Tristan: Finding Hope (Nova #3.5) (4 page)

I’m anxious the next day to get some information about Avery. While we’re walking to the site on the side of the road, I ask Nova if she’ll give me Avery’s number, even though I’m not sure if I should call her.

“What happened last night?” Nova asks as she kicks rocks up on the side of the road with her feet. “Seriously, Tristan. Avery seemed really upset and you had that cut on your side…” She glances down at my ribs.

“I already told you what I know,” I say with my hands stuffed inside my pockets of my jeans. “Her ex-husband showed up and tried to beat her up, so I helped her out.”

“Well, it was very brave of you,” Nova says, pulling her sunglasses over her head and taking a sip of her coffee. “And kind of stupid.”

“I’m going to second that,” Quinton says, reaching for his cigarettes in his pocket. “I think we’ve gotten in enough fights to last us a lifetime.”

“Yeah, I know. But I doubt that will be my last,” I say, tossing him his lighter that I borrowed earlier.

Quinton shakes his head again as he lights up. He doesn’t say anything more, putting the lighter in his pocket and puffing on his cigarette.

“Well, I don’t have her number,” Nova says with an apologetic look. “But I’m sure she’ll be there today, since the house will be finished up. I think I even heard her say something about picking up the keys. She seemed really excited about it.”

I nod, unsure if it’s a good thing or a bad one that I’m eager to see her again. I keep telling myself that it’s because I want answer to what the hell last night was about—nothing more. But there’s a voice in the back of my head, telling me I’m wrong. That it had to do with the kiss, wanting to see all of her tattoos, and the fact that I dreamt about her last night, over and over again.

“Do you know why she needs the house?” I wonder, trying to seem like I’m just asking it to make conversation.

Nova shakes her head. “She didn’t mention it and I didn’t want to ask her, just in case it was something painful.”

I nod and then make the rest of the walk in silence. I try my best to get through the day without thinking about Avery too much, helping out with the finishing touches on the house. It’s probably the hardest I’ve worked in a long time and when I’m done, I’m tired and ready to head back to the motel to sleep. But instead I help clean up, hoping Avery will come by before we leave.
Just to get some answers
, I keep telling myself.

But eventually, all the tools are packed up and Avery still hasn’t shown up. The sun is descending below the hills and there’s nothing left to do but leave. I’m sitting on the cooler in front of the house, staring at the sunset when Nova walks up to me.

“She left town for a while,” Nova says, taking a seat beside me on the cooler.

“Who?” I play dumb, eyes fixed on the light slipping away behind the hills.

“The person you’ve been pretending not to look for all day.” She nudges her shoulder into mine. “This woman showed up and was talking to someone about Avery having to leave town for a little and that she was supposed to pick up the house keys for her.” She pauses. “I can go ask the woman for Avery’s number if you want.”

I shake my head, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “Nah, that’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” Nova asks. “It’s not a big deal.”

I pause, trying to sift through all my thoughts. What is the real reason I want to talk to Avery so much? Is it because I want answers or is there more to it than that? I mean, I barely know her. Hell, I don’t even know her last name. Yet I’m extremely curious about her, want to get to know her. Attracted to her. But seriously, what would be the point? We’d chat for like five minutes and then tomorrow I’d be gone. That would be the end of it. Besides, it’s probably for the better. I’m not the kind of person she needs in her life, I’m sure. Some ex-junkie who slips up pretty much every other week. I can’t even keep my own shit together and the girl seems like she has a lot of her own shit to deal with. Still, it’s hard to just walk away.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say to Nova, but for some reason, it feels like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.

Nova looks sad, but nods and gets to her feet. “How about I go find Quinton and then we can take off?” She stretches her arms above her head. “I’m really tired.”

I get to my own feet. “Sounds good. I got to run inside and grab something and then I’ll meet you guys by the truck.”

We part ways and I go into the house, not to get anything like I said, but to do something I’m not sure I should be doing. I don’t even know what compels me to do it. I’ve had people come and go through my life, over and over again. Hardly any of them I can remember. Some are just ghost memories. And I’ve completely forgotten most. I’m not sure that I’ll ever forget Avery completely. I’m not sure whether it’s because of the crazy stuff that happened or because for a moment it seemed like we shared a moment.

So I go into the kitchen and find a pen someone left on one of the counters, probably used for measuring. Then I open one of the lower cupboards below the kitchen sink and crouch down in front of it. I know I could get into deep shit for doing this if anyone found out, but I’ve never been one to fear getting into trouble.

