Jessica Sorensen - Nova and Quinton - No Regrets

I swing the handle of my duffel bag over my shoulder and walk down the hall with Davis following behind. I say good-bye to a few people I met while I was here and actually developed friendships with. There’s not a whole lot—it’s hard to make friends when you have to focus so much on yourself.

After the brief farewells, I head to Charles’s office, which is right beside the front section of the facility. Every time I’m in this part of the building, I get a peek at the outside world, the cars on the highway, the pine trees, the grass, the sky, the clouds. It always makes me want to lock the door and stay behind it for the rest of my life, because behind that door I feel safe. Protected from myself and all the scary things out there. Like the last two months. And now I’m about to go into the wild.

“Quinton, come on in.” Charles waves me in when he notices me lingering in the doorway, staring at the exit door just to my right.

I tear my attention away from it and step into his office, a narrow room with a couple of wooden chairs, a desk, and scenic paintings on the walls. It’s plain, with minimal distractions, which might be on purpose to force whoever is in here to focus on nothing but himself. I’ve had a few meltdowns in this room, a lot of them stemming from when Charles urged me to pour my heart and soul out about the accident and express how I felt about the deaths of Lexi and Ryder. I haven’t talked about everything yet, but I’m sure I’ll get there. One day. But for now I’m taking things one step at a time. Day by day.

“So today’s the big day,” he says, standing up from the chair behind his desk. He’s a short man with a bad comb-over and wears a lot of suits with elbow patches. But he’s nice and gets things in a way most people don’t. I’m not sure if it’s because of his PhD hanging on the wall or because maybe he’s been through some rough shit. If he has, he never shared it with me. “This is about you,” he always said whenever I tried to turn the conversation around on him. “And what you’ve been through.” I hated him for it. Still do a little bit, because he opened a lot of fucking doors I thought I’d bolted shut. Stuff poured out of me and is still continuing to stream out of me, like a leaky faucet, one I can’t get to turn off, but now I’m not sure I want to.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I move to the center of the room and stand behind one of the chairs, gripping the back to hold myself up because my legs feel like two wet noodles.

He offers me a smile. “I know you’re a little worried about how things are going to be out there, but I assure you that as long as you stick to everything we talked about, you’re going to be okay. Just keep going to meetings and keep writing.” He strolls around the desk and stops in front of me. “And keep working on talking to your father.”

“I’ll try to,” I say with apprehension. “But it’s a two-way street, so…” My father has visited a few times, and Charles mediated for us. Rocky would be one of the words to describe the time we spent talking. That and awkward and uneasy . But it helped break the ice enough that it’s not completely and utterly terrible to know that I’m going to be living under the same roof with him again. Just terrible, maybe.

Charles puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me straight in the eye. “Don’t try. Do.” He always says this whenever someone shows doubt. Do. Do. Do.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him,” I say, but just because I will, doesn’t mean my father is going to reciprocate. I barely know him anymore. No, scratch anymore . I’ve never known him, really, and it feels like I’m moving in with a stranger. But I can get through this. I am strong . I tell myself this over and over again.

“Good.” Charles gives my shoulder a squeeze and then releases me. “And remember, I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.” He takes a step back toward his desk. “You have my card with my number, right?”

I pat my pocket. “Yeah.”

“Good. Call me if you ever need anything from me.” He smiles. “And take care, Quinton.”

“Thanks. You too.” I turn for the door, my chest squeezing tighter with every step I take. By the time I exit into the hallway, I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. But I keep moving. Breathing. Walking. Until I get into the lounge area near the doorway, where my father’s waiting for me in one of the chairs in the corner of the room. He has his head tipped down and his glasses on as he reads the newspaper that’s on his lap. He’s wearing slacks and a nice shirt, probably the same clothes he wears to the office every day. He must have had to leave early to pick me up and I wonder how he feels about that, whether he’s irritated like he always used to be with me or glad that I’m finally getting out. I guess that could be something we talk about in the car.

I don’t say anything as I cross the room toward him. Sensing my presence, he glances up right as I stop in front of him.

He blinks a few times like I’ve surprised him with my appearance. “Oh, I didn’t even see you walk out,” he says, setting the newspaper aside on the table beside the chair. He glances at the clock on the wall as he rises to his feet. “Are you ready to go?”

I nod with my thumb hitched though the handle of my duffel bag. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay then.” He pats the sides of his legs awkwardly, glancing around the room like he thinks someone’s going to come out and take me off his hands. Realizing that nothing is going to happen, that it’s just him and me, he gives me a small smile, but it’s forced. Then he heads for the door and I reluctantly follow. Ten steps later, I’m free. Just like that. It feels like it happens so fast. Faster than I can handle. One minute I’m saying good-bye and the next I’m walking out the door into the outside world and fresh air. There are no more walls to protect me, no people around me who get what I’m going through.

I just exist.

The first thing I notice is how bright it is. Not hot, but bright. The grass has also browned, along with the leaves on the trees. It’s managed to turn from summer to fall during my two-month stay here and somehow I didn’t even notice. I’ve been outside and everything, but not outside with freedom. It makes things feel different. Me feel different. Nervous. Unsteady. Like I’m about to fall down.

“Quinton, are you okay?” My father asks, assessing me as he removes his glasses, like that’ll help him see what’s going on inside my head or something. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“I’m fine.” I squint at the general brightness of being outdoors. “It just feels a little weird being outside.”

He offers me another tight smile, then looks away and starts toward the parking lot at the side of the building. I trail behind him, grasping the handle of my bag slung over my shoulder, the wind grazing my cheeks, and I note how unnatural it feels. Just like the cars driving up and down the highway that seem way too loud. Everything seems extremely intense, even the fresh air that fills my lungs.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I make it to the car and get my seat belt secured over my shoulder. It grows quiet as my father turns on the ignition and the engine rumbles to life. Then we’re driving up the gravel path toward the highway, leaving the rehab center behind in the distance, the place that for the last couple of months protected me from the world and the pain linked to it.

I stay quiet for most of the drive home and my dad seems pretty at ease with that at first, but then abruptly he starts slamming me with simple questions like if the heat is up enough or too much, and am I hungry, because he can stop and get me something to eat if I need him to.