Jessica Sorensen - Saving Quinton

I glance over at the clock on the microwave and realize he’ll be here soon and I’m still wearing my pajamas. I return my attention to the lens. “I’ll let you know how that one goes.” I give the camera a little wave. “Until next time.” Then I click the camera off and put it and the photo album stuff away in my room, on my desk, beside where I keep the few sketches of Quinton’s that I took from his apartment the last time I was there. Just looking at them makes me miss him, makes me long to hold him. If I could do one thing at this very moment, that’s what I’d do—hold him and never let him go.

Sighing, I turn away from the drawings and go over to my dresser. I change into a pair of shorts and a black tank top and comb my hair, leaving it down. I don’t put any bracelets on the wrist with the tattoo. I never do anymore, so that I can never forget any of it: my dad, Landon, Quinton, where I went, how I rose, how easy it is to fall. How easily my life can swirl out of control. It’s kind of what the scratch on my car is becoming—a reminder to never forget. I never did fix it after that guy hit it with a tire iron. My mom offered to pay for it, but I told her no. I know it sounds crazy but it reminds me of the last time I saw Quinton and even though it’s a horrible, terrifying memory, it’s all I have to hang on to.

When I’m finished changing, the doorbell rings. My stomach rolls with nerves and I head to the door. My mom and my stepfather Daniel are out on their daily hike and they won’t be home until late, which means that it’s just going to be Tristan and me. I can almost feel the awkwardness rising in the air.

When I open the front door, he’s standing on the edge of the porch like he was about to leave or something. The sun is blinding behind him, making it hard for my eyes to focus. The more he steps forward into the shade, getting closer, the more of his features I can see, but the glare still makes it seem like I’m looking through a camera lens. At first he looks blurry, then I can make out his blond hair, his facial features, then finally his blue eyes. He’s wearing a clean plaid shirt, nice jeans, and a pair of sneakers. He looks good. Healthy. And those track marks that were on his arms have faded, but there are a few tiny white specks that I think are scars.

“Hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

I just stare at him, my arm holding the screen door, my body drifting toward shock or something. He’s almost unrecognizable and it makes me happy and hurts at the same time because it reminds me of just how unhealthy he used to look and how Quinton’s still in that place.

“Hey,” I reply, forcing myself to stop staring. I step back and gesture at him to come in. “You can come inside.”

He hesitates, nervous, but ultimately walks past me and through the doorway and I get a whiff of cologne mixed with cigarettes, which is a lot better than the I-haven’t-showered-in-weeks smell he had the last time I was around him.

I shut the door behind me and turn around, studying him as he looks around at the living room, the family pictures on the wall, the floral sofas, and the television.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually been in your house,” he states, turning in a circle before his eyes land on me. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” I say, fidgety. God, I have no idea what to say or do, where to put my hands, where to look. He has this scar on his cheek, like he had a gash there once and it healed, but the scar didn’t used to be there. I want to ask him about it, yet I don’t think I should.

But he must notice me staring because he touches it and says, “Trace cut me there with a knife that day when…well, you know, everything went to shit.”

My lips form an o. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

He nods and waves it off. “Yeah, it’s pretty much healed now.”

Memories. Potent. Tearing my heart in half. Vegas. Quinton. Knife. Cuts. Drugs. I take a slow breath and let it out, telling myself to calm down.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets and crossing his arms.

“For what?”

“For bringing up Vegas.”

“You don’t have to worry about bringing it up,” I insist, sitting down on the sofa, and he sits beside me. “We can talk about it…” What am I doing ? “If you want?”

He eyes me skeptically, like he doesn’t quite believe I’m being serious. “Maybe in a bit,” he says. “How about we just chill for a while and see where things go.”

I nod and we spend the next hour talking about nothing important. High school. What we used to do for fun. He does tell me a little bit about when he got into drugs, but never does explain why. He got high for the first time quite a while before his sister died. His using never had to do with her death, although being high made that easier to deal with. I wonder what the cause was but don’t dare ask, afraid I might upset him.

Around dinnertime I order pizza and then Tristan and I sit back down on the couch in the living room and eat while we continue to talk.

“So you’re doing okay then?” I ask, opening up the pizza box. “I mean with being out in the real world.”

He shrugs, reaching for a piece of pizza. “Well, I’ve only been out for a week, so I’m still not sure…I’m still not sure about a lot of things, like what the hell I’m going to do with my life…I’m supposed to be making goals.” He rolls his eyes. “I tried to tell my counselor that I didn’t have goals but she didn’t seem to believe me.”

“You could go to school,” I suggest, picking up a slice of pizza. “It’s a great place to start.”

He smiles amusedly. “Nova, no college is going to accept me. I barely graduated high school.”

“That’s not true,” I tell him. “Sure, Ivy League schools probably won’t, but my college is pretty easy to get into. In fact, Lea, my friend you met in Vegas, well, her boyfriend didn’t even graduate. He got his GED and still got into my college.”

He picks at the cheese on his pizza as he leans back in the sofa. “I guess I’ll think about it, then,” he says. “But I never did like school.”

“Neither did I in high school,” I agree, relaxing back against the armrest with a slice of pizza in my hand. “But college isn’t so bad.”

He seems surprised. “You always seemed like you liked high school.”

“Yeah, but I was good at faking how I felt.” I take a bite of my pizza.

“Really?” There’s playfulness to his tone. “I always sort of thought of you as an open book.”

I roll my eyes. “You did not.”

“I did too,” he says. “I could always tell when you were angry or upset, which was a lot. Like that time we kissed.” The corners of his lips quirk. “I could tell seconds afterward that you regretted it.”

I’m not sure how to respond. I don’t quite think he’s flirting with me, just being cheerful, but at the same time we’re just sitting here joking around and it feels wrong.

“Well, I’m not angry and upset a lot anymore,” I say, taking a bite of my pizza. “And I’m sorry about the kiss thing, but I was going through some stuff.”

“I know,” he says, picking a string of cheese off his chin. “And if you’re not angry or upset anymore, then what are you?”

“I’m not sure,” I say honestly, staring down at my pizza. “Most of the time I just feel normal, but sometimes I feel sad.”

His chest sinks as he blows out a slow breath. It grows silent between us, the only sound the chewing of our pizza, as my thoughts drift to what’s making me sad—Quinton. I wish things could be different. I wish he could be sitting here with us in the awkwardness, eating pizza, and talking about everyday things for the most part.