Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (8 page)

Quinton: Yeah, but how would I know I was getting a good one? One that would help me stay out of trouble instead of get into trouble, because sometimes it’s hard to tell with people.

Me: I could come screen them for u. Break them down and discover all their secrets.

Quinton: I don’t think u would have to break them down. Knowing u, u would just start talking to them and they’d open up to u. U have that way about u.

Me: Everyone keeps saying that, but I don’t get why.

Quinton: U need to give yourself more credit. I’ve said more to u about the accident than I’ve told most people.

Me: U didn’t tell me much. In fact, u were furious when I told u the stuff I knew about the accident that I read on the Internet.

Quinton: I know.

There’s a long pause and the longer it goes on the more I think I might have lost him.

Me: R u there?

Quinton: Yeah… I was just trying to remember what I said to u… some of the stuff that went on in Vegas is a little hazy.

Me: I could tell u if u want me to, but honestly I figure what’s in the past is in the past.

Quinton: I wish it were that easy. That the things that happened in the past would just sort of fade away, but they don’t. I’m realizing that everything that happened… it’s going to stay with me forever.

Me: Although the memories won’t ever fade completely, they will eventually fade. I promise. And one day you’ll even be able to talk about what happened.

Quinton: I hope so. I want to be able to talk about it. Explain to u everything so that maybe you’ll understand how I ended up in that place. I don’t want u to always think of me like how I was in Vegas. Or even during that summer in Maple Grove. I want u to know the person that I sort of gave u a glimpse of while we were dancing in the gas station parking lot.

Me: U remember that???

Quinton: Yeah, that’s actually one of the clearer memories I have.

Me: Good. It was a good memory.

Quinton: Yeah but I was high. I feel like I should do a redo for u.

Me: U always could.

Quinton: Maybe one day.

Me: Yay :)

Me: And just so u know, I never thought of u as anything other than a person who had something really crappy happen to them that was completely out of their hands and you were just trying to find a way to survive through it. You’re not a bad person. U just made some mistakes but only because u were hurting.

Quinton: I don’t completely agree with u. Some of the stuff I did was because I was selfish. I didn’t want to stay in this world and live with the consequences of what I did.

Me: I wish I could hug u right now.

Quinton: God, I wish that too.

My phone grows silent as I try to figure out what to type next. What I want to do is put in all caps THAT’S IT. I HAVE TO COME SEE U. But he texts me before I get a chance.

Quinton: Can I say one more thing and then we can change the subject, because I’m seriously one step away from falling apart again.

Me: Sure.

But I’m kind of bummed out, because things were just getting really good.

Quinton: I think if every person had a Nova Reed in this world, then life would be a little sunnier. Now change the subject quickly before I can’t handle this anymore.

Not knowing what else to type, I send out a panic text.

Me: I think Lea might be having an affair with a professor.

Quinton: Nice subject change… why a professor?

Me: She’s too secretive, which makes me think she’s doing something forbidden.

Quinton: U should follow her one day and see where she goes ;)

Me: Sounds like a great idea. I could put on my detective coat and my vintage glasses and shadow her every move **taps fingers together**

Quinton: You’re a genius. She’ll never suspect anything.

I’m smiling as the front door to the house opens. I glance up from the phone as Tristan walks through the front door with bags of groceries in his hands. He’s hacking so hard, I swear a hairball is going to fly out of his mouth.

“A little help please,” he coughs, dropping the bags in the foyer as he struggles to breathe.

Me: Gotta go. Tristan needs help carrying groceries in.

Quinton: Tell him that’s the man’s job.

Me: I would but he’s been sick.

Quinton: Okay, call ya tonight?

Me: Aren’t u sick of me yet?

Quinton: No way. Never.

Me: Okay, talk to ya later :)

I set my phone down and get up from the sofa to go over to the foyer and help Tristan pick up the spilled groceries. “I still think you should get that cough checked out,” I tell him as I bend over to pick up a can of soup that rolled out of one of the bags.

