Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

  "I do," I tell him, getting a Pop-Tart out of the cupboard. The kitchen walls have been sunshine yellow forever and the countertops a deep green. It's a ghastly sight, but my dad always refused to change it because it was the color palette my mom picked out. "But I have to go somewhere else first."

  He folds up his newspaper, seeming skeptical. "Where?"

  I rip open the wrapper on the Pop-Tart. "Remember that Wilson guy I was telling you about?"

  He raises his mug to his mouth and takes a sip of his coffee. "Yeah, the one that runs those meetings for people who..." He trails off, uncomfortable with the subject. Always is.

  "The meeting for ex-drug addicts who are dealing with guilt and loss," I say bluntly. If I can say it, he should be able to say it.

  He nods, setting the mug back down on the table. "Yeah, that one."

  "Yeah, that's the guy." I bite the corner of the Pop-Tart off as I pull out a chair and take a seat at the table. "And he wants to show me some house he's building for Habitat for Humanity. I think he wants me to get involved or something."

  "But you're involved in a lot of stuff already." He doesn't seem that thrilled.

  I shrug as I get up to pour myself a cup of coffee. "What else am I going to do with my life?" I ask, getting a mug out of the dishwasher.

  "I don't know." He bites his toast and chews it slowly as he thinks. "I just don't want you to get too involved when we're going to be moving soon."

  "I never said I was moving," I say bitterly as I grab the pot of coffee. "You said you were moving."

  "But I thought we agreed you'd come with me," he says with a hint of sadness.

  "When did I ever agree to that?" I ask, confused, as I pour some coffee into the mug.

  He glances around the room at the packed boxes on the countertops and on the floor. "Well, you never argued when I started packing and put the house up for sale, so I just assumed you were okay with everything."

  "Well, I'm not," I say, shaking my head. "I'm almost twenty-one years old and I shouldn't even be living with my father to begin with. Let alone moving across the country with him." I take a swallow of my coffee, hoping that I'll be able to calm myself down. There's no reason to get angry. After all, he wants me to come with him. But for some reason I do feel a little resentful and I can't even figure out why. "For the first time since the accident, I have some sort of structure in my life and I already told you I don't want to just give that up--I don't want to start over again. It's too fucking hard."

  He stares at me with wide eyes and I realize how loud I'm talking and how much I'm trembling. I don't say anything else and neither does he as I finish my coffee and he cleans up his plate and cup. After I make my lunch, I leave the house and take the bus to where I'm supposed to meet Wilson, because I don't want to ask my dad to lend me the car or give me a ride. I just want a break to clear my head.

  It's a fairly long bus ride and I end up getting there about half an hour late. The address Wilson gave me ends up being that of a small, single-story house that's almost completely finished, except for the yard work and a few spots that need siding. There are a few guys working on it right now, out in the cold, with their hammers and power tools, dressed in heavy coats and boots. Wilson is one of them.

  I stand at the curb for almost an eternity, because I can't seem to bring my feet to move. I'm puzzled by Wilson and his freeness. He can't be real. He has to be fake. There's no way anyone can live with that kind of guilt and laugh like that. It can't be possible.

  But the longer I stare, the more I realize he just might be real and that he really does seem to be at some sort of inner peace with himself. I'd call it a miracle, but I don't believe in miracles, not since Lexi and Ryder died and I lived. That would mean my life was the miracle, but it's not. It should have been the other way. They should have lived and I should have died. That would have been the miracle.

  "So are you just going to stand there and stare all day?" Wilson's voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize that he's crossing the front yard toward me.

  "Sorry, I was just admiring the house," I say, then start across the yard and meet him in the middle.

  "It's nice, right?" He nods at the almost-finished house.

  "Sure." I honestly wouldn't call it nice. It's small, with plain tan siding, no grass in the narrow front yard, and no front porch or shutters.

  "For someone who hasn't ever had a home, it's nice," he tells me, and then motions for me to follow him as he walks back to the guys working on putting up the siding.

