Nova and Quinton: No Regrets

  Add that to the fact that I'm living in my old bedroom in my old home with my father, and I'm feeling a little unbalanced right now, like I'm walking on a tightrope and am about to fall. On one side lies a fall to that rock bottom I'm so familiar with and on the other is the fall that just ends it all. Both seem like easy choices, yet I keep making myself attempt to balance and walk forward, especially when life keeps throwing me challenges. Like the other day when I was in the grocery store and I saw Lexi's mom. She didn't see me, thankfully, otherwise I might have slipped up in my sobriety. She's verbalized in the past how she feels about me and she has every right to feel that way. One day, though, I wish I could just tell her I'm sorry and that I hope maybe she can forgive me. The same with Ryder's parents. I want them to know that I think about them all the time. That I hate that I'm the one who lived. That I'm trying to make up for it the best I can.

  Despite the fact that life is complex, writing seems to help a lot, actually. So here I am writing and in just a few minutes I'll go to a job interview for a painting job. Not an artist painting job, but a construction painting job, which isn't ideal, but the hours are flexible and right now I have no more than a high school education so my job options are limited. Nova thinks I should go back to school, but I'm not sure I can handle that right now. Still, it's nice listening to her ramble about the plus sides of getting a college education. The girl really could have a job as a motivational speaker if she wanted to, with all the positivity she sends out. I like her positivity, just like I like having her as a friend. I like everything about her and I wish I could tell her that. How much she means to me. But that'd be opening a door I know I'm not ready to open, which is why I haven't read her letter, even though I'm dying to. In fact, I stare at it every day.

  Even though there's good stuff going on in my life, I still have frequent nightmares about the accident. I keep seeing Lexi die over and over again. Then myself. When I wake up, it feels like I'm back in the place of death again. That's actually another thing Greg's been pushing me to talk about. My death. He thinks for some fucking reason that some of my emotional problems and obsession with dying are connected to the fact that I already died. He even asked me how I felt when I died, what I saw, how I felt when I came back. I told him to fuck off, though, so he dropped it.

  It made me angry that he opened the door and I was even more angry at myself for still not being able to talk about stuff like that. I still have such a very long way to go, everyone keeps telling me, like I don't get it. I know I do. I think about it all the time, how long it might take me to get some sort of balance in my life. But the fact that I can envision that long away has to mean something, right? Has to mean there might be some sort of hope for me other than relapse, a word I became very familiar with in rehab. A lot of the people were in there because of relapse and I can't help but think about it. How easy it'd be just to do it again. Get lost. Stop thinking about jobs. And therapy. Stop dreaming of Lexi and death. But it's also hard because I have a few people now pushing me in the opposite direction.

  Still, I can't help but be hyper-aware of all the places I know I could get drugs from. Like Marcus down the street, who's still dealing, from what I heard. Or my old friend Dan, one of the guys I first got high with. I ran into him the other day at the grocery store while I was picking up some milk for my dad. He looked ripped out of his mind and it made me sort of envious. He even asked me if I still did it and I almost wanted to say yes, because I knew where that path would lead me. But instead I found myself saying no and a few minutes later I was standing in the checkout line, such a simplistic, boring thing, which allowed too many thoughts to slip into my mind. Like how close the lake is to the grocery store, the one where the accident took place. The one where I died and came back to life. The one where two lives were lost.

  "Are you about ready to go?" my dad asks as he knocks on my doorway before strolling into my bedroom, interrupting my writing.

  I stop moving the pen across the paper and glance up from the notebook. He's dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, instead of his usual button-down shirt and tie, but that's because he took today off from work.

  "What time is it?" I ask as I set the notebook and pen aside on my bed.

  He glances at his watch. "A quarter to two. It's a little bit early, but I figured we could stop and get a bite to eat and maybe talk or something." He scratches the back of his head, seeming uncomfortable.

  "Sure." I get up from my bed and grab my jacket off the back of my computer chair, then we head out of my room.