He leans against the wall, covering his mouth with his hand, and hacks into it. “It’s just a cough,” he says, but he looks pallid.

“Yeah, but you’ve had it for over a month now.” I put the soup can down on the counter and then start carrying the bags into the kitchen. “Coughs don’t normally stick around for a month.”

“I’m fine,” he insists after his coughing settles. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and bends over to pick up the remaining bag, but then quickly puts his hand against the wall to brace himself, like he’s dizzy and about to fall over.

“Jesus, are you okay?” I ask, rushing over to him.

He nods, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and suddenly I notice how damp his skin is. “Yeah, I think I just need to get some rest. It’s been nothing but school and work nonstop for the last couple of weeks and I’m feeling drained.”

“Go lay down and I’ll make you some soup,” I tell him, and he gladly obliges, letting go of the wall and trudging toward his room.

I go into the kitchen with the bags of groceries. There are cupboards on both sides and enough room between them for one person, barely, and I end up banging some of the bags on the edges of the counter. One snags on the handle of a drawer and rips open. Items fall out and scatter all over the floor. A two-liter of soda ends up exploding. Cursing, I pick up the spraying bottle and put it into the sink, then grab some paper towels and start cleaning up the floor. After I wipe it up, then mop away the stickiness, I’ve started to unpack the groceries when my phone rings. I hurry over to the coffee table and pick it up, confused by the unknown number on the screen. I reluctantly answer it as I make my way back over to the kitchen.

“Hello,” I say, taking cans of soup from a bag.

“Hey.” A woman’s voice comes through from the other end that sounds familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Is this Nova… um… Reed?”

“Yeah.” I stack a soup can in the cupboard and then turn around and lean against the counter. “Who is this?”

“It’s Nichelle Pierce, Delilah’s mom.” She pauses like she’s waiting for me to say something to her.

I’m not sure what to say, though. She’s the one who called me and I’ve met the woman maybe three or four times, when Delilah and I would have to go to her house to get something, back when we were seniors in high school and still lived at home. For the most part, though, Delilah hated going to her house, because she said her mother made her feel insignificant.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” she finally says, sounding annoyed. “So I’m just going to come out and say it… Delilah’s missing.”

I’m not surprised at all, considering what went on with Quinton, who was roommates with Delilah before, and how we couldn’t find him for months. “Have you checked around Vegas, by chance?”

“Yeah, I have, but I haven’t found any sign of her…” She clears her throat. “Look, I’m really worried about her and I didn’t know who else to call, since I don’t know any of her other friends. Have you heard from her at all or do you know where she might be?”

“I haven’t,” I tell her, wondering if I should tell her about the last time I saw Delilah in Vegas. What a mess she was. How crazy her boyfriend Dylan was acting. How her life was full of drugs and drug deals gone bad. “Not since about June.”

“Did she say anything about going anywhere at all when you saw her?” she asks. “The last time I talked to her was about a year or so ago and all I know is she was going to Vegas to live her life or whatever.”

“Honestly, I didn’t talk to her very much when I saw her,” I say, and then I cautiously add, “She was a little… out of it, though, and her boyfriend seemed pretty… strange.”

“Strange how?”

“I don’t know…” I hope she’s not going to take what I say next badly. Sometimes parents have issues with hearing that their child’s gotten into drugs. “They were both into drugs and I think Dylan was a little violent with her.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she says with zero shock in her voice. “He always did seem to fly off the handle over the stupidest things.”

I shake my head, irritated that she doesn’t seem to care about her own daughter. Delilah and I might not have left our friendship on a good note, but there was a point when we were close and she helped me through some hard times in her own crazy way.

“That’s all I know about her,” I tell Nichelle. “Well, that and the apartment she was living in with Tristan and Quinton burned down, but I don’t think anyone was hurt.”

