Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (6 page)

“Could you just think about it?” he asks. “I think a change might be really good for you.”

“I think I’ve had enough change to last a lifetime,” I say as I scoot to the edge of the booth and rise to my feet. I can’t take it anymore. This sitting-and-listening thing. I need to get the hell out of here. Go somewhere else and cool down before I explode.

I dash for the door as my dad turns in his seat and calls out, “Where are you going?”

“I need some air,” I call out over my shoulder as I wind around the tables. I keep walking, not looking anywhere but at the floor until I get outside. Then I immediately light up a cigarette and feel the nicotine soak into my body and saturate my lungs, but it barely reduces the anxiety clawing at my throat. I take puff after puff as I pace in front of the car. I draw my hood over my head when it starts to rain, but I don’t go inside. I just keep pacing, like somehow these small movements will help me outrun the cravings and need. Everyone keeps telling me it’ll get easier. That if I just work through moments like these, things will settle back down. But at the moment it feels like everyone’s been lying to me and it makes me want to lie to them.

It makes me want to break my promise to myself to try to stay clean.

But I can’t.

No. I need to be stronger than that.

But I’m not strong.

I’m weak.

Give up.

Stay strong.

By the time my dad walks outside, carrying two to-go boxes, my mind feels like it’s about to rupture over what I should do. The rain has stopped, the ground is covered with puddles and my jacket is soaking wet. I’m cold, but I hardly notice because my thoughts are still centered on one thing that I know would make this whole moving thing easier. Just one hit, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the erratic thoughts inside my head.

My dad doesn’t help the situation when he gets into the car without saying a word, so I start obsessing about that as well as I climb in. After he starts the engine and cranks the heat, the warm air makes my chilled skin sting. The slight pain is distracting, though, and I’m grateful for it, like I’m grateful that I’m headed to my therapist so hopefully I can get a grip on this madness spiraling inside my head.

I buckle my seat belt and wait for him to back up, but instead he stares out the windshield dotted with raindrops.

“This wasn’t how things were supposed to go,” he says, shaking his head. “This was never the plan.”

I suck it up the best I can. “Look, I’m sorry I walked out on lunch… there was just a lot of stuff going on inside my head.”

“I’m not talking about lunch.” He glances at me and for a fleeting moment, I think he’s going to cry. “I’m talking about your life.” He slumps back in the seat, staring ahead with his hands on top of the steering wheel. “You know, your mother and I once had a talk about what we’d do if something happened to the other one. She was pregnant with you and I remember she told me that if she could make sure one thing happened if she was gone, it’d be that you were always happy.” His hands clench into tight fists. “She only asked one thing of me and I couldn’t even do that for her.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong, but we’d both know that was a lie. He knows I’m not happy, that I haven’t been in a long time. “Dad, I’m fine,” I manage to say, despite how thick the lie is in my throat. “I know things have been super shitty, but I’m trying to make them better and you’re here, so…” I shrug, unsure how to finish the sentence.

“I kicked you out,” he mumbles, more to himself than to me. “I kicked you out because I knew you were doing drugs and I didn’t want to deal with it.”

I want to ask him if that’s the only reason he kicked me out, because sometimes I wonder if he did it because he couldn’t stand looking at me. If I reminded him too much of my mother or maybe it had to do with the fact that I’m responsible for two people leaving this world early. I should just ask him, but honestly I don’t want to hear the answer. Whatever the reason was, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’m sorry for what I put you through,” I say for the first time since I came back to Seattle. “I know it had to be hard.”

He looks at me with his brows dipped together. I think he might be about to tell me something important because of the intense look on his face, but then all he says is, “I’m glad you’re home.” Then he puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking space.

“I’m glad to be home,” I reply, but I’m not quite sure it’s the truth. I still feel so out of place, like I’m living a dream that I’m not sure I’m a part of.

A small smile touches his lips as he starts the drive to my therapist’s office. “Am I dropping you off at Mrs. Bellington’s after therapy?” he asks.

