Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (26 page)

The funeral was harder than I thought. I cried more than I wanted. Delilah’s mother was a wreck, barely able to walk into the church without falling down. My mom cried, too, and so did Quinton a few times. I hated seeing him so sad and I’d subtly tried to talk him out of coming, even though I wanted him there with me. But he came anyway and I think I might have fallen in love with him a little bit more because I knew how hard it had to be for him.

While I was there, I heard whispers among the people who attended the funeral. There were rumors of Delilah’s having being beaten. Raped. Some even said that Delilah’s mother was lying about her being shot and that she’d simply OD’d. But Quinton, Tristan, and I have our own theory. We saw how Dylan was with her—they knew he had a gun, which is what we told the police. Whether her death will ever be solved, I don’t know. But regardless, it’s a tragic story, one that I wish would never happen again.

After it’s all over, I can feel that familiar burn inside me, the one that wants to do something instead of sitting around and watching all the bad that surrounds me. I realize I need a change. Need to do the things I want to do in life and stop worrying about the what-ifs. Life’s too short to constantly be worrying about everything that could go wrong. And it’s time to start chasing my dream of helping people instead of thinking about it so much. But I wonder if I can do it. Give up school. My friends. My band. My job. Quinton.

This is what I’m thinking about as Quinton walks up the path to my house, bundled in his coat, his nose and cheeks reddened from the cold. I’ve been sitting in the porch swing for about an hour, chilled to the bone, yet I can’t seem to bring myself to go inside, frozen in place until I make the decision about which path I’m going to take in life.

“Hey,” he says as he reaches the steps. “How are you doing?” He shakes his head as he trots up the stairs, removing his hands from his pockets. “Never mind. Stupid question.”

“No, it’s not a stupid question,” I say as he takes a seat beside me and the swing sways beneath us. “I should talk about how I feel, and I feel like shit.”

He places a hand on top of mine as he rocks the swing back and forth. “Tell me what I can do to make you feel better. I want to make you feel better.”

“Build me a time machine,” I say with a sigh. “So I can go back and pull her out of that house.”

“Nova, you can’t torture yourself over this,” he says in an uneven voice, gripping my hand. “Trust me. It’ll ruin you.”

“I already feel ruined.”

“But this isn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” I shake my head, sliding away from him. “You don’t get it. I knew Dylan was wrong for her since they first started dating a few years ago. Knew that he probably was abusive to her, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“You can’t stop everything,” he says. “Sometimes things just happen.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make it any easier not to feel guilty.” I watch snowflakes swirl down from the sky and dance around us.

“I get that.” His voice softens, but I feel him stiffen beside me. There’s this long pause when it feels like maybe I should say something, but ultimately he’s the one to start talking. “That night… the night of the accident… Lexi was sitting up in the window of the car.” He pulls his hand away from my leg and folds his arms, staring straight ahead. “She was kind of crazy like that. Always pushing her limits and being way too adventurous.”

I’m not sure what to say. I don’t think he’s ever talked about this aloud before and I fear that if I speak at all, I might ruin this moment for him as he lets out what’s been trapped inside him for years.

“I tried to get her back in… that was actually what I was doing when the other car came around the corner.” His brows furrow as if he’s confused by the memory. “Whenever I think back to it, I just keep wishing I would have pulled over the car the moment she stuck her head out the window… but we were late and I didn’t want to get us into trouble. But we never even made it home… or Ryder and Lexi didn’t, anyway.”

“Quinton, that’s not your fault,” I say, putting my arm around him and hugging him close to me. “What happened… that was just a tragic accident.”

He looks at me, his eyes glistening with tears, so heartbreakingly beautiful it nearly knocks the wind out of me. “Accident or not, it’s something that will always haunt me.” He uncrosses his arms and turns to face me, placing his hand on my cheek. “But you make it easier to deal with it… and I want to be there for you like you’ve been there for me. It’s important to me. So please tell me what I can do, because it’s killing me seeing you like this.”

Shutting my eyes, I rest my head on his shoulder. “I actually do have a favor to ask you,” I say.

He wraps his arms around me, alleviating a small amount of pain. “You name it and it’s yours.”

Snowflakes whisk around us and sting my cheeks. “I need you to tell me you’re going to be okay if I decide to take off for a little while.”