  When I get over there, he hands me a nail gun. "Get busy," he says.

  I gape at the nail gun and then at him. "You want me to help you put up siding?"

  "What else are you going to do?" he asks. "Stand around and watch us put it up?"

  I admire him for being so blunt and follow him over to the small pile of siding that needs to be put up. He quickly introduces me to everyone and then we pick up pieces of siding and he shows me where to put the nails. We don't really talk about anything except lining up the siding and putting the nails in right.

  There's country music playing from an old stereo near the tools and the air smells like cigarette smoke because everyone keeps taking smoke breaks. About halfway through, I realize how comfortable I feel, but the revelation freaks me out more than it calms me.

  "So what do you think?" Wilson asks as he holds a piece of siding on one side and I hold the other side.

  I put the tip of the nail gun up to the siding and shoot a nail into it. "About what? Building the house?"

  He nods as I put another nail in. "Yeah, does it make you feel invigorated?"

  "I don't know. Maybe." I move the nail gun to put another nail into the siding, but he stops me, grabbing my arm.

  "You want to hear the story of the family the house is for?" he asks, taking the nail gun from me.

  I dither, almost afraid it's going to be too much for me to handle. "I guess so."

  He gives my unenthusiastic attitude a disapproving look, but tells me the story anyway. "It's for a widow and her three daughters."

  Normally I don't ask about stuff that I know is going to be dark, but for some reason I find myself asking, "How'd her husband die?"

  I can tell the moment I ask the question that it's going to be something bad. Something that he worries I'm going to react to.

  "A drunk driver."

  "Oh." It's all I can say. While I wasn't drunk when I crashed the car into another car that night, I was driving too fast. It triggers something inside me and for a brief moment I think about running the hell away from this place and shoving as much crystal up my nose as I possibly can. Maybe even shoot my veins up, although it's only part of me that wants it. The other never wants to go back to that wandering, pointless place again.

  But before I can even take a step, Wilson picks up another chunk of siding and pretty much throws it at me. "Here, let's switch jobs," he says as I catch it with a grunt. "You put the nails in and I'll hold up the siding." He rolls his shoulder. "My arm's getting fucking tired."

  I end up staying there until a couple of hours later when all the siding is put up, listening to country music and breathing in the cigarette smoke. With each piece that goes up, I feel a little bit lighter. It's kind of amazing when I think about it. How at the moment I'm not beating myself down, but holding myself up without feeling guilty. But maybe that's because I'm doing something good for someone who needs it. Maybe it's because I'm making up for what I did. Who the hell knows? But I'll take it for the moment.

  After we're done, the guys start to pack up their tools with pleased looks on their faces, like they feel the same way. Wilson explains to me that three out of the four of them are exchanging their time in order to get help on their own houses.

  "Did you get a ride here?" he asks, after we've packed all the tools and scraps of siding into the back of an old pickup truck.

  "No... I don't have a car and my dad couldn't drive me this morning." I lie about the last p
art but only because I don't want to think about the little argument I had with my dad. And I'm hoping that when I get back to the house, he'll be there to take me to therapy. "So I took the bus."

  He nods at the old pickup parked in the driveway. "Come on. I'll give you a ride."

  "You don't have to do that," I tell him, not wanting to be a burden.

  "Quinton, quit trying to be nice and get in the fucking truck," he says in a joking tone. "I have nothing better to do anyway."

  Again, I want to ask him if he has a family, but I don't dare. "Thanks," I say, then get into the passenger side of the truck and slip off my gloves.

  He climbs into the driver's side and shuts the door, then starts up the engine. The truck backfires and he laughs as he pats the top of the steering wheel. "Got to love old cars, don't ya?" He grabs the shifter and puts it into reverse. "I personally love the classics, though."

  "What year is it?" I ask, buckling my seat belt.

  "A 1962 Chevy," he tells me as he backs up into the street. "It was actually my dad's." He aligns the truck and drives toward the corner of the road. "He left it to me when he died."

