Nova and Quinton: No Regrets
Page 20
“Once upon a time, there was a girl who liked to look at things on a positive side a lot,” I say as I stare at a picture of myself grinning at the camera, a picture Landon took; his finger ended up covering part of the lens. “She had such hope inside her that everything was going to turn out okay. That despite the tragedy with her dad, she would grow up and be happy.” I turn the page and then run my fingers across a picture of Landon with his head tipped down as he stares at something on the ground, his backyard in the background. “What she didn’t realize is that tragedy was going to hit her again and her happily-ever-after wouldn’t exist anymore. And she’d be left feeling lost for the longest time.” I flip the page over to a picture of Landon and me together, one where he’s kissing my cheek and I’m laughing because his hair tickles me. I think it might be one of my favorites. “She’d eventually find her way back to a good life again, for the most part, anyway. But when it came to relationships, she’d be confused and she’d analyze it all the time, who she was supposed to end up with in life. But an answer would never come to her and she’d eventually start wondering if maybe she was just supposed to be alone in the world.” I sit up and pull my knees up to my chest, resting my chin on top of them, and stare down at a picture that captured a moment that was gone as soon as the flash died. “That maybe her heart would always belong to a ghost.” As soon as I say it, though, I know it’s not true. Yes, Landon did take a piece of my heart with him the day he died, but not the entire thing. I know because I can feel a pull to someone else at the moment.
I lean over to my nightstand, open the drawer, and take out Quinton’s sketches, which I picked up from his apartment floor in Vegas when he disappeared from my life. I unfold them and then run my fingers across the lines and shadings. One of them is of Lexi, his girlfriend who died in the car accident. The way he captures her, the dark lines drawn with such passion, lets me know how much he cared about her. The second is a picture of himself, only half of his face is skeletal, and then the final one is of me. The lines aren’t dark and full of passion like Lexi’s. They’re actually really light, like he was afraid to draw me or something. I wonder if he was—if he still is afraid of me.
I get up and turn my music down, then go get my phone out of my jacket pocket before returning to my bed. Once I get situated on the bed, I take a deep breath and dial Quinton’s number. I haven’t told him I have his drawings, because I’m not sure how he’ll react.
But he doesn’t answer and I end up lying in my bed, feeling so alone.
Chapter 9
Quinton
I’m feeling decent today after I get back from work. Tired, but tired can be a good thing. It helps me block out all the boxes in the house when I walk inside, and the fact that in about ten minutes I’ll be heading right back out the door isn’t too bad either.
“Hey, you’re home early,” my dad says, cutting me off in the foyer. He’s dressed in old jeans and a faded shirt and he’s wiping his hands on a towel.
“I could say the same thing to you,” I tell him, reaching for the phone in my pocket as it vibrates, but I get distracted by something. “Why are you home?”
He tosses the towel down on the back of the chair in the living room. “I actually have some news,” he says. “My boss wants me to go over to Virginia a little bit early. Next week, actually.”
“Are you kidding me?” I frown, pulling my hand out of my pocket without checking my phone. “Please tell me you’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head with an apologetic expression. “But don’t worry. It’s going to take me a few weeks to get a place set up there, so I figure you can stay here while I do.”
“Stay here for a few weeks and then what? I move to Virginia?” I shake my head, hurrying for the stairs. “I already told you I don’t want to do that.”
“I know what you said, but that’s just how things are,” he says, catching hold of my arm before I get too far. It’s weird that he’s touching me because he never does. In fact, when I really think about it he never has. I can even remember thinking how weird it was when he gave me a handshake at my middle school graduation.
“Well, I’m not moving.” I turn to face him and he swiftly lets go of me.
“Quinton, I understand how you feel.” He gives me a look of pity as he rolls up his sleeves. “But sometimes we just have to do things we don’t want to do.”
“I know that, but I just can’t move across the country,” I say, folding my arms. “I’m going to find somewhere else to live.”
“Do you have enough money saved up for that?” he wonders as he reaches for a folded-up box on the floor near the front door.
I unzip my coat. “No, but I’ll figure something out.” I think about what Nova said about getting a roommate. “I’ll get a roommate or something.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” He places the box on the floor beside his feet. “Because…” He massages the back of his neck tensely. “Because I was really looking forward to you coming to Virginia with me.”
