Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (Nova #3)(13)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

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 f**king 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 f**k 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 that girl or something?”