  "My girl... a friend of mine," I correct myself, "got a Chevy Nova when her dad died."

  He seems really interested as he heads out of the neighborhood and toward the city. "What year?"

  "I think it's a 1969," I reply, unzipping my coat. "It's completely restored and everything."

  "I bet it's a nice ride," he remarks as he turns out onto the main road, where the lampposts are decorated with Christmas lights along with the houses.

  "I guess so."

  "Has she ever let you drive it?"

  I shake my head and then shrug. "I never asked her if I could."

  He gapes at me like I'm crazy. "Why the hell not? Do you know how badass those cars are?"

  I shrug again. "Things are complicated with Nova." That would be the understatement of the year.

  He arches his brows as he pulls the beanie off his head and tosses it onto the seat between us. "Things are complicated with the car or is the girl's name Nova?"

  "Yeah, her dad named her after the car," I explain as I put my frozen hands up to the heater vent, wishing we could get off the subject.

  He appears impressed by this. "A girl named Nova," he muses. "I'd really like to meet her."

  "You can't," I say hastily. "She lives in Idaho."

  "Okay, then I'll visit her when she comes here next time."

  "She never comes here." I'm being vague because the last thing I want to do is talk about my issues with seeing Nova. How I desperately want to, but at the same time I'm afraid to.

  "Are you going to tell me the story behind why she doesn't?" he asks. He shifts the truck and the engine groans in protest.

  "There's no story," I tell him. Not one I want to share, anyway.

  He looks me over with doubt as he presses the brake and stops at a red light. "Yeah, I'm not buying it."

  I drum my fingers on my knee, getting agitated. "Fine, there is a story behind it, but it's a really long, fucked-up story and I don't want to talk about it."

  "We have about a twenty-minute drive to your house," he says. "You could at least start explaining why just the mention of her has gotten you all worked up."

  "Why are you being so pushy?" I ask. "You barely even know me."

  "But I do know you," he insists, looking back at the road as the light turns green and he starts driving again. "You blame yourself for the accident and think self-punishment is a way to make up for the lives lost. You don't have any friends or a girlfriend because you don't think you deserve them. You did drugs because it helped you forget and because it was easier to deal with life when you were high. And maybe even because it was a way to slowly kill yourself."

  "Those aren't the only reasons I did drugs." I feel this compulsion to prove him wrong--to prove that he doesn't know as much about me as he seems to. "And how do you even know all that? Did Greg tell you?"

  He shakes his head. "Greg can't tell me. Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?"

  What the hell? "Then how do you know?"

  He presses his lips together as he watches the road, his jaw taut, his eyes hued with pain and penitence, and I swear for a moment I'm looking into a mirror. "Because I wasn't describing you. I was describing myself about seven years ago."

  "Oh." I'm not sure what else to say and I end up saying the first thing that pops into my head, which seems stupid after I say it. "Sorry." Jesus, that was probably the stupidest thing I could have said. I know, because I hate when people say that to me. Sorry for what? That I made a huge, irreversible mistake and now I have to live with it forever?

  "For what?"

  "For flipping out."

  "You're allowed to get pissed off sometimes. In fact, it's good for you." He pauses, pondering something as he slows down for the speed limit change as we get closer to a section of the city where stores line the streets instead of homes. "However, you could always tell me what's up with the girl and that might make up for the bad attitude." He grins at me.

  I shake my head, but calm down inside. "Nova's just..." God, how do I begin to explain what Nova is to me? "I'm not even sure what Nova is."

  "How did you meet her?" he asks interestedly.

  I shrug uneasily. "She was going through a rough time in her life and sort of wandered into the house I was staying at... in the beginning we spent a lot of time getting high, but then she got better."

  "So that's why you don't see each other anymore?" he inquires. "Because she got better and you're still working on stuff?"