I’m wondering if he really means it or not. It’s hard to tell with him, but I want to believe that he does, so that’s how I’m choosing to see things. “I want—need to stay here.”
“But I worry about you living alone and what might happen,” he says. “I worry that you might relapse.”
“If it’s going to happen, then it’s going to happen,” I say, rubbing some paint off the back of my hand. “But I don’t want it to happen and staying here and doing what I’m doing is going to make it more possible for me to stay out of trouble.” I hope. I’ve been doing good. Haven’t wandered in places I don’t belong. Haven’t lost control. I just hope nothing triggers me to do otherwise.
He unfolds the box. “Well, if you absolutely need to stay at the house, then you can until the new buyers move in, which I think is next month.” He backs into the living room and picks the packing tape up off of the sofa. “But Quinton, I just want to make sure that you stay in touch with me this time.”
I nod and then go up into my room to change out of my painting clothes and get my work clothes on. I put on holey jeans, an insulated coat, then some gloves, pulling a gray beanie onto my head. I’m glad my dad and I finally talked and everything, but I still have the huge problem of finding a place and saying good-bye to this home and all the memories it carries.
As I’m getting ready to head down the stairs, I glance around at the sketches and photos on the wall. I still haven’t taken them down. Still holding on. I stare at a picture of Lexi on the wall, the one where she’s smiling so brightly it makes me want to smile with her. I lift my hand and touch my finger to the photo, noting how badly my hand shakes.
“Will you forgive me?” I ask, my hands still shaking as I pull the photo off the wall, feeling something break in half inside me. “If I keep going forward this way… keep healing instead of dying?” I wish I could hear her say yes. I wish that for just one moment I could hear her voice and she would let me go.
But of course the only response I get is silence and I know that I’ll never hear her voice again. As I go to put the picture back on the wall, I draw back and decide that maybe this is the first step to moving forward. That this is it.
“I can do this,” I tell myself, then walk over to my nightstand and put the photo in the drawer. The moment I do, it feels like I’ve done something wrong. But I still walk away from the room. Step by step. Trying to move forward, even though I can feel an invisible pull drawing me back. To her. Begging me to put that picture on the wall and never let go. Never change anything. Just keep holding on until it kills me.
* * *
“Do you want to tell me what’s got you so upset?” Wilson asks me as I hammer a nail into a piece of wood. We’re inside the house, although it’s not really inside. Two-by-fours make up the walls, the floor is plywood and the roof isn’t even close to being finished. The air smells like sawdust and my hands feel like sandpaper. The sound of power tools encircles me and it just quit raining so everything’s wet and the temperature is low. But I like everything about it. It helps me somewhat forget that I took down one of Lexi’s photos today. And that I’m going to be homeless soon. And that through all of this I have to feel everything because I decided to become sober.
“I’m not upset.” I toss the hammer aside and then reach for another board. “I’m just working through some stuff.”
“Well, maybe if you tell me what, then I can help you work through it?” He rolls up the sleeves of his worn plaid jacket, even though it’s cold, because we’ve been working hard so it feels hotter than it is. I align the board into place and he steps up with the nail gun. “Come on, Quinton,” he says, putting the tip of the nail gun up against the wood. “Just give it up and share what the hell’s got you looking so cranky.”
I hold the board in place while he shoots some nails into it, then he sets the nail gun down and picks up his water bottle. “Fine,” I say, stepping away from the now-sturdy board. There are rows around us and soon the Sheetrock and insulation will go up to make walls. It’s an amazing thing to be a part of—it really is. “My dad’s moving to Virginia in like a week and I have no place to stay because he’s selling our house.”
He takes a swig of his water while I sit down on the floor and retrieve my pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “Why don’t you just go with him?” he asks.
“Because of all this.” I remove a cigarette from the pack as I gesture around the partially built house. “I don’t just want to give it all up.”
He sits down on the floor beside me and stretches out his legs in front of him. “You know you can do this stuff anywhere, right? You can even do other stuff and still get the same experience.”
“Yeah, but.” I put the cigarette into my mouth and reach for my lighter in my pocket. “I’m comfortable here.” I cup my hand around the end of the cigarette. “And I like how things are going here.” I light the cigarette and inhale before blowing out smoke. Part of me wants to run and call Nova, because she’d try to cheer me up and figure out solutions, instead of telling me that I should probably go with my dad. And she probably could even help me deal with taking down the photos. Talk me down. Get me to see things in a different light—a brighter light. Because she always makes things seem ten times better.
