Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

  "Okay." I glance at Tristan. "Can we talk about this later?"

  He shrugs, his expression cold. "Is there anything to talk about?"

  "Maybe." I scratch my tattoo, wishing there were an answer there in the words, a solution that would fix this. "Just please don't go anywhere."

  He doesn't answer and I end up walking away, feeling guiltier than I already did tonight. I worry about what he's going to do, especially if he finds out about Delilah, and I'm going to have to tell him eventually.

  Lea grabs my arm and guides me toward the back door, hissing under her breath, "What the hell was that about?" She pushes the door open and we step out into the cold, where she lets go of me. "The tension was so thick, I could seriously cut it with a knife."

  "I'll tell you after we play," I mutter as I hurry across the icy parking lot toward my car.

  She shuffles after me, her heels clicking against the ice. "Why can't you just tell me now?"

  "Because you're going to freak out," I say, sticking my hand into my pocket to get my car keys out. "And your head needs to be in the game right now."

  After that, Lea and I start unloading the drums from my car. It's late, the stars are shining, and I can't help but think of the many times I spent staring up at the stars with my dad, Landon, and Quinton. At some point, I've lost them all. Quinton did come back, though, but at the same time he's still distant. And now there's another person gone and I swear my heart can't take it anymore.

  Knock it off, Nova. You don't even know if she's gone yet.

  As we carry the last of the drums inside, Lea lets the door shut and then smiles at something over my shoulder. She raises her arm and waves at someone behind me. "Hey, we're over here." Then she whispers to me, "Nova, smile. You look like your dog just died."

  I prepare myself the best I can, trying to get my head into the game, and fake a smile as two guys walk up to us. One of them is taller, with spiky blond hair and colorful tattoos covering both his arms. The other guy is a little bit on the short side, but good-looking, with brown hair that hangs over his ears and forehead and these really blue eyes that match his shirt. He's really stocky, too, and I'm guessing he's Brody, the football player/guitarist.

  Lea introduces us and I find out that I was right. Brody is the stockier one and seems nice enough, at least I'm guessing he is. I barely get two words out before Lea and he start making out behind the stage.

  Braxton, the taller one and the bassist, seems a little uncomfortable, with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he glances around the bar, trying to avoid looking at the heavy amount of PDA going on beside us.

  "Hey," he finally says, looking at me. His eyes scroll up and down my body and he seems a little confused. "So you're the drummer Lea's been talking about?"

  I smile, despite the massive amount of surprise in his tone. "Yep, that would be me."

  He gives me a look of annoyance mixed with disbelief. "Yeah, I think I'll have to see it for myself because I'm not buying it, especially since you're in a band with that Jaxon dude, who sucks."

  I glance over at Lea, who's still in a lip lock, pressed up against the wall, then give a haughty look to Braxton. "Yeah, you will see. Trust me." I'm not normally a mean person, but he's being an ass and tonight I'm about to lose it. I can feel it.

  "A little cocky, aren't we?" he asks in a snide tone as he arches a brow at me.

  "Only because you're being a douche bag." I feel like a terrible person as soon as I say it. "I'm sorry."

  "Braxton, knock it off," Brody interrupts, still holding on to Lea. There's lipstick all over his mouth and jaw and Lea's is smeared. "Nova's helping us out here and you don't need to be an asshole."

  "Sorry," Braxton mutters, and then Lea and Brody go back to making out. Braxton scratches at the back of his neck, looking over at the bar. "So do you want a drink? I could go get us a couple of shots and maybe we could try to chill out." He sounds doubtful.

  "No thanks. I'm not a big drinker and I don't do shots at all."

  "Okay, I guess that's cool." He pauses and I can tell he's struggling for something else to say. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "So how long have you been playing the drums?"

  "A few years," I say, and he nods with vague interest, staring over at the tables, where a waitress is bent over, her dress so short she's flashing the entire room.

  Things get quiet after that. I think about leaving, but I'm worried that the moment I step away, we'll be called to go on. Finally, after a very painful twenty minutes, Stella comes back and tells us to "Get your asses up there."

