Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (Nova #3)(14)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

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 f**king 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.