"So that's where he's living?" he asks with wide eyes as I stuff some clothes in a backpack. "On the roof of that shitty motel?"
"Yeah, he took me up there once," I tell him, heading over to my dresser and getting a brush. "And when he just called, he told me that's where he was staying--he even described it to me like he was standing right there."
He makes a disgusted face. "That place is worse than the apartment."
"I wouldn't go that far," I say, throwing the brush into the bag. "Because I'm sure he's still doing the same thing up there as he was at the apartment."
He sighs. "Yeah, you're probably right."
I zip up my bag and slip my arms through the straps. "So do you think you can come and talk to him? Tell him how you feel about when you...OD'd?"
"You want me to go to Vegas?" he asks, and I nod eagerly. "I'm not sure...my parents would freak out...and...I'm worried myself."
"Because you'd be too close to drugs and you think you'll relapse?"
He shakes his head. "No, I'm just as close to them right now as I would be down there," he tells me. "I can think of three places right now where I could easily get a hit or two of whatever I wanted. Plus, your mom would be with us and after hanging around here and hearing all the stuff she says to you, I'd know she'd be watching us like a hawk." He glances up at me. "I'm just worried about talking to him about this. I don't want to push him further in and make things worse. Everything has to go right, otherwise we're going to fail and he's going to run."
I sink down on the bed, thinking about the few episodes of Intervention I watched where people didn't get help and bailed out. "I get what you're saying, but how can we help him if we don't try?" My mood starts to sink as I think about how much I've tried and tried and how I just want it to work this time. I think he can see the hopeless feeling on my face, because he gets up from the chair and walks over to me. He sits down beside me and puts an arm around my shoulder.
"We'll try," he says. "Just don't put all your hope into it, okay? You know things don't always go how we plan."
"I know that." But honestly I am putting a lot of hope into this. Hope that forgiveness is what Quinton needs. Hope that he'll stay in the same place. Hope that nothing will happen to him before we get there.
August 22, day seventy-six of summer break
Quinton
I think I can remember doing something stupid, but I'm not 100 percent sure. I swear to God I talked to Nova in the middle of the meltdown I've been having for the last few hours, but my memories are too hazy to be certain. Nancy bailed out on me a while ago. She's been gone for hours, maybe days. I haven't had a hit in a while and I think the smack is cleaning its way out of my system. It feels like my skin is melting away like candle wax and my mind feels like it's going to explode into pieces. I have no money and only two choices: try to steal some drugs off someone or just end it. Throw myself off the roof and say good-bye to all this. I'm sitting on the edge right now, rocking back and forth, silently telling myself to just give in. Fall. Just go. It's time. I'm alone. I have nothing. I've become nothing. I'm losing my mind. I'm no one. The person no one wants. The person who shouldn't be here.
No one.
"Quinton." The sound of her voice makes me wonder if I've fallen off the roof and haven't realized it yet, if I'm dreaming, dead, and this is what I want to see and hear. Still, I turn around, pulling my legs to my chest, blinking several times, and realize that yes, I must be dead. I finally went through with it.
But no matter how many times I blink, Nova continues to walk across the roof toward me, taking cautious steps, like she's afraid of me. My eyes are locked on hers and all I want to do is reach out and touch her, but I can't. She's untouchable. Unreal. Not really here.
"Nova, be careful. The roof feels like it's going to collapse." Tristan walks out from the doorway and he doesn't look real either. He looks healthy and stronger than the last time I saw him. He looks better.
"It's fine," Nova insists, her eyes still fixed on mine. She puts her hand out as she stops just short of me and I'm not sure what she wants me to do. Take her hand? "We're here to help you," she says, reaching out to me. I catch her assessing my body and she swallows hard and her fingers start to shake. I figure she's afraid of me but when she looks at me, her eyes are full of warmth, just like I remember them. "Quinton, come with me...we're going to get you help."
And then, as if things weren't bad enough, I see someone I haven't seen in a very long time step out onto the roof. A man who has the same brown eyes and hair as me, but who's older and less burdened with death.