  As usual, neither of us talks as we get into the car and drive down the road. The entire journey there's nothing but silence, but I'm familiar with it. In fact, it's become really comfortable. Things only start to drift toward unfamiliar territory when my dad pulls up to a restaurant instead of a fast food drive-through. Sit-in dining has never been his thing. In fact, I can't even remember a time when he took me to a restaurant.

  "Are we eating here?" I ask as he parks the car in an empty space toward the back section of the parking lot, near a grassy knoll.

  He turns off the car and stares at the restaurant, which is decked out in Thanksgiving decor: orange lights trimming the rain gutter and pictures of turkeys painted on the windows. "I thought we could get something good to eat for a change. I know I've been a crappy cook for the last few weeks. I'm just too used to cooking for one, I guess."

  "Trust me, I've eaten better in the last few weeks than I did for the entire summer." As soon as I say it, I want to retract it. I never know how honest to be with my dad. How much he wants to know about the stuff I did--how much I want him to know. It's not like we ever had that great a relationship anyway and honestly, I thought he hated me because of the accident. And maybe he does. Maybe he just feels obligated to help me because I'm his flesh and blood. I'm not really sure. I asked Charles about it once about three weeks into my recovery and he said I should talk to my dad about my feelings, but I don't think I'm ready to go there yet, not knowing whether I can handle it or whether he can.

  "Still, it'd be good to get a nice meal." He doesn't say anything else, getting out of the car and shutting the door.

  I get out, too and then we walk across the parking lot and enter the restaurant. We're greeted by a blonde hostess wearing a pair of teal vintage glasses, and I immediately smile at the sight of them. I think she thinks I'm checking her out because she gets this really big grin on her face and starts coiling a strand of her hair around her finger as she chats about the food and guides us to the table.

  I'm only smiling, though, because yesterday Nova asked me if she should get glasses. She said the eye doctor recommended them for when she was reading and working on the computer. She said she hated the idea and that it would probably make her look dorkier than she was. When I disagreed with her and told her she could totally rock the look, she laughed and said she should just get a vintage pair with a little chain that hooked around them, like women wore in the 1950s.

  "What are you smiling about?" my dad wonders as we take a seat at the corner booth.

  "Nothing." I glance up at the hostess, who's still grinning at me as she sets our menus down on the table in front of us.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asks, glancing at my father, and then her eyes land on me and fill with expectancy.

  My dad starts to shake his head as I say, "Yeah, can I take a picture of your glasses?"

  My dad gives me a befuddled look from across the table, like I've lost my mind, but the hostess seems flattered.

  "Absolutely," she says, and then she flashes me a big grin as I raise the cell phone I bought three days after my dad was an hour late picking me up from therapy and couldn't get ahold of me to tell me he'd be delayed.

  I snap the shot of the glasses, then thank her before she saunters away, looking really pleased with herself.

  "What was that about?" my dad asks, as I try to crop the picture and zoom in on the glasses as much as I can. "Do you like t
hat girl or something?"

  I shake my head as I attach the picture to a text message addressed to Nova. "No, Nova and I were just talking about glasses the other night and she mentioned getting some like that girl had." I type: these would look good on u. They match your eyes. I move my finger to hit send, but then stop myself, wondering if maybe I'm being a little too flirty with her. We're supposed to be just friends. It's a good thing, too. Everyone says I need to take it easy. No stressful situations, and relationships are stressful, especially when my feelings for Nova are so intense.

  But it's just a text message.

  Dammit, I'm so confused at my life choices, from where the hell I'm supposed to go from here to sending a simple fucking text message. Things used to be so much simpler. Or maybe I was just oblivious.