Wilson takes another swig of his water before screwing the cap back on. “All right, I’m going to throw an idea out there and see where it goes.” He rises to his feet and sets the water down before picking up the nail gun again. “Why don’t you live with me for a little while? At least until you can get on your feet.”
I give him an unfathomable look. “Are you seriously offering me your place?”
He shrugs as he lifts the cord of the nail gun over a pile of wood it’s snagged on. “Sure, why not?”
“Because it would be weird,” I point out. “Having a twenty-year-old ex-junkie living with you.”
“Well, since I’m a thirty-five-year-old ex-junkie, I don’t think that’s too big of a deal,” he says. “Besides, I’m barely there anyway.”
I get to my feet, grazing my thumb across the bottom of the cigarette and scattering ash all over the floor. “Why?”
“Because I travel around a lot to do this.” He gestures around the construction site, where the sounds of hammers and power tools are going off all around us. “In fact, you could always do that, too. You’d have a place to live while we’re on the road and when you’re here you can stay at my place, until you’re ready to get a place of your own.” He points his finger at me. “Now there’s an idea.”
For a second I actually consider it. Just going. Leaving. Taking off and working the crap out of myself to help others. I’d have to say good-bye to a lot of things, though, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet, since an hour ago I nearly cracked saying good-bye to a photo.
I put the cigarette into my mouth and take a slow drag before exhaling. “It seems too easy just to move in with you.”
“What? Things can’t be easy?” he asks as he puts the nail gun up to a board. “Life’s not right if it isn’t hard?”
“It’s not supposed to be easy for me,” I say. “It’s supposed to be difficult and a struggle to pay back for what I…” I stop talking, not wanting to go down that road right now. It’s weird, but the only person I’ve really talked to about this is Nova, which I think says a lot about her… a lot about how she makes me feel.
After putting a few nails into the board, he places the gun down on the floor. “You know, I get the whole self-punishment thing and wanting to pay back for what you did by slowly torturing yourself,” he says, “However, do you really want to be homeless again? Living outside in the f**king cold? Behind a Dumpster or in a crack house with a bunch of other crack addicts? Holes in the wall. Probably no plumbing. Doing God knows what? Snorting lines? Shooting up? Whatever your drug of choice was.”
I hate how direct he is sometimes and the images he’s vividly painting are crawling under my skin. “No, but if I did end up that way I’d probably deserve it… maybe that’s why this isn’t working out for me.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and put it out with the tip of my boot. “I’ll never be able to deserve much of anything, but I’m going to make sure I keep trying to pay everyone back until the day I die again.” I bend down to pick up my hammer, realizing I let something slip out that I’m not sure he knew yet.
I lean over to my nightstand, open the drawer, and take out Quinton’s sketches, which I picked up from his apartment floor in Vegas when he disappeared from my life. I unfold them and then run my fingers across the lines and shadings. One of them is of Lexi, his girlfriend who died in the car accident. The way he captures her, the dark lines drawn with such passion, lets me know how much he cared about her. The second is a picture of himself, only half of his face is skeletal, and then the final one is of me. The lines aren’t dark and full of passion like Lexi’s. They’re actually really light, like he was afraid to draw me or something. I wonder if he was—if he still is afraid of me.
I get up and turn my music down, then go get my phone out of my jacket pocket before returning to my bed. Once I get situated on the bed, I take a deep breath and dial Quinton’s number. I haven’t told him I have his drawings, because I’m not sure how he’ll react.
But he doesn’t answer and I end up lying in my bed, feeling so alone.
Chapter 9
Quinton
I’m feeling decent today after I get back from work. Tired, but tired can be a good thing. It helps me block out all the boxes in the house when I walk inside, and the fact that in about ten minutes I’ll be heading right back out the door isn’t too bad either.
“Hey, you’re home early,” my dad says, cutting me off in the foyer. He’s dressed in old jeans and a faded shirt and he’s wiping his hands on a towel.
“I could say the same thing to you,” I tell him, reaching for the phone in my pocket as it vibrates, but I get distracted by something. “Why are you home?”