My dad looks really out of place up here, glancing around at the large signs around the rooftop, and then his eyes widen when they land on me. "Son," he says in an unsteady voice. "We're to help you."
That snaps me out of my trance and wakes me right back up. "Shut up! All of you! You can't help me." I get down off the ledge, hurrying toward the other side of the roof, putting distance back between us. But even when I get as far as I can, it's still not far enough, Nova's heat and words and kindness smothering me from all the way over here.
Her arm falls to the side as her gaze sweeps around the roof, then she turns to Tristan and he looks at her with his brows furrowed. Nova whispers something to him and my dad says something to him as well. Then Tristan warily nods before he cautiously steps up beside Nova and they both start inching toward me. Together. I hate that they're together.
"What the hell's going on?" I ask, backing toward the edge, wishing they'd stop taking away my space. "Why the hell are you all here?"
Nova stops before Tristan does and my dad barely takes a few steps, and then stops beside a smaller sign, looking like he's struggling to breathe at the sight of me. They've all stopped moving toward me, though, and I start to breathe freely again, but then Tristan starts walking toward me again, step by step, inch by inch. It's driving me crazy, him being here, healthy, looking at me like he wants to fucking help me, too, when he was in my place once.
"Why the hell are you here?" I shout again with my hands balled at my sides. I don't know what to do. Knock him down. Knock Nova down. Knock them all down and flee to the door or just back away and jump off the roof.
Tristan flinches at the loudness of my voice but keeps on walking until he stops right in front of me. "I came here to tell you something." His voice shakes like he's nervous, which I don't understand. He's never nervous around me. I'm the one that is because of what I did to him--what I took from him. He raises his hand in front of him and for a second I think he's going to shove me off the roof. But instead he rubs his arm across his forehead and wipes some sweat from his brow. "I came here to say thank you for saving my life that day. For not letting me OD on the side of the road. For giving me CPR and calling the ambulance. For trying to help me with that whole Trace mess, when I caused it in the first place."
His words are like a strike to the chest, hot, painful, sharp, like my scar is torn open and I don't have anything to numb the pain. "I didn't fucking do anything...and you were only there because of me! Because I killed your sister!"
"That's not why I was there, man," he says, taking a cautious step toward me. "Nothing about my life is your fault, just like Ryder's death isn't your fault. Or Lexi's."
I stumble back. "Stop saying that, you fucking asshole."
"Why? It's true," he says. "What happened...the accident...it was just that--an accident."
"Yes it was." My voice is sharp. I know he doesn't mean it. He can't. It's impossible. No one can ever forgive me. "It was my fault and you know it, just like your parents know it."
"My parents are messed up and need to blame someone," he says, stepping toward me, his voice and steps growing steadier. "But the truth is, if they really looked at it, they know that accidents happen. That you were all just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"Stop saying that...it is my fault. Everything is my fault!" I step back and my foot clips the edge of the roof. My weak legs wobble a l
ittle and Nova must think I'm going to fall because she starts to rush toward me, but Tristan sticks out his arm, stopping her.
"No, it wasn't. None of this was your fault. Not Ryder. Not what happened to me. If it wasn't for you, I'd be dead," he says, and this time his voice is firm, full of meaning, full of the truth.
And then my dad steps up. His voice is not so firm, but he says something I've been wanting to hear from him for a very long time. "Come home, Son," he says, moving away from the signs and getting closer to me. "I want to get you help--want to get my son back."
"You never had one!" I shout. "You've never liked me from the day I was born!"
He looks stunned. "What are you talking about? Of course I do."
"No you don't," I say, but my voice is starting to fade, my willpower fading along with it. "You blame me for Mom's death, just like you blame me for Lexi's and Ryder's."
His skin goes white and he starts to walk quickly toward me. "That's not true. Quinton, I--"
I stick out my hand, standing as close to the edge as I can. "Don't come any closer or I swear to fucking God, I'll jump."