I lean into the cupboard and press the pen to the side of it, pausing before I write.

The
New York Times
and
USA Today
best-selling author, Jessica Sorensen, lives with her husband and three kids. When she’s not writing, she spends her time reading and hanging out with her family.

Learn more at:

jessicasorensen.com

@jessFallenStar

http://facebook.com/pages/Jessica-Sorensen/165335743524509

Nova Reed used to have dreams—of becoming a famous drummer, of marrying her true love. But all of that was taken away in an instant. Now every day blends into the next… until she meets Quinton Carter.

Please see the next page for a preview of
Breaking Nova
.

Fifteen months later…

May 19, Day 1 of Summer Break

I have the web camera set up perfectly angled straight at my face. The green light on the screen is flickering insanely, like it can’t wait for me to start recording. But I’m not sure what I’ll say or what the point of all this is, other than my film professor suggested it.

He’d actually suggested to the entire class—and probably all of his classes—telling us that if we really wanted to get into filming, we should practice over the summer, even if we weren’t enrolled in any summer classes. He said, “A true videographer loves looking at the world through an alternative eye, and he loves to record how he sees things in a different light.” He was quoting straight out of a textbook, like most of my professors do, but for some reason something about what he said struck a nerve.

Maybe it was because of the video Landon made right before the last seconds of his life. I’ve never actually watched his video, though. I never really wanted to and I can’t, anyway. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see or what I won’t see. Or maybe it’s because seeing him like that means finally accepting that he’s gone. Forever.

I originally signed up for the film class because I waited too long to enroll for classes and I needed one more elective. I’m a general major and don’t really have a determined interest path, and the only classes that weren’t full were Intro to Video Design or Intro to Theater. At least with the video class I’d be behind a lens instead of standing up in front of everyone where they could strip me down and evaluate me. With video, I get to do the evaluating. Turns out, though, that I liked the class, and I found out that there’s something fascinating about seeing the world through a lens, like I could be looking at it from anyone’s point of view and maybe see things at a different angle, like Landon did during his last few moments alive. So I decided that I would try to make some videos this summer, to get some insight on myself, Landon, and maybe life.

I turn on “Jesus Christ” by Brand New and let it play in the background. I shove the stack of psychology books off the computer chair and onto the floor, clearing off a place for me to sit. I’ve been collecting the books for the last year, trying to learn about the human psyche—Landon’s psyche—but books hold just words on pages, not thoughts in
his
head.

I sit down on the swivel chair and clear my throat. I have no makeup on. The sun is descending behind the mountains, but I refuse to turn the bedroom light on. Without the light the screen is dark, and I look like a shadow on a backdrop. But it’s perfect. Just how I want it. I tap the cursor and the green light shifts to red. I open my mouth, ready to speak, but then I freeze up. I’ve never been one for being on camera or in pictures. I’d liked being behind the scenes, and now I’m purposely throwing myself into the spotlight.

“People say that time heals all wounds, and maybe they’re right.” I keep my eyes on the computer screen, watching my lips move. “But what if the wounds don’t heal correctly, like when cuts leave behind nasty scars, or when broken bones mend together, but aren’t as smooth anymore?” I glance at my arm, my brows furrowing as I touch the scar along the uneven section of skin with my fingertip. “Does it mean they’re really healed? Or is that the body did what it could to fix what broke…” I trail off, counting backward from ten, gathering my thoughts. “But what exactly broke… with me… with him… I’m not sure, but it feels like I need to find out… somehow… about him… about myself… but how the fuck do I find out about him when the only person that truly knew what was real is… gone?” I blink and then click the screen off, and it goes black.

*     *     *

May 27, Day 7 of Summer Break

I started this ritual when I got to college. I wake up and count the seconds it takes for the sun to rise over the hill. It’s my way of preparing for another day I don’t want to prepare for, knowing that it’s another day to add to my list of days I’ve lived without Landon.