  "Wait, we need to decide what song we're going to open up with," Lea says as Brody picks his guitar up off the floor and starts heading for the stage area.

  "You guys haven't picked out your lineup?" I ask, ready to get this show on the road, ready for a break that only my drums can give me. I just need to clear my head for a moment. Think about music. Forget about all the crap that just hit the fan. Braxton shakes his head and then the three of them start arguing about what cover would be the best one to start with. I try to stay calm as I lean back against the wall and watch Stella get impatient with their lack of organization. I know she might very likely kick them out of the lineup and so I finally step forward and offer what I think would be a good song to start out with.

  "How about 'Tears Don't Fall,' by Bullet for My Valentine?" I suggest, because I want to really beat my drums up at the moment.

  "That's a dude's song and Lea's a girl." Braxton gives me the hardest look I've ever seen.

  "I'm sure she can handle it." I look to Lea for help. "Can't you?"

  She gives me a smile. "I think that's the perfect song. Great choice, Nova."

  Braxton utters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like "Stupid bitch." I take a deep breath and brush it off because it doesn't really matter. Not when so much other stuff is going down. Then Lea and I go up onto the stage and set the pieces of the drums down at the back, so they're organized perfectly just behind the microphone, while Braxton and Brody plug their guitars into the amp.

  The lights shine down on us and the people sitting at the tables below, and over at the bar, are barely paying attention to us, but there are still enough people that it gives me butterflies. But I like the feeling. In fact, I welcome it. That's what drums are to me. A distraction. From everything going on around me. All my problems. The aching inside. The confusion. My thoughts.

  "Braxton hates me," I say to Lea, setting the last piece of my kit down on the floor.

  She shakes her head, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. "He's just upset because Spike isn't here to play with us."

  "Spike?" I ask, rearranging the drum pieces to get them exactly where I want them.

  "Yeah, our old drummer." She adjusts the height of the microphone stand.

  "Your old drummer was named after a character from Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

  She snorts a laugh. "Well, it wasn't his real name. Just a nickname he gave himself because he hated his real name."

  "What was his real name?" I ask, picking up my drumsticks and twirling them through my fingers.

  The corners of her lips tug upward. "Larry."

  I stop twirling the drumsticks. "Okay, I get the name change now."

  She starts to laugh again, but her laughter quickly turns to nervousness as Stella yells that we're up. Seconds later we're all ready to go, moments away from playing. Lea looks nervous as she stands under the lights, drumming her fingers on the side of her leg, and I feel the same way, but at the same time I crave the different feeling inside me, because it wipes out all the other stuff stirring within me.

  "You'll do fine, babe," Brody says to Lea, giving her an encouraging kiss that seems to settle her down.

  I think it's then that I realize two things: one, Brody's not so bad, and two, I really, really want to see Quinton. More than I ever have. I want to get lost in him. Hold on to him. Be held by him and just know that he's there.
Maybe if he kissed me, it could relax me. Or maybe it's not necessarily him that I crave, so much as the need to just get out of here. Run away. Take a break.

  I try to shake the thought out of my head the best I can and focus on playing. As soon as I raise my drumsticks, I sort of zone out as the bright lights wash over me. This is solitude. My peace. Nothing exists here but the music, and part of me wishes I could exist in this moment forever.

  Seconds later the guitar and bass start playing, and the first notes of the intro blast through the amps. I get ready, waiting for the right moment to connect, waiting until I get swept away in the music. It gets closer and closer and I bring my sticks over my head. When I slam them down, Lea's voice and the banging of my drums collide and flow out over the room.

  I slam my foot against the pedal, pouring my heart and soul out with the rhythm, putting enough energy into it that I can barely breathe. I drown in the music as the sticks and drums collide. Beats. Notes. Vibrations. It overtakes me. Nothing exists in this moment but the music. Not Tristan. Not Delilah. Not even Quinton. This is just about me.