He tosses the towel down on the back of the chair in the living room. “I actually have some news,” he says. “My boss wants me to go over to Virginia a little bit early. Next week, actually.”
“Are you kidding me?” I frown, pulling my hand out of my pocket without checking my phone. “Please tell me you’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head with an apologetic expression. “But don’t worry. It’s going to take me a few weeks to get a place set up there, so I figure you can stay here while I do.”
“Stay here for a few weeks and then what? I move to Virginia?” I shake my head, hurrying for the stairs. “I already told you I don’t want to do that.”
“I know what you said, but that’s just how things are,” he says, catching hold of my arm before I get too far. It’s weird that he’s touching me because he never does. In fact, when I really think about it he never has. I can even remember thinking how weird it was when he gave me a handshake at my middle school graduation.
“Well, I’m not moving.” I turn to face him and he swiftly lets go of me.
“Quinton, I understand how you feel.” He gives me a look of pity as he rolls up his sleeves. “But sometimes we just have to do things we don’t want to do.”
“I know that, but I just can’t move across the country,” I say, folding my arms. “I’m going to find somewhere else to live.”
“Do you have enough money saved up for that?” he wonders as he reaches for a folded-up box on the floor near the front door.
I unzip my coat. “No, but I’ll figure something out.” I think about what Nova said about getting a roommate. “I’ll get a roommate or something.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” He places the box on the floor beside his feet. “Because…” He massages the back of his neck tensely. “Because I was really looking forward to you coming to Virginia with me.”
I’m wondering if he really means it or not. It’s hard to tell with him, but I want to believe that he does, so that’s how I’m choosing to see things. “I want—need to stay here.”
“But I worry about you living alone and what might happen,” he says. “I worry that you might relapse.”
“If it’s going to happen, then it’s going to happen,” I say, rubbing some paint off the back of my hand. “But I don’t want it to happen and staying here and doing what I’m doing is going to make it more possible for me to stay out of trouble.” I hope. I’ve been doing good. Haven’t wandered in places I don’t belong. Haven’t lost control. I just hope nothing triggers me to do otherwise.
He unfolds the box. “Well, if you absolutely need to stay at the house, then you can until the new buyers move in, which I think is next month.” He backs into the living room and picks the packing tape up off of the sofa. “But Quinton, I just want to make sure that you stay in touch with me this time.”
I nod and then go up into my room to change out of my painting clothes and get my work clothes on. I put on holey jeans, an insulated coat, then some gloves, pulling a gray beanie onto my head. I’m glad my dad and I finally talked and everything, but I still have the huge problem of finding a place and saying good-bye to this home and all the memories it carries.
As I’m getting ready to head down the stairs, I glance around at the sketches and photos on the wall. I still haven’t taken them down. Still holding on. I stare at a picture of Lexi on the wall, the one where she’s smiling so brightly it makes me want to smile with her. I lift my hand and touch my finger to the photo, noting how badly my hand shakes.
“Will you forgive me?” I ask, my hands still shaking as I pull the photo off the wall, feeling something break in half inside me. “If I keep going forward this way… keep healing instead of dying?” I wish I could hear her say yes. I wish that for just one moment I could hear her voice and she would let me go.
But of course the only response I get is silence and I know that I’ll never hear her voice again. As I go to put the picture back on the wall, I draw back and decide that maybe this is the first step to moving forward. That this is it.
“I can do this,” I tell myself, then walk over to my nightstand and put the photo in the drawer. The moment I do, it feels like I’ve done something wrong. But I still walk away from the room. Step by step. Trying to move forward, even though I can feel an invisible pull drawing me back. To her. Begging me to put that picture on the wall and never let go. Never change anything. Just keep holding on until it kills me.
* * *
“Do you want to tell me what’s got you so upset?” Wilson asks me as I hammer a nail into a piece of wood. We’re inside the house, although it’s not really inside. Two-by-fours make up the walls, the floor is plywood and the roof isn’t even close to being finished. The air smells like sawdust and my hands feel like sandpaper. The sound of power tools encircles me and it just quit raining so everything’s wet and the temperature is low. But I like everything about it. It helps me somewhat forget that I took down one of Lexi’s photos today. And that I’m going to be homeless soon. And that through all of this I have to feel everything because I decided to become sober.
“I’m not upset.” I toss the hammer aside and then reach for another board. “I’m just working through some stuff.”