  Finally I just hit send and let it be, telling myself to stop over-analyzing everything. But even as I put my phone away, thousands of thoughts race through my mind, like what it means that I can be sitting here and picking out glasses for Nova, when ten miles away Lexi is buried under the ground in a cemetery up on the hillside near her neighborhood. And if I drive about fifteen miles to the east, I'll arrive at the place where her life ended. But you need to let it go. Heal. Accept what is. Stuff happened to you. Bad stuff. But it doesn't mean you don't deserve to live. That's what Charles used to tell me in rehab and I try to remind myself over and over again. But I fall into a slump and by the time my phone buzzes in my pocket, I don't want to look at it, so I hit ignore and order my food when the waitress comes to take our orders. She brings us waters and when she leaves, my dad starts chatting about his job to me. I zone off, wondering how I went from okay to down in the time it took to text a picture.

  "So what do you think?" my dad asks as he unfolds the napkin that's around the utensils.

  I tear my attention away from my thoughts and focus on him. "About what?"

  His forehead creases as he places his napkin on his lap. "About moving to Virginia."

  "Why would we move to Virginia?" I ask, and then take a sip of my water.

  "Because my company wants to transfer me?" His puzzlement deepens. "I just told you this a minute ago. That my boss wants to put me up for the transfer."

  Great. Apparently I zoned off and missed something really important. I'm finding it very hard to breathe and there's no way I can wrap my mind around the abrupt change he's throwing out there. Move. I can't move. Not when I just got here. Not when I'm just starting to get my life back on track.

  "What would you do?" I ask, battling to keep my emotions under control, otherwise I know I'm going to flip out. "Sell the house or just keep it until we moved back?"

  "I'd sell it," he says, stirring the straw in his glass of water. "It's a permanent transfer. The pay is great. And Virginia seems interesting and it's close to the ocean and a few art institutions."

  "So's Seattle." I frown as I feel the familiar constricting sensation inside my chest. I'm not sure if I can move--go anywhere, when everything is so unstable as it is. I need to stay here. Need to keep doing what I'm doing. I need to do more. Everything might not be great, but it's okay. And I haven't had okay in a long time. "And I don't think you should sell the house."

  "Why not?" he asks. "You've barely lived here in the last couple of years."

  "Because it's Mom's house." I'm not even sure where the hell the thought came from. It's not like I've had a sentimental attachment to it before. Well, maybe I did before... the accident. But the last couple of years I've felt detached from everything. Maybe that's where the feeling's coming from--now that I'm sober maybe I'm heading back toward the old Quinton who existed at seventeen, before the accident, before he died. But would that mean I'm letting go enough of my pain and guilt to get there? Shit. No, I can't.

  Pity fills my dad's eyes. "Quinton, I know that, but still... I don't quite understand your attachment." He rakes his hands through his hair, at a loss about what to do or say next. "It's not like you have memories of your mom in that house, and you haven't even been living there for a year and a half."

  This is the thing about my dad. He comes off as a douche a lot, but I'm not sure if he's aware of it or not. I haven't figured it out yet--haven't figured him out yet. And that's why I tell myself to try to calm down, but this forced, major, life-changing question is making my thoughts go into overdrive. I'm not ready for this.

  "Could you just think about it?" he asks. "I think a change might be really good for you."

  "I think I've had enough change to last a lifetime," I say as I scoot to the edge of the booth and rise to my feet. I can't take it anymore. This sitting-and-listening thing. I need to get the hell out of here. Go somewhere else and cool down before I explode.

  I dash for the door as my dad turns in his seat and calls out, "Where are you going?"

  "I need some air," I call out over my shoulder as I wind around the tables. I keep walking, not looking anywhere but at the floor until I get outside. Then I immediately light up a cigarette and feel the nicotine soak into my body and saturate my lungs, but it barely reduces the anxiety clawing at my throat. I take puff after puff as I pace in front of the car. I draw my hood over my head when it starts to rain, but I don't go inside. I just keep pacing, like somehow these small movements will help me outrun the cravings and need. Everyone keeps telling me it'll get easier. That if I just work through moments like these, things will settle back down. But at the moment it feels like everyone's been lying to me and it makes me want to lie to them.

  It makes me want to break my promise to myself to try to stay clean.

  But I can't.

  No. I need to be stronger than that.

  But I'm not strong.

  I'm weak.

  Give up.

  Stay strong.

