward the field, holding hands, and the inside of me feels momentarily peaceful.

“Wait,” Tristan calls out, as he retrieves his pipe from his pocket. “Don’t you guys want to smoke a bowl first?”

I start to say yes, but Quinton shakes his head. “We’re good.”

I get a little annoyed that he says “we’re” as if he’s my spokesman. But he’s holding my hand and it feels warm against mine, not cold, which means he’s here. With me. Not ready to leave. Without me.

We walk away from the fire and the silly little game, heading out into the quiet field behind the tents, the one just in front of the forest. He finds a rock for us to sit on, and then we climb up on it, sitting by each other but not touching.

“I’m not sure what to think of her,” he states, gazing at the fiery glow of the stage lights gleaming in the distance.

I draw a pattern in a patch of dirt beside my leg on the rock. “Who, Delilah?”

He nods, his gaze sliding to me, his honey-brown eyes a shadow against the darkness and the trickle of light from the full moon. “You two are so different. How did you become friends with her?”

“I went through some stuff…” I trail off and shrug. “She was there for me when no one else was.”

“That’s kind of hard to believe.”

“Well, it’s true.” I mull over the question in my head and then finally just say it. “Is that why you didn’t kiss her? Because you’re not sure about her?”

“No. I’m not sure about a lot of things, and that’s why I didn’t kiss her.” He stares down at the section of rock between us where our fingers are only inches away from each other’s. “I know one thing, though.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I stare down at our hands, too, so close, yet they still seem so far away.

He glances up at me the same time I glance up at him, and the intensity in his expression thrusts my equilibrium off balance, and I feel dizzy. “That I really want to kiss you,” he utters softly.

“Okay.” I blame my eager response on the alcohol in my system, or perhaps it’s just really what I want at the moment.

“Are you sure?” he questions, eyeing my mouth. “Because I don’t want to… that thing at the restaurant—”

I crash my lips into his, because I’m caught up in the moment and I want to taste him again and I want to avoid taking a detour down memory lane again. I’ve never really instigated a kiss before, and it makes my adrenaline skyrocket and I shiver from the rush and the high. But soon my emotions calm as we settle on the rock with his body positioned over mine. His tongue moves slowly, but deliberately as he explores my mouth, while my fingers slide underneath his shirt. He has his knee between my legs, and with each movement our mouths make, his knee matches the smooth motion, rubbing between my legs. When he hits the right spot, a tingling sensation erupts all over my body, and it makes me moan as my fingertips press down against his abs. I feel like I’m flying yet falling at the same time, spinning out of control like I’m stuck on a carnival ride and I’m not sure how the hell to get off it. Then my head starts to spin as his fingers sneak up the bottom of my shorts, gradually and softly dousing my skin in heat. I tense, wanting to tell him to stop, yet my lips stay sealed to his, because I can’t seem to find the willpower or desire to break the kiss.

He slips a finger inside me but then he pauses, propping up on his elbows to look me in the eyes. “Is this okay?”

No.
I nod. “Yeah.”

A deliberate exhale releases from his lips, like he’s nervous and was hoping I’d say no. Then he’s kissing me and feeling me from the inside, as our bodies move in harmony like the song playing onstage, and for the briefest of seconds, in the darkness and scarred world that surrounds us, there is a split moment of perfection. The cluster of emotions swarming in my head and body make me feel like I’m going to explode, and I cling to his arms as I move my mouth away from his, tipping my head back, falling deeper into the perfection. When it’s all over, he lays us back on the rock and holds me, combing his fingers through my hair, as I slowly return to the scarred world around us.

I have a weird sense of déjà vu as we stare at the stars and exhaustion attempts to take us over, my mind and body becoming heavier and groggier with images of the last time I lay under the stars at night. I don’t want to go to sleep, because I’m afraid of what I’ll wake up to. Or what I won’t wake up to.

“Do you ever think about the future?” I ask him, breaking the silence.

“Not really,” he replies, tensing, his fingers tangled in my hair. “Do you?”