As soon as I say it, Nova starts to cry. No, not just cry, but sob hysterically. At first I can't figure out what I've done, but then though my stupid strung-out brain, I remember. Her story. Her pain. And the fact that I'm about to make her relive it.
"Please just stop this," she says, wiping the tears from her eyes even though more spill out. She continues to cry and Tristan looks like he's considering comforting her, but is a little unsure. Finally she stops trying to wipe the tears away and lets them pour out as her hands fall to her sides. "If you love me at all, then you'll get off the damn edge of that roof!" she shouts, her sudden spurt of anger alarming me. "Because I can't take this anymore..." Her shoulders heave as she cries. "I swear to God, if I lose one more person I love, it's going to kill me." More sobs. More tears. "Please, just get down off the roof and get help."
Her words and tears slam me in the chest hard. I'm not sure what it is, Tristan's words, my dad's, Nova's tears, anger, begging, or the fact that she said "love," that make me step away from the edge. Perhaps it's a combination of all those things. Or perhaps I'm just so fucking tired and strung out that I can't find the energy to do anything else. As soon as I take a step forward, my legs give out, buckle. I collapse to my knees, not knowing what to do, what to say, what to think or feel. How to react to all of this. Part of me thinks this isn't real. That I'm dead. Or drugged out. That none of this is happening.
I wrap my arms around my head, trying to curl up in a ball and disappear. I can't breathe. Can't think. I can only feel. Everything. It's too much. I'm drowning in emotion. Regret. Sorrow. Guilt. Pain. Anger. Fear. I'm so afraid. Of what lies ahead for me. The unseen future I just chose by stepping away from the edge.
No matter how much I fight it, I start to cry, soundless tears, my entire body trembling. I'm not even sure where the hell they're coming from. Years and years of piling up maybe and finally they've burst out.
Seconds later I feel arms wrap around me. As soon as the scent and warmth of her reaches me, I know that it's Nova. My initial reaction is to jerk away, but I'm too tired so I lean into her and cry and she holds me as I collapse.
Nova
I've been holding on to him like nothing else in the world matters, refusing to let him go, even when we leave the roof and get into my car. I hold him in the backseat, stroking his back as he keeps his face buried in the crook of my neck, his hands grasping my shirt, while my mom drives us to the hotel. He's stopped crying by the time we get there and I can tell he's about to pass out from exhaustion. Tristan tells me he's crashing and that he'll probably fall asleep until we head to the airport later tonight, which might make it a little bit easier for his dad to get him on a plane and to the rehab center in Seattle. If not, then Tristan says it's going to be a pain in the ass and that we might have to give him something to keep him sedated, otherwise he might flip out.
It's a lot to take in as we make our way up to the hotel room. Tristan and his dad help Quinton make it there by each taking one of Quinton's arms and draping it over his shoulders so they're walking on either side of him. I'm not sure how long it's been since he's eaten or drunk anything, but he's in pretty bad shape, dehydrated, dry skin and lips. Sores on his body.
After my mom gets the room unlocked, they get him in and I lie down on the bed with him, front to front. I think he's out of it, but then he scoots closer to me and entangles his legs with mine. Then he presses his head against my chest, breathing in and out as I wrap my arms around his head.
"I'm going to go get the bags," Mom says, gathering the key and her purse. "Do you want to run down to the food place I saw downstairs and get some food and water?" she asks Quinton's dad, who seems a little awkward with the parenting thing, unlike my mother. She nods at Quinton. "He looks like he needs some food and water."
Quinton's dad nods and heads for the door. "But are they going to be okay up here by themselves?"
My mom glances at me. "Are you guys going to be okay for a minute?
I nod, then she hesitantly leaves the room and Quinton's dad follows her. She looks more worried than I've ever seen her. I don't blame her. Quinton looks really bad. Like he's reached the point where he should be dead. He's filthy, he's lost a ton of weight, he has no shoes or shirt on, and his eyes are sunken in. But the good thing is he's here and still breathing and we're going to get him help.