This morning worked a little differently, though. I’m home for my first summer break of college, and instead of the hills that surround Idaho, the sun advances over the immense Wyoming mountains that enclose Maple Grove, the small town I grew up in. The change makes it difficult to get out of bed, because it’s unfamiliar and breaks the routine I set up over the last eight months. And that routine was what kept me intact. Before it, I was a mess, unstable, out of control. I had no control. And I need control, otherwise I end up on the bathroom floor with a razor in my hand with the need to understand why he did it—what pushed him to that point. But the only way to do that is to make my veins run dry, and it turned out that I didn’t have it in me. I was too weak, or maybe it was too strong. I honestly don’t know anymore, what’s considered weak and what’s considered strong. What’s right and what’s wrong. Who I was and who I should be.

I’ve been home for a week, and my mom and stepfather are watching me like hawks, like they expect me to break down again, after almost a year. But I’m in control now.
In control.

After I get out of bed and take a shower, I sit for exactly five minutes in front of my computer, staring at the file folder that holds the video clip Landon made before he died. I always give myself five minutes to look at it, not because I’m planning on opening it, but because it recorded his last few minutes, captured him, his thoughts, his words, his face. It feels like the last piece of him that I have left. I wonder if one day, somehow, I’ll finally be able to open it. But at this moment, in the state of mind I’m stuck in, it just doesn’t seem possible. Not much does.

Once the five minutes are over, I put on my swimsuit, then pull on a floral sundress over it and strap some leather bands onto my wrists. Then I pull the curtains shut, so Landon’s house will be out of sight and out of mind, before heading back to my computer desk to record a short clip.

I click Record and stare at the screen as I take a few collected breaths. “So I was thinking about my last recording—my first—and I was trying to figure out what the point of this is—or if there even had to be a point. “I rest my arms on the desk and lean closer to the screen, assessing my blue eyes. “I guess if there is a point, it would be for me to discover something. About myself or maybe about… him, because it feels like there’s still so much stuff I’m missing… so many unanswered questions and all the lack of answers leaves me feeling lost, not just about why the hell he did it, but about what kind of person I am that he could leave so easily… Who was I then? Who am I now? I really don’t know… But maybe when I look back and watch these one day far, far down the road, I’ll realize what I really think about life and I’ll finally get some answers to what leaves me confused every single day, because right now I’m about as lost as a damn bottle floating in gross, murky water.”

I pause, contemplating as I tap my fingers on the desk. “Or maybe I’ll be able to backtrack through my thoughts and figure out why he did it.” I inhale and then exhale loudly as my pulse begins to thrash. “And if you’re not me and you’re watching these, then you’re probably wondering who
he
is, but I’m not sure if I’m ready to say his name yet. Hopefully I’ll get there. One day—someday, but who knows… maybe I’ll always be as clueless and as lost as I am now.”

I leave it at that and turn the computer off, wondering how long I’m going to continue this pointless charade, this time filler, because right now that’s how it feels. I shove the chair away and head out of my room. It takes fifteen steps to reach the end of the hall, then another ten to get me to the table. They’re each taken at a consistent pace and with even lengths. If I were filming right now, my steps would be smooth and perfect, steady as a rock.

“Good morning, my beautiful girl,” my mother singsongs as she whisks around the kitchen, moving from the stove to the fridge, then to the cupboard. She’s making cookies, and the air smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, and it reminds me of my childhood when my dad and I would sit at the table, waiting to stuff our mouths with sugar. But he’s not here anymore and instead Daniel, my stepfather, is sitting at the table. He’s not waiting for the cookies. In fact he hates sugar and loves healthy food, mostly eating stuff that looks like rabbit food.

“Good morning, Nova. It’s so good to have you back.” He has on a suit and tie, and he’s drinking grapefruit juice and eating dry toast. They’ve been married for three years, and he’s not a bad guy. He’s always taken care of my mom and me, but he’s very plain, orderly, and somewhat boring. He could never replace my dad’s spontaneous, adventurous, down-to-earth personality.

I plop down in the chair and rest my arms on the kitchen table. “Good morning.”

My mom takes a bowl out of the cupboard and turns to me with a worried look on her face. “Nova, sweetie, I want to make sure you’re okay… with being home. We can get you into therapy here, if you need it, and you’re still taking your medication, right?”

“Yes mom, I’m still taking my medication,” I reply with a sigh and lower my head onto my arms and shut my eyes. I’ve been on antianxiety medication for a while now. I’m not sure if it really does anything or not, but the therapist prescribed it to me so I take it. “I take them every morning, but I stopped going to therapy back in December, because it doesn’t do anything but waste time.” Because no matter that, they always want me to talk about what I saw that morning—what I did and why I did it—and I can’t even think about it, let only talk about it.