“Where are you going?” he wonders, confused.

I open my eyes and look up at him. “Remember that project I told you about? The one my professor is working on? Well, I think I want to do it.”

He’s silent for a while, snowflakes spinning around us so thickly I can’t see any of my surroundings but him. “I think you should do it,” he finally says. “In fact, I’m going to make you do it.”

I laugh for the first time in the last few days. “Oh yeah?”

He kisses my forehead, just a light graze of his lips. “Yeah, and you want to know why?” he asks, and I nod. “Because I think it’ll make you happy, and if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you, Nova.”

“But what about you and Tristan?” I ask. “Will you be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly. “Wilson has a shit-ton more houses for me to work on and he’s even been trying to talk me into going on the road to help build.”

I still worry. About him. About Tristan. About everyone in the world who is struggling. “But what about Tristan? I worry that he’s going to get into trouble.”

“Tristan will be fine,” he says, but I detect a slight bit of sadness in his voice. But before I can say anything, he turns us around so we’re facing my yard with his arm around my shoulder. “Maybe I’ll talk him into joining Habitat for Humanity and hitting the road with me and Wilson. In fact, I think it might be good for him.”

“You think he should drop out of school?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know… but it’s an option, right? To keep him busy and out of trouble.”

I want to tell him that it’s a great idea. I want to believe that everything will be okay. That we’ll go our separate ways and everything will work out in the long run. But I’d be naïve to think that, no matter what, everything will turn out perfect. All I can do is hope and start living my life.

Six months later…

I’m nervous as hell. Not because in just a little bit I’ll be watching the documentary I helped out on for four months straight, but because I’ll be seeing Quinton for the first time in six months.

It’s not like we haven’t talked to each other. In fact, we probably talk more than most couples. At least three times a day every day on the phone, plus we text five to six more times on top of that. Being away from him has seriously been hard, but in the end, I think it’s been good for us both. Given us time to grow. Heal. Become our own people.

Quinton’s helped build so many houses, I’ve lost track, and listening to him talk about it is really amazing. He always gets really excited, especially when he tells me about the family who’s getting the house. He loves every second of it, just like I’ve loved every second of my journey. Professor McGell, or Dusty as I call him now, decided to put me in charge of the interviews we did with people. He said I had a knack for human compassion and for the most part I think he’s right. Quinton completely agrees with him, too, but Quinton thinks highly of me no matter what I say or do, even when I think I’m being mean.

I’m hanging out in my hotel room in Idaho, my clothes scattered across the floor as I decide what to wear to the viewing of the film. I’ve actually seen it before, a few times, but the fact that it’s going out to the world makes it feel brand-new and scary as heck.

I’m wrapped in a towel, my damp hair running down my back, when I hear a knock at the door. Grinning, I step over the pile of dresses I was deciding among and pad over to the door. I peer out the peephole and my grin expands as I open the door.

Quinton smiles back and then his honey-brown eyes widen as soon as he takes in the towel. “Wow, you’re getting straight to the point. Aren’t ya?”

I laugh, then grab his arm and yank him inside, kicking the door shut behind me. Then I turn around and take him in: his scruffy jaw, his short brown hair, his faded jeans and black T-shirt that look like they’ve seen a wash or two or twenty-five. He looks like a person who’s worked hard, which is good because, he says, the harder he works the better he feels. So he must be feeling pretty damn good right now.

“You look amazing,” he says after a minute or two goes by of us just staring at each other. I’ve been worried that after six months apart, just talking on the phone, being together is going to be awkward.

I tuck a wet lock of hair behind my ear, chewing nervously on my bottom lip. “So do you… you look manly.”

He snorts a laugh and then he’s moving in to kiss me. “God, I’ve missed you,” he says, and then his lips brush against mine.

It’s not a quick kiss. Not at all. In fact, it goes on for so long, my lips are raw and swollen and my body is so hot it feels like it’s melting. When we pull away, we’re gasping for air, our bodies pressed so tightly against each other, I can feel his chest moving with each intake of breath. Somehow his hands have managed to slip underneath the towel and he’s grasping my bare waist.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I whisper, smiling as he leans in to kiss me again.

