She picks at her fingernails nervously. “This entire place is trouble, Nova. You should have never been hanging around here.” She catches my arm, startling me. “And if that’s true, then you need to stay out of it.” She targets me with a stern look. “Focus on the bigger picture and how dangerous this is.” She motions around us, her gaze lingering on Bernie, who’s watching us. “All of this is.”
I jerk my arm away from her, more roughly than I meant to, but I don’t apologize as I slip my fingers through the hole in the door, trying to reach the lock, refusing to walk away until I know Quinton’s not dead.
I manage to get to the lock and the door opens up. “Thank God,” I mutter.
“Nova, please don’t go in there,” Lea begs, but I’m already over the threshold and she doesn’t follow me in.
It’s stuffier than normal, but that could be because all the garbage and dirty dishes from the kitchen are scattered all over the place. Whatever the reason, the air is so heavy and potent that it knocks the breath out of me.
“I’m not going in there,” Lea calls out from the balcony and I’m glad because I don’t want her to.
I leave her standing outside and walk over to the sofa, broken glass crunching under my sandals. When I get there, I lean over and determine that it is Dylan lying there with a rubber band tied around his arm and a needle on the floor just below him, along with a spoon and a lighter. I hate that I feel it, but I’m glad he’s passed out on drugs because I don’t want to deal with his creepiness today.
Swallowing the burn in the back of my throat I head for the hallway and go to Quinton’s room. For the briefest second, I flash back to the moment I walked into Landon’s room and found him hanging from the rope. I’m not sure why, other than maybe because my stomach and mind feel like they’re in the same place now. The place where I know something bad is about to happen—or has happened.
Quinton’s not in his room, though, and I’m not sure if I feel good about that or not, because I didn’t find him dead behind the door, but he’s still missing.
His sketches are all over the place, torn up, crinkled. There are some of me and some of a girl I think must be Lexi. His mattress has been flipped over and slashed and a few holes have been put in his wall. There are coins scattered all over the place and shards of mirror all over the floor.
I pick up a few of his drawings, fold them, and tuck them into my pocket. Then I leave his room and peek into the room at the end of the hallway, Tristan’s room. Or at least the room I saw him shooting up in. It looks to be in the same condition as Quinton’s: completely trashed, stuff ruined and thrown all over the place, and a dresser tipped over, the contents of the drawers dumped out.
I turn around, feeling the hope inside me dim a little, feeling my oxygen fading. I need to get out of here and breathe in some fresh air, get my thoughts together—pull myself together, before I have another meltdown like yesterday. So I hurry down the hallway, but slam to a stop when one of the doors on my left swings open and someone steps out.
I jump back, startled, but slightly relax when I realize it’s Delilah. “Shit, you scared me,” I say, pressing my hand over my heart.
She gives me a dirty look, her swollen eyes stained with mascara and her cheek puffy and red like she’s been struck there. Her auburn hair is tangled, she has on an old T-shirt that goes to her mid-thighs, and she’s barefoot and walking around on glass but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
“You should be scared,” she says in a strained voice, her legs wobbling, and she braces her hand on the door.
Shaking my head, I move to leave, not wanting to get into this with her, but she quickly rushes toward me and throws her arms around me, hugging me way too tightly.
“Oh, Nova, this is so bad.” She starts to cry into me and I have no idea what to do or if I want to do anything.
Awkwardly, I pat her back. “What’s bad?” I ask. “Delilah, what’s wrong?”
“Everything,” she cries, her shoulders heaving with each breath as she grips me. “Everything’s so f**ked up.”
“Why? What happened?” I ask, my muscles stiff under her hold.
She shakes her head and tightens her hold on me, so it feels like I’m suffocating. “We all screwed up.”
Fear courses through my veins. “Who screwed up?”
“Me,” she sniffs. “Tristan…Quinton. Everyone.”
I’m not sure what state of mind she’s in so I choose my words carefully, even though all I want to do is shout at her to tell me what the f**k happened. “Delilah, what happened exactly…where are Quinton and Tristan? Did…did Trace do something to them?”
“Who knows,” she says, still soaking my shirt with her tears as she shrugs. “He could have killed them for all I know…I haven’t seen them since yesterday when everything went to shit…when I…” She glances at her arms and legs, which are covered in bruises. She blinks and then looks at me, her hysteria calming. “Either living out on the streets somewhere or dead in a ditch.” She says it with so little compassion and it infuriates me.
I jerk back. “You’re lying.”
“Believe whatever you want, but I’m not.” She hugs her arms around herself as she collapses to the floor on her knees. I have no idea what’s wrong with her, whether something actually happened or she’s just on something. And as much as I’d love to help her, I need to find Quinton.
I crouch down in front of her. “Delilah, when Quinton left here was he okay?”
She shakes her head. “No, they beat him up.” Then she turns to her side and curls inward, into herself, her tears drying, but her sadness amplifying.
I shut my eyes, counting my inhalations and exhalations, sucking air in and blowing it out of my lungs. What does that mean? That he’s beaten up but still alive. “You don’t know where he went?” I ask, feeling completely hopeless at this moment. Like I’ve drowned and I’m sitting at the bottom of a lake, still breathing, but there’s no way back to the surface.
“No.” She brings her knees to her chest, balling herself up more on the floor that’s stained and covered in sharp pieces of glass, a death trap, yet she doesn’t care. “Just go away. Please. Before Dylan wakes up and takes his anger toward Quinton out on you.”
Part of me wants to press her for more information, but the other part wants to get the hell out of this house and go find Quinton. “You should come with me, Delilah. Get out of this house.”
“Would you please just f**king go!” Delilah shouts. “I’ll be fine.” She mutters the last part like she’s trying to convince herself.