“Yeah, I told her I’d stop by for like a half an hour.” Mrs. Bellington is one of the elderly people I visit. She’s seventy and actually not too bad to spend time with. She always has fresh-baked cookies and these stories about when she was younger and worked as an artist. She also always has soap operas on whenever I’m over there and while I’m not a fan, she likes to give me recaps in a very animated way and it’s kind of entertaining.

After about five more minutes go by, I start to relax enough that I dare take out my phone and read Nova’s message.

Nova: Who is that???

Me: A waitress at this restaurant my dad and I were eating at.

I start to put my phone back into my pocket when a text comes through.

Nova: I like the glasses. I think I’ll get a pair. In fact, I think I’ll even go all out and get a poodle skirt to go with it.

Me: And saddle shoes.

Nova: And a beehive hairdo.

Me: Sounds sexy.

Shit. Why do I always have to cross the “just friends” line? And why do I seem to care less and less each time I do? This isn’t how things are supposed to be. I’m supposed to be suffering. Paying for what I did, not flirting with a girl I’m pretty sure I fell in love with over the summer, even in my drugged-out daze, although I haven’t told her that yet.

Nova: Okay, you talked me into it, but you have to wear a leather jacket, slick your hair back, and roll up the bottoms of your tight jeans so we can match.

Me: It sounds like you’re trying to make me look like a character from Grease, which btw was made in the 1970s not 1950s.

Nova: Lol, I think my era mishap was totally just overshadowed by the fact that you know when the movie Grease came out.

Me: Hey, there’s nothing wrong with knowing what year an old movie came out.

Nova: An old movie that has a bunch of singing and dancing. Tell me, do you know the lyrics and dance moves too?

Me: You’re freaking hilarious today. You know that?

Nova: I do know that. In fact, I’m thinking about entering a stand-up comedian contest that’s going on at this pub later tonight. Jokes about you and tight pants will be the highlight of my bit ;)

I’m about to type back when I realize the car has come to a stop. When I look up, we’re parked in front of the therapist’s office, an undersize brick building centered between a secondhand shop and a diner on the more worn-out side of town. That doesn’t mean it’s the bad side. Just older.

Me: Gotta go. Just made it to my therapist’s.

Nova: K. R u calling me tonight?

Me: Of course.

I type it without even thinking, and as I put my phone into my pocket, I begin analyzing that fact way too much. How comfortable we’ve gotten in just a few weeks. I need to stop what’s going on between us, but how do I end something I want so fucking badly? But maybe that’s my punishment. Maybe I’m supposed to want her like that so I can suffer through not having her.

“Was that Nova you were texting?” my dad asks as I reach for the door handle.

I nod. “Yeah, why?”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugs. “I just notice you smile a lot when you’re texting.”

My face twists in puzzlement as I recap the last few minutes, but honestly I was in some sort of Nova zone and can’t remember much of anything. I do realize how much lighter I feel at the moment. But the feeling dissipates as I get out of the car, which makes me hope today is a decent day in therapy so I can continue on this “high.” Turns out the world wants to play opposite-of-what-Quinton-wants, because therapy not only sucks but opens up a hell of a lot of emotional shit I didn’t feel like dealing with today.

It starts off when I begin talking about how I don’t want to move to Virginia, but staying in Seattle on my own seems like it’d end up a huge problem. When Greg asks me why, I tell him it’s because I think I’ll get into too much trouble on my own and I don’t want things to change when I’m just getting my life back together.

“Things are going to change no matter what you do, Quinton. That’s life,” he says in the monotone he always uses when he’s forcing me to talk about something that’s emotionally draining.

“But what if I can’t handle them changing?” I ask. “Because just the idea of something as simple as moving makes me feel like my head’s going to explode.”

“You’ll get there,” he reassures me. “It’ll just take time.”

“But what if I don’t want to get there?” I say, staring at the clock on the wall, the hands moving around and around. Time always moving no matter what I do. “Dealing with the future seems so hard.”