Then he takes my hand and steers me toward the bed, kicking the clothes out of the way as he sits us down. “As much as I’ve loved the last six months,” he says, his hands wandering from my waist up my sides toward my chest, “I’m really glad it’s over. I can’t wait to spend time with you and get a break from Tristan and Wilson. As cool as they are, I’d much rather spend my free time with you.”

“How is Tristan doing? With everything?” About a month after Quinton and I went our separate ways, he told me that Tristan had found out he had hepatitis C and was struggling with it. He actually relapsed and disappeared for about a week when they were staying in Nebraska. Wilson and Quinton ended up finding him camped out in a hotel room, high on meth. They got him cleaned up, though, and put him back to work, and Quinton’s been assuring me that everything’s been okay since then—that relapses happen often.

“He’s good,” he says. “He’s actually been really into working long hours lately and doing nothing else.”

“Is that good?”

“I think so,” he says. “Although it would be nice if he took a break once in a while.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” I say. We’ve actually made plans. Not to move in together, although maybe technically that’s how it’s going to be, since we’ll be on the road every waking hour with each other. I’m actually going with him for the next month to make my own documentary about Habitat for Humanity, starring him, Wilson, Tristan, and anyone else fascinating that I come across. “Help him find other things to do.”

He’s quiet for a moment and I worry that he’s taken what I said the wrong way—that he thinks I want to spend extra time with Tristan. But then he smiles and says, “God, I’m so excited you’re coming with me.”

“Yeah, but the question is, can you deal with me all the time?” I ask in a playful tone. “Like every day—every waking hour.”

“Of course, Nova like the car,” he says with a wink. “And do you want to know why?”

I nod, putting my hands on his shoulders. “Of course.”

He smiles. “Because I love you.”

I smile back. Every time I hear him say it, it gets to me. Although the first time he said it, three months ago, I panicked and hung up on him. I knew I loved him, but was afraid to say it back, afraid to open my heart up to someone else like that, afraid I’d lose him, afraid I’d never be able to endure the pain of loss all over again. It took me five minutes to get my shit together and call him back.

“I love you, too,” I say, putting my hand on his cheek and tracing his cheekbone with my thumb. “I really do.”

“Good,” he says, then he slants forward to kiss me again, his fingers finding the edge of the towel.

Even though it kills me, I place my hand on top of his and stop him. “Before we do… well, that.” My cheeks heat and he laughs at me. It’s amazing that no matter how many dirty phone conversations we’ve had, I still manage to get embarrassed every time I talk about things related to sex. “There’s something I want to show you first.”

He doesn’t get angry like most guys probably would, after six months of no sex. Instead he looks concerned.

“Is everything okay?” he asks worriedly.

I nod quickly. “Of course, I just want to show you the video first, before everyone else sees it… the dedication especially.” It’s actually really important to me that he see the film first.

He seems a little anxious about it, but I don’t blame him. The topics of loss, guilt, and pain are captured in every clip. While I was putting it together, it triggered a lot in me, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just emotional.

But he says, “Of course.” Then he sits back on the bed while I get up and grab my computer from the desk. I get it booted up and the video ready, before I go back to the bed and sit down by him. “Are you ready?” I ask, with my fingers hovering over the trackpad. He nods and I lie down beside him and put the laptop between us, clicking play.

The music comes on, but I’m not watching the screen. I’m watching him watch the screen. His jaw is set tight, his eyes a little wide, and his hands are balled into fists as if he’s half expecting something horrible to be on there. So I reach over and take his hand, then turn my attention to the screen as it goes black and the dedication pops up.

“For everyone who suffered loss and learned how to live again. Know that you’re not alone.”

I’m not even sure who starts crying first. It’s such a small thing. Two sentences, but they pretty much sum up the helplessness and feeling of being alone that we both felt for years. The pain of it broke us both, shattered us, and will forever scar us, but that doesn’t mean that we can’t heal. Yeah, we’re not the same people, but we’re still alive and we’re not alone anymore.

I want to ask Quinton what he thinks when his grip on my hand tightens. I clutch him and then suddenly he’s pulling me closer to him, needing me to be beside him.

“What do you think?” I ask as his arms fasten tightly around me, our bodies aligned together.

He presses a kiss to my forehead, each of my cheeks, and then ultimately my lips. When he leans away, his tearstained eyes search mine. “I think it’s perfect.”