I’m not sure if it’s right—leaving her in that kind of state. Right and wrong. Whom to help? It feels like there’s a really thin line between the two at the moment. When Delilah shuts her eyes, looking like she’s drifting off to sleep, I stand up and head out of the apartment, but my body and mind ache with each step.
Lea’s not there when I walk outside. When I glance down at the car, I can see her sitting inside, staring up at the balcony, where Bernie is shouting over the railing something about Jesus saving everyone. He’s tripping out of his mind and Lea’s probably scared out of hers. I should be, too, but Quinton is consuming my thoughts. My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute as I rush toward the stairs, pushing Bernie out of my way when he grabs my arm. He staggers to the side, nearly toppling over the railing, and starts shouting that I’m not going to be saved.
I pick up my pace as I reach the stairs. My thoughts speed up and I start counting my strides as I jog across the parking lot. I’m halfway across it when it hits me. All of it. The fact that I may never see Quinton again—may never know if he’s alive again. That the moment I walk away from this apartment, that’s it. I’ve given up. It’s over and have to accept that I may never see Quinton again. That I’m going to have to feel that sense of loss again. The responsibility of not stopping it.
All I want to do is count and not hear the thoughts. I want them to shut the hell up.
Two large breaths.
Five heartbeats.
Too many rocks on the ground.
One guy in the background, shouting for the world to hear, but he’s saying things and doing things no one wants to hear or see, so everyone ignores them.
One step.
Then another.
Taking me farther away from this place.
Delilah’s lying on the floor, broken and beaten.
Quinton and Tristan could be dead somewhere in a ditch.
Gone.
Two people dead. Two people I knew. That makes four people I’ve lost.
Four. And only one of me.
I make it to the front of my car before I collapse to my knees and tears spill from my eyes as hopelessness drowns me, pushes me down to the ground. I grasp at my throbbing chest as I see the bigger picture open up in front of me: just how many people need saving. And how it’s pretty much impossible, since I can’t even handle one person.
I didn’t help Quinton. I didn’t save him. I didn’t do anything. Just like I didn’t save Landon.
And now Quinton could be dead.
Dead…
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
The word echoes in my head, but all I can hear are my sobs and the quietness around me. Like no one but me exists anymore.
Like I’ve lost everyone.
Quinton
“Did she leave?” I ask as Nancy walks back into the room, letting her robe fall to the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of lacy panties.
“The girl? Or the crazy as**ole screaming upstairs?” she asks. “Bernie is losing his mind.”
“I don’t care about Bernie…I just need to know that Nova left.” When I saw her pull up, I just about lost it and went out to her. But what good would it have done? I’d just be giving her a reason to keep coming around to this place, seeing me, dragging herself down.
It’s better for everyone if I disappear.
I shove down the emotions prickling inside me, the ones I’ve been working really hard to bury over the last twenty-four hours. I focus on drawing along the piece of crinkled-up paper I found on the floor, lines and shapes that mean more than I’ll ever admit.
“She left,” Nancy tells me, climbing onto the mattress beside me. She rests her head on my chest and her touch brings me nothing but coldness but it matches the deadness inside me so I let it be. “She was crying for a while out in the parking lot, though.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, refusing to look at my drawing of Nova and me dancing out in front of the gas station. So perfect. So real. I wish I could have that moment back again, and the one in front of the roller coaster, when we felt each other’s heartbeats. But I know I’ll never be able to. No more goodness. No more light in my life. What happened to Tristan reminded me what I’m supposed to be—what I deserve.
“She’s really pretty.” Nancy pushes up from my chest and looks down at the drawing. “I wish someone would draw me like that.”
I know she’s hinting at me to draw her, but I won’t. It took a lot for me to draw Nova and I only got there because she means something to me. But after I’m finished with the drawing, I’m going to destroy it, and force myself to forget about everything that’s happened between us. I’m not going to feel anything for Nova anymore. I’m going to go back to holding on to Lexi, like I should have been doing this entire time. If Nova doesn’t know where I am, then I can’t give in to the pull I feel toward her and she can’t give in to the pull she for some reason feels toward me. She’ll be safer if I stay away. And even though she can’t see it now, she’ll be happier never knowing that a piece of shit like me fell in love with her.
Now I just need to figure out a way to forget her—forget about life. About my emotions…the love I’m fairly certain I feel for her. I just want to escape it all and go back to living my promise to Lexi, continually seeking forgiveness from her, knowing I’ll never get it and that eventually I’ll die and never have to feel a thing again.
“How’s Tristan doing?” I ask, trying to distract myself from where I am and who I’m with. “You called the hospital, right?”
“Yeah, it was a pain in the ass to get them to release any information, but the nurse was spacey and I told her I was his aunt,” she says. “They said he’s still in recovery.”
“I still wonder what he took,” I say, knowing it’s beside the point. No matter what he took, he almost died and I almost wasn’t there to help him. “He was always mixing shit.”
“Does it really matter? What matters is that he’s going to be okay.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I mumble. “And at least his parents are headed here and hopefully they’ll take him home with them.” I really hope they do. It took a lot for me to make that phone call, but after the paramedics got him breathing again, I knew I had to do it—had to help him the only way I could. So when the ambulance drove off, red and blue lights flashing, I made a call I didn’t want to make and everything that I expected to happen did. His mom blamed me when I told her Tristan overdosed, said it was my fault because I was a bad influence on him and that he was doing drugs because he lost his sister and that he was hurting inside. And she’s right.
Everything is all my fault and I just want to stop feeling it, go back to killing myself one hit at a time.
“And you’ll go with him?” Nancy asks as she leans back against the wall and observes me. “When he goes back home?”