“Well, maybe if you tell me what, then I can help you work through it?” He rolls up the sleeves of his worn plaid jacket, even though it’s cold, because we’ve been working hard so it feels hotter than it is. I align the board into place and he steps up with the nail gun. “Come on, Quinton,” he says, putting the tip of the nail gun up against the wood. “Just give it up and share what the hell’s got you looking so cranky.”
I hold the board in place while he shoots some nails into it, then he sets the nail gun down and picks up his water bottle. “Fine,” I say, stepping away from the now-sturdy board. There are rows around us and soon the Sheetrock and insulation will go up to make walls. It’s an amazing thing to be a part of—it really is. “My dad’s moving to Virginia in like a week and I have no place to stay because he’s selling our house.”
He takes a swig of his water while I sit down on the floor and retrieve my pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “Why don’t you just go with him?” he asks.
“Because of all this.” I remove a cigarette from the pack as I gesture around the partially built house. “I don’t just want to give it all up.”
He sits down on the floor beside me and stretches out his legs in front of him. “You know you can do this stuff anywhere, right? You can even do other stuff and still get the same experience.”
“Yeah, but.” I put the cigarette into my mouth and reach for my lighter in my pocket. “I’m comfortable here.” I cup my hand around the end of the cigarette. “And I like how things are going here.” I light the cigarette and inhale before blowing out smoke. Part of me wants to run and call Nova, because she’d try to cheer me up and figure out solutions, instead of telling me that I should probably go with my dad. And she probably could even help me deal with taking down the photos. Talk me down. Get me to see things in a different light—a brighter light. Because she always makes things seem ten times better.
Wilson takes another swig of his water before screwing the cap back on. “All right, I’m going to throw an idea out there and see where it goes.” He rises to his feet and sets the water down before picking up the nail gun again. “Why don’t you live with me for a little while? At least until you can get on your feet.”
I give him an unfathomable look. “Are you seriously offering me your place?”
He shrugs as he lifts the cord of the nail gun over a pile of wood it’s snagged on. “Sure, why not?”
“Because it would be weird,” I point out. “Having a twenty-year-old ex-junkie living with you.”
“Well, since I’m a thirty-five-year-old ex-junkie, I don’t think that’s too big of a deal,” he says. “Besides, I’m barely there anyway.”
I get to my feet, grazing my thumb across the bottom of the cigarette and scattering ash all over the floor. “Why?”
“Because I travel around a lot to do this.” He gestures around the construction site, where the sounds of hammers and power tools are going off all around us. “In fact, you could always do that, too. You’d have a place to live while we’re on the road and when you’re here you can stay at my place, until you’re ready to get a place of your own.” He points his finger at me. “Now there’s an idea.”
For a second I actually consider it. Just going. Leaving. Taking off and working the crap out of myself to help others. I’d have to say good-bye to a lot of things, though, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet, since an hour ago I nearly cracked saying good-bye to a photo.
I put the cigarette into my mouth and take a slow drag before exhaling. “It seems too easy just to move in with you.”
“What? Things can’t be easy?” he asks as he puts the nail gun up to a board. “Life’s not right if it isn’t hard?”
“It’s not supposed to be easy for me,” I say. “It’s supposed to be difficult and a struggle to pay back for what I…” I stop talking, not wanting to go down that road right now. It’s weird, but the only person I’ve really talked to about this is Nova, which I think says a lot about her… a lot about how she makes me feel.
After putting a few nails into the board, he places the gun down on the floor. “You know, I get the whole self-punishment thing and wanting to pay back for what you did by slowly torturing yourself,” he says, “However, do you really want to be homeless again? Living outside in the f**king cold? Behind a Dumpster or in a crack house with a bunch of other crack addicts? Holes in the wall. Probably no plumbing. Doing God knows what? Snorting lines? Shooting up? Whatever your drug of choice was.”
I hate how direct he is sometimes and the images he’s vividly painting are crawling under my skin. “No, but if I did end up that way I’d probably deserve it… maybe that’s why this isn’t working out for me.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and put it out with the tip of my boot. “I’ll never be able to deserve much of anything, but I’m going to make sure I keep trying to pay everyone back until the day I die again.” I bend down to pick up my hammer, realizing I let something slip out that I’m not sure he knew yet.
