Jessica Sorensen - Nova and Quinton - No Regrets

The longer the night goes on, the more my thoughts drift to Quinton. What he’s doing. Thinking. How the last two months have been for him. I want to talk to him, but I’m afraid of all the unsaid stuff I know there’s going to be between us. I just hope we can say it, otherwise things will be like they were in the past, when he wouldn’t talk to me. It was the same thing with Landon. When we were dating, I thought I knew him. I thought we had a good relationship. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. But there was so much unsaid between us and in the end it never did get said.

“So what do you think so far?” Tristan interrupts my thoughts as he inches closer to me so that the side of his leg is pressed up against mine.

I strain a smile, stiffening as his breath touches my cheek. “It’s good. Really funny.” But I’m barely paying attention.

He slides his arm across the back of the sofa and behind me. I catch a whiff of soap mixed with cigarette smoke. “See, I told you you’d like it.”

I make my lips curve into an even bigger smile and either he doesn’t notice I’m faking being happy or he doesn’t say anything. He returns his attention to the movie, his eyes locked on the screen as he gets another slice of pizza. I start to become hyper-aware of him and his movements, how tired he looks, the bags under his eyes. I think he’s tired and I start to debate whether I should say I’m exhausted as an excuse to get out of the growing discomfort of the situation. It’d be so easy to go back to my room, but at the same time I know my being here helps Tristan stay out of trouble. So I stay put and attempt to concentrate on the movie the best I can.

“What are we doing here?” I ask Quinton as I stand on the edge of a cliff, staring out at the land before us. Rolling hills that go on for miles and miles, until they connect with the horizon.

“We’re getting some peace and quiet,” he says, and I can feel his honey-brown eyes on me so I turn and look at him.

He looks healthier than the last time I saw him, more muscular, his eyes brighter, his hair cropped short like the first time I met him. He’s not wearing a shirt, the defined scar on his chest visible, along with the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One . Even though I know both the scar and the tattoos are related to the accident, I only know from the stuff I’ve put together on my own. Quinton’s never really told me anything himself about what happened that night, and I wonder if he ever will.

“What?” he asks, his brow arching, and I realize I’ve been silently staring at him.

I shake my head, still unable to take my eyes off him. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I was just wondering…” I trail off. “Never mind.”

He reaches out and touches his palm to my cheek. “It’s not nothing, Nova. So please just tell me… I want to know… I want to know everything you’re thinking.”

It’s such an honest request that it takes me a moment to respond.

“I was just thinking about your tattoos and scars and what they mean.” As soon as it leaves my lips, I know I’ve said the wrong thing.

I can see his muscles wind tight, his fingers fold into his palms, his scruffy jaw go taut. I want to retract what I said, but it’s too late and suddenly he’s stepping away from me.

“Don’t go,” I call out, reaching for him, but my feet won’t move. “Please, I didn’t mean it.”

He shakes his head, his skin paling, his muscles shriveling until he looks like a skeleton. His eyes sink in and his cheekbones become more distinct. When his body is finished shifting, he looks just like the Quinton I last saw, the one who lost his body to heroin. The one who gave up on life. The one who wanted to die because he hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, which isn’t what I was expecting.

“For what?” I question, lowering my hand to my side.

“For this.” He starts running toward the cliff like he’s going to jump.

“No!” I scream as he springs onto his toes, leaping toward the edge.

I’m finally able to move my feet and run for him, but it’s too late. He flies through the air and when he starts to drop, he’s falling off the cliff toward the rocky bottom…

My eyes shoot open and I gasp for air. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but when I finally do, I realize that I was dreaming and that I’m not on a cliff, watching Quinton fall, but lying on my side, cuddled up with Tristan on the couch with our legs tangled. My eyes widen as I realize this and I hurry and wiggle out of his arms. I end up rolling off the sofa and falling face-first onto the floor. I quickly sit up, worried he’s going to wake up and wonder what the heck’s going on. I can’t see him because night has settled, the living room nearly pitch black except for the light flowing through the window and from the television screen, which has gone blue, the movie long over. But I can hear the soft sound of his breathing, which hopefully means he’s asleep.

I get to my feet and shake off the lingering terror of the dream as I tiptoe into my room. I close the door behind me and take my phone from my pocket. I want to call Quinton, but even thinking about it with the phone in my hand is terrifying. Besides, what if he’s asleep or something?

It’s ten o’clock and that makes it nine o’clock in Seattle, so it doesn’t seem likely. Still, I dither for about ten minutes, organizing my CD collection while I carry the phone around in my hand, my OCD habits kicking in with my nerves. Finally, after realizing that I’m just going to have to rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with, I flop down on my bed and dial Quinton’s dad’s home phone number, which Tristan gave me.

I rest my head on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling as I listen to the phone ring, trying to figure out what to say. I need to be careful with my words—make sure I don’t say anything that will upset him or put pressure on him. But what is the right thing to say? I’m not sure, especially since I have tons of questions sitting on my tongue, like what’s been going on? Are you okay? Do you miss me? Ever want to see me again?

“Hello.” A man picks up after four rings, sounding tired.

“Um… is Quinton there?” I ask, worried I’ve woken up his dad or something.

“Who is this?” he questions with an edge in his voice.

I hesitate. Does he even know who I am? “Um… Nova Reed.”

He pauses. “Nova Reed, Carry Reed’s daughter, right?” I’d almost forgotten that he knows my mother because she’s the one who convinced him to go look for his son when Tristan and I lost track of Quinton when he was living on the streets in Vegas.

I relax a little. “Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, trying to keep a light tone. “I know it’s late and everything, but I was wondering if I could talk to him.”

He remains silent and I worry that maybe Quinton told him he didn’t want to talk to me. Perhaps he told Tristan I could call only because he felt pressured and then changed his mind.

But then his dad says, “Let me go see if he’s awake.”

“Okay, thanks.” I chew on my fingernails as I wait. I can hear the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. There’s music playing in the background. “Cover Me” by Candlebox. I absent-mindedly get up from my bed and turn my iPod in the dock to the same song, quietly enough that he won’t hear it, but loudly enough that I can. It makes me feel connected to him in a strange way, but then again, my emotions are greatly connected to music, so this would probably be the case under any circumstances.