  As the song picks up, so does my energy. I'm sweating, panting, fueling the song with every part of me. My foot slams on the pedal, in sync with my hands. Over and over again. The song ends, but another one picks right back up, "I Miss the Misery" by Halestorm. I keep going, draining all my energy, hoping it's enough that when I stop, I'll be too tired to think. Too tired to focus on my problems.

  But as soon as we're done playing the last song, a wave filled with all the pain I've ever felt in my entire life rushes over me The pain grows with every song we play, and after our set is done I can't find Tristan anywhere. I finally take out my phone to call him, telling Lea I'll be right back before walking out the back door to get some quiet.

  "Hey," I say after he answers. "Where are you?"

  I can hear commotion in the background. "At a party."

  "Tristan." Disappointment laces my voice. "Are you serious?"

  "Does it sound like I'm serious?" he asks as someone shouts something profane in the background.

  "Maybe, but I'm hoping you're not." I turn to the side and plug my finger in my ear as someone walks out the door, talking loudly. "Look, I get that things are a little weird between us, but just come home and I'll try to fix it. You've been doing so well and I'm sure you don't want to ruin that, right?"

  "You can't fix everything, Nova." His tone lightens a little. "And besides, this isn't even about you."

  I inch toward the side of the building, trying to get farther away from the door because people keep walking out and being noisy. "Then what is it about?"

  "Life and how shitty it is and how it just loves dealing me the shitty-ass cards."

  "Why is it shitty? Because you're sober?"

  "No, it has nothing to do with that or with you," he says, and then he sighs. "Look, I get that you want to help me. I get that I've been doing good. I get that what I'm planning on doing in the next ten minutes is probably going to fuck up my life, but you know what, I don't really have a life anymore. Not a good one, anyway."

  "What are you talking about?" I ask, and when he doesn't answer I say, "Tristan, talk to me--" He hangs up on me.

  "Shit." I try to dial his number again, but it goes straight to voice mail. I try to text him, but he still hasn't responded by the time I get into the car and am heading home.

  "What party do you think he's at?" I ask Lea as we make the short drive home. She was planning on hanging out with Brody, but she said their plans got canceled. I think she's worried about me, though, and that's why she decided to come home with me.

  It's after nine, the sky starry and the moon a crescent in the sky, and I can't help but count the stars repeatedly, every time I have to stop at a red light. "Maybe we can track him down," I say.

  Lea seemed mildly upset when I told her what happened on the phone with Tristan, but she's not freaking out as much as I am. "Nova, there's no way you're going to be able to track him down. It's Friday night, for God's sakes."

  "Lea, you didn't hear him on the phone," I say, making a right onto the main road, which is glossy with ice so I have to drive slowly. "He's going to do something to ruin his sobriety. I can feel it."

  She lets out a slow breath, her head turned toward the window as she watches the Christmas lights strung across the trees to the side of the road. "Nova, we've been through this before. You can't just save everyone, especially when they don't want to be saved." She looks at me with what seems like pity in her eyes, but I don't know why she's feeling that way toward me. "So just let it go. When he comes home you can see where he stands and go from there."

  I shake my head, tears about to pour out. "I can't take this anymore."

  "What? Tristan? Or are we talking about something else?"

  I have to work to keep my eyes open, the tears bubbling their way up as I turn into our apartment complex. "Tristan. Delilah. Quinton. Myself. I'm so sick of just sitting by and watching people fall apart."

  She reaches across the seat and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. "Well, you have me."

  I know she's right, but at the moment her touch only feels cold. I park the car and we head inside. She follows me, not saying much until we're inside the apartment and I'm heading to my room.

  "Nova, please, just stop fighting to save everyone," she says. "You need to learn to just let some things go."

  I step into my room, turning to face her as I make to shut the door. "Do you know what happens when you let things go?" I ask, and she just stares at me. "People fall apart and die. And even though it might be a lost cause and you might think I'm crazy, I'm still going to do it, because no one else seems to be." And with that I shut the door.