  By the time my dad walks outside, carrying two to-go boxes, my mind feels like it's about to rupture over what I should do. The rain has stopped, the ground is covered with puddles and my jacket is soaking wet. I'm cold, but I hardly notice because my thoughts are still centered on one thing that I know would make this whole moving thing easier. Just one hit, and I wouldn't have to deal with the erratic thoughts inside my head.

  My dad doesn't help the situation when he gets into the car without saying a word, so I start obsessing about that as well as I climb in. After he starts the engine and cranks the heat, the warm air makes my chilled skin sting. The slight pain is distracting, though, and I'm grateful for it, like I'm grateful that I'm headed to my therapist so hopefully I can get a grip on this madness spiraling inside my head.

  I buckle my seat belt and wait for him to back up, but instead he stares out the windshield dotted with raindrops.

  "This wasn't how things were supposed to go," he says, shaking his head. "This was never the plan."

  I suck it up the best I can. "Look, I'm sorry I walked out on lunch... there was just a lot of stuff going on inside my head."

  "I'm not talking about lunch." He glances at me and for a fleeting moment, I think he's going to cry. "I'm talking about your life." He slumps back in the seat, staring ahead with his hands on top of the steering wheel. "You know, your mother and I once had a talk about what we'd do if something happened to the other one. She was pregnant with you and I remember she told me that if she could make sure one thing happened if she was gone, it'd be that you were always happy." His hands clench into tight fists. "She only asked one thing of me and I couldn't even do that for her."

  I want to tell him he's wrong, but we'd both know that was a lie. He knows I'm not happy, that I haven't been in a long time. "Dad, I'm fine," I manage to say, despite how thick the lie is in my throat. "I know things have been super shitty, but I'm trying to make them better and you're here, so..." I shrug, unsure how to finish the sentence.

  "I kicked you out," he mumbles, more to himself than to me. "I kicked you out because I knew you were doing drugs and I didn't want to deal with it."

  I want to ask him if that's the only reason he kicked me out, because
sometimes I wonder if he did it because he couldn't stand looking at me. If I reminded him too much of my mother or maybe it had to do with the fact that I'm responsible for two people leaving this world early. I should just ask him, but honestly I don't want to hear the answer. Whatever the reason was, it doesn't matter anymore.

  "I'm sorry for what I put you through," I say for the first time since I came back to Seattle. "I know it had to be hard."

  He looks at me with his brows dipped together. I think he might be about to tell me something important because of the intense look on his face, but then all he says is, "I'm glad you're home." Then he puts the car in drive and pulls out of the parking space.

  "I'm glad to be home," I reply, but I'm not quite sure it's the truth. I still feel so out of place, like I'm living a dream that I'm not sure I'm a part of.

  A small smile touches his lips as he starts the drive to my therapist's office. "Am I dropping you off at Mrs. Bellington's after therapy?" he asks.

  "Yeah, I told her I'd stop by for like a half an hour." Mrs. Bellington is one of the elderly people I visit. She's seventy and actually not too bad to spend time with. She always has fresh-baked cookies and these stories about when she was younger and worked as an artist. She also always has soap operas on whenever I'm over there and while I'm not a fan, she likes to give me recaps in a very animated way and it's kind of entertaining.

  After about five more minutes go by, I start to relax enough that I dare take out my phone and read Nova's message.

  Nova: Who is that???

  Me: A waitress at this restaurant my dad and I were eating at.

  I start to put my phone back into my pocket when a text comes through.

  Nova: I like the glasses. I think I'll get a pair. In fact, I think I'll even go all out and get a poodle skirt to go with it.

  Me: And saddle shoes.

  Nova: And a beehive hairdo.

  Me: Sounds sexy.

  Shit. Why do I always have to cross the "just friends" line? And why do I seem to care less and less each time I do? This isn't how things are supposed to be. I'm supposed to be suffering. Paying for what I did, not flirting with a girl I'm pretty sure I fell in love with over the summer, even in my drugged-out daze, although I haven't told her that yet.