“You will, but it’ll take some time and effort on your part,” he says, scooting his chair closer to his desk. “Tell me, have you worked on taking down those photos and pictures on your wall yet, like we’ve been talking about doing?”

“No, and I’m not ready to,” I say coldly, gripping the handles of the chair. “So stop pushing it.”

“Why do you think you’re not ready?” he inquires, crossing his arms on his neatly organized desk. He’s always calm, just like he’s always wearing a wrinkle-free suit without a tie. I can tell he’s a man of routine, which makes me wonder how the hell he’s supposed to help me with my erratic instability, because he probably doesn’t understand it.

“I don’t think it. I know I’m not.” I slump back in the chair and fold my arms, fighting the overpowering urge to reach for my cigarettes and light up right here in the office. “Every time I go to do it, I feel like I’m going to freak out and lose it… I feel like I’m letting go of stuff I shouldn’t be letting go of.” Like Lexi. My mom. My anguish and self-torture.

“I know it’s hard.” He reaches for the pen and notebook in the file cabinet just behind his desk. “And I’m not saying you have to take them all down. But I worry that the reason you’re keeping them up there is to remind you of the past, which is hindering you from completely working on moving forward and healing yourself.”

I want to get angry with him, but he’s only saying the truth. “You know what, you’re right,” I say straightforwardly. “That’s why I’m holding on to them, but even thinking about taking down the photos and sketches—letting go—makes me want to do drugs again. If I had drugs in my system then I’d easily be able to take them down or at least feel better about it.”

“Why, though?” he asks with attentiveness. “Why would doing drugs make you feel better about taking pictures on the wall down?”

“Because I wouldn’t have to feel the things I know are coming when I pull the pictures down.”

“Feel what exactly?”

“The guilt.”

“Over what?”

I narrow my eyes at him because I’ve talked to him enough about this that he knows what I’d feel guilty about. “You know what.”

“You’re right. I do.” He jots something down in his notebook. “But I’d like you to say it aloud. Verbally express what’s going on inside your head.”

My jaw sets tight. “I’d feel guilty about the fucking accident and that I killed people,” I say through gritted teeth. “There. Are you happy? I said it.”

He shakes his head. “What I’d like to know is, what about the accident do you feel guilty about, exactly?”

I shake my head, fearing the emotions that will prickle at the surface. “You know the answer to that.” I dig my fingers into my palms and stab hard, trying to override the emotional pain with physical pain. “So quit asking.”

He sets the pen down and overlaps his fingers on his desk. “No, I don’t, Quinton. Because every time we get to the accident you never fully say how you feel about stuff. You always tiptoe around it and run away from it. Something that drugs help you do, which is why you always want to go back to that every time you have to deal with the hard stuff.”

“The hard stuff.” I give him a cold, hard stare as I scratch my arm where the tattoos mark my skin:
Lexi, Ryder, No One
. All the people who died that night,
No One
being myself. I remember that when I got it, the tattoo artist looked at me like I was a nut job, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but making sure I hurt myself more and more because it was the only way I could distract myself from the pain and the guilt. “Do you know how much talking about the hard stuff hurts and makes me feel like shit? How hard it is to breathe whenever I have to talk about the hard stuff… about the accident… about the deaths… dying.” My voice is sharp because he’s digging up memories I don’t want to deal with. “Jesus, it’s not like anyone else would act differently. Causing people’s deaths… I’m sure no one else would want to talk about it.”

He considers what I said and then reaches for his pen again. Then he scribbles something down on the corner of a piece of paper and tears it off. “I want you to attend a group meeting,” he says, stretching his arm across the desk to hand me the piece of paper.

“I already do that every Tuesday and Thursday night.” My tone is clipped as I snatch the piece of paper from his fingers.

“Yeah, but this is a different kind of support group. It’s not a sobriety group like the one you’ve been going to. This is one that’ll help you deal with your guilt over the accident,” he explains. “Many of the people who go have been through similar experiences. Both with the accident and with the drugs afterward.”