  I think about calling Quinton and talking to him about everything, but I'm tired of talking to him on the phone. I just want to see him--want to hold him and know that through this entire mess at least he's doing okay. I know it's crazy. Selfish. Impulsive. I know that I have work and other things--life--and I can only go for a day. But I need that day more than I need anything at the moment. So before I can chicken out, I quickly start packing my bags, hoping that when I get there, he won't send me away.

  Chapter 11

  December 24, day fifty-six in the real world

  Quinton

  I wake up in the middle of the night with the strangest feeling. I was dreaming about Nova and seeing her again. How she'd feel... the scent of her... how she'd taste. I flip on the lamp and lie in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how not, too long ago, I was staring at a different ceiling, one that was cracked and warped, but the one above me now is flawless. All because of Nova. She got me here because she never gave up on me and she talked me out of going back to a life of getting high all the time.

  Nova... my thoughts are flooded with her... what she thinks... I'm struggling with my emotions all centered around her... how much I want her. I'm afraid, though. So afraid that I haven't even opened the letter that she wrote me while I was in rehab.

  Before I can chicken out, I roll over to my side and reach underneath my mattress and take out the envelope. My fingers are tremulous as I carefully tear it open and pull out the letter inside. Then, taking a preparing breath, I unfold it and start to read.

  Dear Quinton,

  I'm writing to you mainly because you don't seem to want to talk to me. And I can understand that. You're working on healing right now and probably have to focus on yourself a lot. But we never did really get to say good-bye the last time I saw you and I hate not having the chance to do that. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that saying good-bye is important.

  But as I'm writing this letter, I realize that that's not what I want this to be about. I don't want to say good-bye to you yet. Actually, I don't want to say good-bye to you ever. I know that's probably freaking you out right now, but it's the truth. The idea of losing you is too much to handle. I want you in my life always, either as a friend or more. And I know you prob
ably think I'm crazy. That we barely know each other and in a way you're right. We do barely know each other, but at the same time I think we've been through more than the average person, which makes us able to understand each other more than a lot of people could. And I honestly can picture us one day down the road, super old and just hanging out, again as friends or more--your choice.

  And if you've learned anything about me over the last year or so, it's that I'm stubborn. When I want something, I sort of latch on to it. In fact, that habit can be a huge issue for me--the inability to let go. But that's the thing. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to work on that and I know I do, but I don't necessarily believe that I need to let go of everything. I can hold on to the things that are important to me. And one of those things is you. So even though you might not want to hear this, I'm not letting you go. I'm always going to be here for you no matter what.

  Your friend forever,

  Nova (like the car)

  I stop reading it. She's right. No matter what happens, I want Nova in my life. I never want to stop talking to her. Listening to her. I want her with me. I just need to make sure I create the sort of life that's worthy of her being a part of. Can I do that for her? Let go and move forward toward a future with her? I glance around the room. Can I let all of this go for her?

  Swallowing my nerves, I get up and circle around my room, taking in each sketch and drawing and feeling the powerful memories connected to them. How much time I spent drawing them or the moments captured within the photos. Then there's my mom. I don't want to say good-bye to any of this and maybe I don't have to completely, but I can let go a little.

  One step at a time.

  Sucking up the full amount of strength I have in me, I start to take the photos and drawings down. One by one, holding them in my hands as if they were the most delicate things in the world. With each one that comes down, I feel different, as if I've stepped into someone else's body, the body of someone I don't know. Someone stronger, new. Reborn.

  When I'm finished, I haven't taken all of them down, but enough that they don't overtake my room. There's one photo of my mom in a rocking chair, her belly big because she is pregnant with me, and a photo of Lexi and me sitting on her back porch, posing for the camera. There's also a sketch of her... one I drew a few days before she died. That one I hold on to to remind me of her, because I may be trying to let go, but forgetting her completely isn't right. She deserves to be remembered, never forgotten. Despite the fact that I'm choosing life, I don't have to break my promise to her.