"I'm going out to smoke," Tristan tells me, heading toward the sliding glass doors that go out to the balcony. He looks worn out and I don't think he slept on the way down to Vegas. Plus, I'm sure what happened back on the roof had to be hard for him. To see Quinton like that. Be in this environment. Feel the emotion in the moment. I know it was hard for me. Painful. Raw.
"Are you okay?" I ask him, resting my chin on top of Quinton's head and pulling him closer.
He nods, taking a cigarette from the pack, and opens the sliding glass door. "Yeah, it's just a little intense being back here...too many memories..." He pops the cigarette into his mouth as he starts to step outside. "I'm just glad we're going back tomorrow." He pauses, retrieving a lighter from his pocket. "And that we got him this far."
I draw a line up and down Quinton's bare back. "The marks on his arms...what does that mean? I mean I know what it means but...how much harder does that make it for him to quit?"
He gives me a sad look as he lights the cigarette. "Honestly?" he asks and I nod. "He has a fucking hell of a struggle in front of him, especially coming down. Maybe even one of the hardest things he's had to do...he's going to feel like he's losing his mind. Plus, his body is going to freak out from withdrawals. But it's not impossible to overcome." He gestures at himself and then starts to shut the door as smoke enters the room.
"Tristan," I call out.
He pauses with the door cracked. "Yeah."
"Thank you." I say it softly.
"For what?"
"For coming down here and helping him," I say. "I'm sure it wasn't the easiest thing for you."
He stares at me quizzically, holding his cigarette between his fingers, and then his expression relaxes. "Thanks." He shuts the door all the way and goes up to the railing to smoke and look out at the casinos glowing around us.
I lie with Quinton on the bed, afraid to move, to breathe, to do anything that will break apart this moment. I just want to hold on to it--hold on to him and never let him go. I want to know that he'll be okay. And I want to cry, because he's here, because Landon's not here. Because this time I did something instead of standing by. No matter how hard I fight them, though, the tears escape. I try to keep quiet, but eventually it becomes too much and I start to sob. I'm not sure if he's awake or he's just moving around in his sleep, but his hold on me tightens.
I let the tears flow, feeling the slightest bit freer, feeling like I can breathe again.
Epilogue
August 21, day ninety-eight of summer break
&nb
sp; Quinton
I feel like I'm dying. Like I'm being buried alive under the dirt yet for some damn reason my heart's beating and my lungs are breathing. My dad keeps saying shit to me about going to get help, but I'm not so sure that's possible. It felt like maybe it was when Nova held me in her arms, but now everything feels so impossible. I feel so empty. My body is too drained of smack and I can feel everything, from the sting of the sun to the pinpricks of the wind. And it all hurts, like my body is slowly being torn apart and I'm on the verge of throwing up, shivering even though I feel like I'm burning.
"We're going to get you better, Son," my dad says as he drives us down a road bordered by trees. I know I'm in Seattle. That I flew here with him, but the last twenty-four hours are all blurry and I barely remember anything, even saying good-bye to Nova. I think they might have given me something to keep me sedated, but it's wearing off now and I just want to go back to my smack. I want to taste it again. Feel something other than what I'm feeling now. This gnawing ache deep inside my chest, below my scar.
After what seems like hours, my dad finally stops the car in front of a building with few windows and only one door. There are trees enclosing the small fenced yard and a blue sky above.
"Where are we?" I ask groggily as I raise my head from the window and vomit burns in the back of my throat.
He turns off the engine, takes the keys out, and gets out of the car without saying anything. Then he winds around the front of the car and opens my door. Just in time, too. I hurry and lean forward, barfing all over the ground. My stomach aches with each heave and it feels like it's never going to end. Eventually it does, but I don't feel better at all.
"Get out of the car, Son," my dad says, holding the door open for me. "We're going to get you help."
"How?" I nearly growl, wiping my chin with my hand. I don't understand anything other than the fact that it feels like my veins are on fire and I'm melting into something else. "What's going on?"
He doesn't answer me, stepping back and motioning at me to get out. "Just get out of the car."