“I didn’t know that.” She seems mildly shocked. “Do you happen to know the address of the place she was staying at… the one that burned down?”

“I don’t remember it, but if you give me a minute I can maybe find out.” I walk out of the kitchen and head for Tristan’s room.

“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.” I move the phone away from my ear and cover it with my hand as I nudge Tristan’s ajar door open with my elbow and step inside.

He’s curled up in his bed with a blanket over him, his head nuzzled into his pillow. I can hear him breathing softly as I walk over to his bedside and I’m fairly sure he’s asleep. I feel bad for waking him, but he’s the only person, besides Quinton, I can think to get the address from.

“Tristan,” I say softly. He doesn’t stir, so I tap him on the shoulder with my finger. “Hey, I have a question for you.”

He rolls over to his back as his eyelids flutter open and he blinks around dazedly. “What are you doing in here?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

“I need the address to your old apartment in Vegas.”

He yawns, stretching his arms above his head, his eyes reddened with exhaustion. “Why?”

I lift my hand with the phone in it. “Delilah’s mom is looking for her and wants to know the address.”

He noticeably tenses. “Well, the place burned down, so…” He shrugs, rubbing his eyes. “Does it really even matter what the address is when the place isn’t even there anymore?”

I nod, watching him closely. “Yeah, it does, so what’s the address?”

He rolls his bloodshot eyes, like I’m being ridiculous. “Five five five Mapletonville Drive,” he mumbles, then rolls over so he’s facing the wall and his back is turned toward me. “I’m going back to sleep now. I feel like shit.”

I remember when he first told me the place had burned down, how it seemed like he’d left out some of the details of what happened. Now I’m really starting to question if there’s more to it. I think when he’s feeling better I’ll have to press him to tell me, but for now I let him rest because he looks terrible.

I walk out of his room and close the door behind me. I can’t help but speculate about if something bad did happen to Delilah when the apartment burned down. If maybe Dylan did something to her. But what would that say about me, though? Since I just left her in that place, knowing how he treated her?

I can’t stop thinking about it as I walk back into the kitchen, telling Delilah’s mother the address Tristan gave me.

“Thanks,” she says when I finish.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, returning to putting the groceries away. “Can you let me know what happens? When you find her?”

“Sure.” She doesn’t sound like she’s going to, though, and I hang up feeling irritated.

The irritation only builds as I make Tristan some soup, my thoughts stuck on Delilah and where she is, what she’s doing, if she’s okay. I should have pressed her more when I was down there. Should have told someone about how Dylan was treating her.

Dammit, is there ever going to be a time in my life when I don’t regret the decisions of my past? I’m starting to think no and that regret is just a part of life and I can’t get hung up on it. Still, by the time I take Tristan his soup, my old counting habit is surfacing with my stress and all I want to do is count all the noodles in Tristan’s soup and all the specks of brown in the tan carpet.

When I enter his room, Tristan is lying on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling with his arms tucked under his head, and the lamp on. “Eat this,” I tell him as I make my way over to the bed, balancing the steaming bowl in my hand.

He turns his head toward me and frowns at the bowl. “I’m too tired to eat,” he gripes. “And I’m not even hungry.”

“God, you’re like a little kid.” I set the soup down on the nightstand beside his bed. He shoots me a dirty look and I return it. “And if the soup’s not gone by the time I come back, you’re going to be in big trouble.” I wave my finger at him sternly.

That gets him to laugh a little bit. “Fine.” He sits up, reaches for the bowl, and stares at the soup in it.

“It’s good. I promise.”

“I’m sure it is.” He picks up the spoon and starts absent-mindedly stirring the soup. “So why’s Delilah’s mom suddenly looking for her?”

“Who knows?” I shrug. “From my understanding, she’s always been a shitty mom to Delilah.”

“Yeah, I got that, too, but then again, aren’t a lot of mothers?” He glares at his soup like it’s the enemy and pokes one of the noodles with the spoon.