  "No, that's not it." I rake my hand through my hair, struggling to put my thoughts into words. "It has to do with the fact that she saved me and I..." I trail off as I almost start talking about my feelings for Nova, ones I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with now that I'm sober. "It's really fucking complicated." And it is. Because I'm in love with her, something I realized in Vegas. But I can't admit it aloud because then it'd mean I was accepting it--accepting that my feelings for Lexi have changed. That I've broken my promise to her. Let go. Replaced her.

  He considers what I said as he flips the blinker on to change lanes. "What do you mean when you say saved you?"

  My pulse is hammering as I recollect everything that Nova did for me to bring me fully alive again when I was walking the line between life and death. "When I was going drugs and stuff she came down to Vegas and tried to get me to stop," I tell him. "She never gave up on me and she was there when I decided to leave the streets and get myself cleaned up--she never gave up on me."

  He takes in what I said with great interest. "She sounds like a good person."

  "She is," I say, nodding in agreement. "Too good, probably, at least to be with me."

  "Ah, and there it is." He points his finger at me with accusation in his eyes.

  "There what is?" I ask, puzzled.

  He glances at me and I see something in his eyes I don't like. Understanding. "The reason why she doesn't visit."

  "Yeah, so. It's a good reason."

  "I completely agree with you."

  I'm stunned by his response and the frankness in his tone. "You don't think I should see her, then?"

  "Not until you're one hundred percent ready for it." He steers off the main road and drives down the side road toward my neighborhood. "Relationships are complicated and can be messy and, for people like you and me, dangerous. You need to make sure you're ready to handle whatever comes from it, good or bad."

  I nod, not necessarily liking his advice, but understanding it. "So distance is good for now?"

  "If you think so," he says, slowing the truck down to make a turn.

  I'm not sure if I do or don't. Part of me wants to see her all the time. Be with her. But part of me is terrified of how it would make me feel and what it would mean, not just for me and her, but for the memory of Lexi. Would I be able to just do it? Let her go? I'm not sure if I'm ready to do that, not when I haven't even
begun to make up for what I did. I need to do more--I need to apologize to the people who lost loved ones during the accident, before I can even think of letting myself be in a relationship. And I need to keep doing good things to make up for the bad I've done.

  "And what about you?" I ask.

  He looks lost as he glances at me. "What about me?"

  "Do you... are you in a relationship?" I wonder if it's even possible.

  He shakes his head. "No. No girlfriend."

  "So you're not ready?" I can't hide my disappointment because I was hoping he'd say yes and give me some sort of hope that eventually Nova and I could possibly be together.

  "No, I'm ready," he assures me. "I hate living alone, but I haven't found the right person yet."

  That makes me feel a little better until we're pulling up in front of my house. It seems like all my problems come crashing down on me all at once. My dad. Moving. The fact that I still haven't been able to take the sketches or photos of Lexi down, even though everyone keeps telling me to. The fact that I've been sitting in this truck, wishing I could be with Nova. I want her. I want her. So badly.

  "So what did you think of today?" Wilson asks as he parks behind my dad's car in the driveway, glancing at the neighbor's Christmas decorations flashing brightly. In fact, almost all our neighbors have lights up, except for us, but my dad never did like to celebrate the holiday. Said it reminded him too much of my mom because I guess she loved this time of year.

  "It was okay," I tell Wilson, unbuckling my seat belt.

  "Okay enough that you want to do it again?"

  I think about it briefly. "Yeah, I think so."

  "Good, because we're going to be starting on a new one next week." He puts the truck into park and the engine backfires. "Call me this weekend and I'll give you the info."

  "Thanks." I grab the handle and open the door. "And thanks for the ride." I want to say, "and for the talk," but I can't quite get the words to come out, mainly because the talk made me feel uncomfortable, but in a good way I think.

  "Any time," he says as I hop out of the truck. "And Quinton?"

  I pause as I'm shutting the door. "Yeah?"

  "Things will get better," he assures me with an encouraging smile. "I promise."

  I want to believe him. I really, really do, but I can't see how it's possible. For things to get better. Still, as I head up to the house, I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe he could be right somehow.