“Yeah, I know, honey, but things are different when you’re here,” she says quietly.

I remember the hell I put her through before I left. The lack of sleep, the crying… cutting my wrist open. But that’s in the past now. I don’t cry as much, and my wrist has healed.

“I’m fine, Mom.” I open my eyes, sit back up, and overlap my fingers in front of me. “So please, pretty please, with a cherry on top and icing and candy corn, would you please stop asking?”

“You sound just like your father… everything had to be referenced to sugar,” she remarks with a frown as she sets the bowl down on the counter. In a lot of ways she looks like me: long brown hair, a thin frame, and a sprinkle of freckles on her nose. But her blue eyes are a lot brighter than mine, to the point where they almost sparkle. “Honey, I know you keep saying that you’re fine, but you look so sad… and I know you were doing okay at school, but you’re back here now, and everything that happened is right across the street.” She opens a drawer and selects a large wooden spoon, before bumping the drawer shut with her hip. “I just don’t want the memories to get to you now that you’re home and so close to… everything.”

I stare at my reflection in the stainless-steel microwave. It’s not the clearest. In fact, my face looks a little distorted and warped, like I’m looking into a funhouse mirror, my own face nearly a stranger. But if I tilt sideways just a little, I almost look normal, like my old self. “I’m fine,” I repeat, observing how blank my expression looks when I say it. “Memories are just memories.” Really, it doesn’t matter what they are, because I can’t see the parts that I know will rip my heart back open: the last few steps leading up to Landon’s finality and the soundless moments afterward, before I cracked apart. I worked hard to stitch my heart back up after it was torn open, even if I hadn’t done it neatly.

“Nova.” She sighs as she starts mixing the cookie batter. “You can’t just try to forget without dealing with it first. It’s unhealthy.”

“Forgetting
is
dealing with it.” I grab an apple from a basket on the table, no longer wanting to talk about it because it’s in the past, where it belongs.

“Nova, honey,” she says sadly. She’s always tried to get me to talk about that day. But what she doesn’t get is that I can’t remember, even if I really tried, which I never will. It’s like my brain’s developed it’s own brain and it won’t allow those thoughts out, because once they’re out, they’re real. And I don’t want them to be real—I don’t want to remember
him
like that. Or me.

I push up from the chair, cutting her off. “I think I’m going to hang out next to the pool today, and Delilah will probably be over in a bit.”

“If that’s what you want.” My mom smiles halfheartedly at me, wanting to say more, but fearing what it’ll do to me. I don’t blame her, either. She’s the one who found me on the bathroom floor, but she thinks it’s more than it was. I was just trying to find out what he felt like—what was going on inside of him when he decided to go through with it.

I nod, grab a can of soda out of the fridge, and give her a hug before I head for the sliding glass door. “That’s what I want.”

She swallows hard, looking like she might cry because she thinks she’s lost her daughter. “Well, if you need me, I’m here.” She turns back to her bowl.

She’s been saying that to me since I was thirteen, ever since I watched my dad die. I’ve never taken her up on the offer, even though we’ve always had a good relationship. Talking about death with her—at all—doesn’t work for me. At this point in my life, I couldn’t talk to her about it even if I wanted to. I have my silence now, which is my healing, my escape, my sanctuary. Without it, I’d hear the noises of that morning, see the bleeding images, and feel the crushing pain connected to them. If I saw them, then I’d finally have to accept that Landon’s gone.

*     *     *

I don’t like unknown places. They make me anxious and I have trouble thinking—breathing. One of the therapists I first saw diagnosed me with obsessive-compulsive disorder. I’m not sure if he was right, though, because he moved out of town not too long after. I was left with a therapist in training, so to speak, and he decided that I was just depressed and had anxiety, hence the antianxiety medication for the last year and three months.

The unfamiliarity of the backyard disrupts my counting, and it takes me forever to get to the pool. By the time I arrive at the lawn chair, I know how many steps it took me to get here, how many seconds it took me to sit down, and how many more seconds it took for Delilah to arrive and then take a seat beside me. I know how many rocks are on the path leading to the porch—twenty-two—how many branches are on the tree shielding the sunlight from us—seventy-eight. The only thing I don’t know is how many seconds, hours, years, decades, it will take before I can let go of the goddamn self-induced numbness. Until then I’ll count, focus on numbers instead of the feelings always floating inside me, the ones linked to images immersed just beneath the surface.