Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (Nova #3)(27)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

He shakes his head and pats the shoulder of the arm where the tattoos are hidden under the sleeve of my jacket. “Since the accident.”

I swear the ink burns, scorching hot, my whole body igniting. “Two and a half years.”

He grips my shoulder. “Give it time. I promise it’ll get easier.”

“How much time?” I ask, stepping aside as a woman with gray hair whisks between us and through the door.

He reflects on what I said and I think he’s going to give me an estimated time frame, but then he says, “Have you ever volunteered for Habitat for Humanity before? Or any other organization like it?”

“Huh?” I’m thrown off by the abrupt subject change. “No, well, I mean I’ve been helping down at the homeless shelter and spending time with the elderly people in our community… why?”

He gives me another pat on the shoulder and it’s starting to annoy me but I can’t figure out why. I think it’s because I’m not really used to people touching me and because his pats seem to be an attempt to convey compassion. “Can you meet me tomorrow at six?” he asks.

“Maybe… I mean, yeah, but why?”

“Because I want to show you something.”

“If it’s about building a house, then you should know that I’m working for a painting contractor right now so I’m already sort of doing that.”

“Habitat for Humanity is a little different.” He says it with passion, removing his hand from my arm and balling it into a fist in front of him. “Imagine, building a home for someone who really needs it.” He reaches for the door and pushes it open, letting a cool breeze in. “There’s a whole world out there, Quinton. Full of people who need help and full of people who don’t want to take the time to offer help. But you and I—we see time differently. We get how important it is and how everything we do in this life matters. Good and bad. So it’s important that we spend a hell of a lot of time doing good.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I still don’t know if I’m completely on board with his speech and I think he can tell, but he refuses to give up.

“Meet me tomorrow at six at this house I’m working on,” he says, stepping out the door. “And I’ll show you.”

“Six in the morning?” I ask, and he nods. “Okay, but I have to be to be at therapy by noon.”

“That’s plenty of time.” His lips tip up into a smile and I follow him, letting the door bang shut behind me. It’s a breezy, clear day, the grass covered with frost and browned leaves.

“For what?” I ask, drawing the hood of my coat over my head.

He walks toward the grass, which is shaded by trees. “For me to show you how wonderful life can be.”

I honestly wonder if he’s on crack or something with his positivity. He doesn’t look like he’s tweaking out, though, so I don’t really think that’s the case.

After I agree to meet him, he gives me an address and his phone number, then promises me a life-changing morning. I don’t believe him, although part of me wants to. Wants to believe that one day I can walk around as happy as he is, living a drug-free life without feeling like I’m fighting not to sink into the ground.

* * *

Later that day, after I’ve gone and talked to Greg, who thinks it’s a great idea to go with Wilson tomorrow, and spent a few hours at work, I go home to a half-packed house. My father’s left me a voice mail, saying he has a meeting tonight so I should eat dinner without him. As I heat up last night’s frozen lasagna leftovers, the quietness of the house and the boxes start to get to me. I can’t believe this is happening. He’s really going to move and I’m not ready for it. I don’t want change. I want f**king stability. I want to be able to walk around and feel good like Wilson seems able to do. Jesus, I really do. Now whether I really believe that can happen, I’m not sure. But I’d like to find out.

When the microwave buzzes, I take the lasagna out and go upstairs to my room to eat it. As I sit on my bed, surrounded by the drawings and photos of Lexi, my thoughts drift to her. I can’t help but think of all the times we spent in here. We’d kiss and touch each other, laugh, and sometimes Lexi would even cry if she was having a bad day. I’d listen to her vent and try to comfort her as much as I could. I’d sometimes talk to her, too, but not a lot.

I take out my notebook, feeling the need to write as my emotions surface, connecting to my emotions, to Lexi, the accident, myself, because that’s what Greg’s been telling me I need to do.

I’ve never really been much of a talker, honestly. When I think back, I was always sort of the listener. When Lexi would talk, I’d give her my advice, but I never did seek advice, even when I felt confused, about school, life, my future. Sure, I was planning on going to college and getting married to Lexi, but deep down I always sort of wondered if she was on the same page as me—if she wanted to get married—because whenever I brought it up she would always just smile and avoid talking about it by kissing me or touching me. And I never did press, just held it all inside… kept it in until it was too late and there was no longer a way to get the answers. No way to find out.

I’m realizing I do that a lot. Avoid talking about stuff, like I did right after the accident, never dealing with the aftermath, never saying sorry for what happened, whether it was my fault or not. Even with Nova, I shut down when things get emotional or touching, although sometimes things veer in that direction without me even realizing it. Nova is easy to talk to. That’s for sure and even though I hate to admit it, I’ve talked to her more openly over the last month than I have with anyone in my entire life. But I still struggle with the really complex stuff. Like my feelings about Lexi. Or any time I can feel my heart opening up to Nova. But Wilson, he just f**king walks around in front of a room pouring his heart out. I wonder how long it took him to get there. I wonder if I can get to that place… I wonder if he has a normal life? If he got forgiveness? Let go of the past? Has a wife? Kids? A family? Could that be possible? No, it can’t be possible… can it?

As soon as I write it, I want to take it back. How can I be getting to that place? The one where I think of a future? No, I take it back. But it’s written in pen and can’t be erased, just like the brief second I had the thought can’t be erased.

“Shit.” I curse because my thoughts are suddenly racing about a million miles a minute. I need to turn them off somehow. I know one way to… but no… I can’t go there. In fact, I don’t want to. It’s been so hard to come out of that dark place and I don’t think I have the energy to drag myself up from it again.