“Sometimes, but I never really see anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

I trace a long line up and down his chest with my finger, right where I know the scar is hidden under the fabric. “I used to. A lot. But in the end, it’s pretty much pointless, because it doesn’t matter what you want or plan. You never end up getting it.”

At first he doesn’t respond, and I think it’s because he agrees with me. Then he transfers his weight to the side and scoots down so he’s at eye level with me. He places a hand on each of my cheeks and looks me in the eyes.

“You know what I think,” he says, vining his legs around mine. “I think you’re going to have a really amazing future, full of drumsticks, and songs and videos, and anything else you want, because one day you’re going to wake up from all of this and realize that you’re too good to be here.”

His words slam against my chest because he doesn’t mean them. Not really. He doesn’t even know me. My lips part to tell him that. “I think that—”

His lips collide with mine and it’s the final thing we say to each other. We kiss until the stars begin to dwindle, and then we hold on to each other, clutching at something I’m not sure really exists. It could all be just an illusion. Like Landon and I were. Maybe I’m feeling things for him and he’s feeling things for me, but maybe not. Maybe what’s on the outside isn’t necessarily what’s on the inside.

July 30, Day 72 of Summer Break

“What the hell is with the rain?” Delilah frowns at the muddy mess that has become the field. “This sucks.”

She and I are sitting in the tent with the door open, watching the sky drizzle against the ground, as she smokes from the pipe and I occasionally take a few hits. People are out in the field, though, as the band plays without their amps, the music muffled by the vibration of the thunder and the lightning and the raindrops colliding with the ground. Quinton, Tristan, and Dylan took off a little while ago, being very vague about where they were going.

“If it keeps up”—Delilah hugs her knees to her chest, props the pipe on her kneecaps, and flicks the lighter—“then we won’t even be able to set off fireworks.” She sucks in a breath with her mouth wrapped around the end, then she holds it in before letting it out, and smoke envelops the tent.

“Were we going to anyway?” I ask as I brush the tangles from my hair. I’m trying my best to clean up, since I haven’t had a shower since we got here. My hair is gross and tangled, my skin feels really grimy, like each of my pores is stuffed with dirt, and I stink.

She gapes at me as she hands me the pipe. “Uh, yeah.” She lets her auburn hair out of the clip and her hair falls to her shoulders. She snatches the brush from my hand, grinning, and starts to brush her own hair.

“Hey,” I protest, snatching the brush from her. “I was using that.”

“Yeah, but what were we always saying back at college?” she asks and waggles her eyebrows at me. “What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is mine.”

I stick out my tongue as I robotically position the pipe to my mouth. It’s becoming a routine that I’m still trying to figure out if I need. “Only because you’re greedy.”

She rolls her eyes, laughing. “Whatever, bitch. I’m so nice and that’s why you love me.”

I can’t help but smile as I light the weed, and once it’s kindling I suck in a toxic hit. I wince as it hits the back of my throat and then cough, letting it out. I hand her the pipe and reach for my bag to take out my deodorant. “Yep, you caught me.”

She drops the brush on my lap, sets the pipe down by her feet, and starts making a braid at the back of her head. “I have to say this and I don’t want you to get mad or anything, but you… you look happy.”

“Why would I get mad at that?” I ask, putting the deodorant on. “It’s not like you’re calling me a bitch or anything… Well, I guess you kind of did, but so what? I’m happy. That’s not bad, is it?”

She shakes her head and slides the elastic off her wrist. “No, it’s good, but like I’ve said a couple of times, sometimes it feels like you’re trying to be sad.”

I take in what she said as I put the cap back on the deodorant. “Well, I’m not now, so…”

She secures the elastic around the end of her braid. “So, is the reason why you’re not trying to be sad, because of this?” She points a finger at the pipe. “Or because of a certain someone who likes to draw and who has a freaking hot-as-hell body? Because if it is, I have to say again that I don’t think you should act on it. He’s not boyfriend material.”