Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (Nova #3)(30)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

Each one of her words stabs at my skin, sharp and painful, as an aching need to make her feel better arises within me. “Nova… I don’t even know what to say.” I drape my arm over my head and try to shut out the aching inside me.

“I don’t want you to say anything.” Her voice balances out and she almost sounds like her normal self again. “I was just telling you my story, because I’m the only one who can really tell what happened—at least with me. And I hope one day you’ll tell me yours, but it doesn’t need to be today. Just one day.” She pauses. “In the future.”

She mentioned the word future on purpose, probably to make the point that I’m going to have a future, at least in her eyes I am.

“I wish I could make you feel better,” I tell her, rotating back onto my side so I can stare at the wall instead of the pictures around me, so for a moment it can be just her and me. “I wish I could take all your pain away.”

“Yeah, but you and I both know that’s not possible,” she reminds me. “And I’ve learned to deal with it. And you know what? It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“I hope so,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “I hope one day I can be okay with everything and so can you.”

Is it possible, though? After the last few years, to heal and live a life where I’m not drowning? I used to think no and part of me still thinks there’s no way. But there’s a small part of me that has to wonder.

Does hope still exist for me?

Chapter 6

Quinton

December 10, day forty-two in the real world

I’m feeling pretty good when I wake up early to meet Wilson, especially after my talk with Nova last night. It’s amazing how good she makes me feel. I just wish I could hold on to the good feeling because the more time goes by since our conversation, the more the heaviness returns to me.

Still, I get up, trying to grasp Nova’s positivity. There are clouds in the sky and a little bit of frost on the grass, so I put a coat, gloves, and boots on, even though I have no idea if I’m actually going to be working outside.

After I get all bundled up, I go downstairs to have breakfast and pack a lunch. My dad’s sitting at the table with a slice of toast and coffee in front of him, and he’s reading the newspaper, surrounded by boxes. The sight of them makes it hard to stay optimistic, reminding me that I still have that problem to deal with.

When I enter the kitchen, my dad glances up and then offers me a small smile, but then he takes in my outdoor wear and it falls from his face. “Where are you going?” he wonders, reaching for his coffee mug. “I thought you had your therapy session today.”

“I do,” I tell him, getting a Pop-Tart out of the cupboard. The kitchen walls have been sunshine yellow forever and the countertops a deep green. It’s a ghastly sight, but my dad always refused to change it because it was the color palette my mom picked out. “But I have to go somewhere else first.”

He folds up his newspaper, seeming skeptical. “Where?”

I rip open the wrapper on the Pop-Tart. “Remember that Wilson guy I was telling you about?”

He raises his mug to his mouth and takes a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, the one that runs those meetings for people who…” He trails off, uncomfortable with the subject. Always is.

“The meeting for ex–drug addicts who are dealing with guilt and loss,” I say bluntly. If I can say it, he should be able to say it.

He nods, setting the mug back down on the table. “Yeah, that one.”

“Yeah, that’s the guy.” I bite the corner of the Pop-Tart off as I pull out a chair and take a seat at the table. “And he wants to show me some house he’s building for Habitat for Humanity. I think he wants me to get involved or something.”

“But you’re involved in a lot of stuff already.” He doesn’t seem that thrilled.

I shrug as I get up to pour myself a cup of coffee. “What else am I going to do with my life?” I ask, getting a mug out of the dishwasher.

“I don’t know.” He bites his toast and chews it slowly as he thinks. “I just don’t want you to get too involved when we’re going to be moving soon.”

“I never said I was moving,” I say bitterly as I grab the pot of coffee. “You said you were moving.”

“But I thought we agreed you’d come with me,” he says with a hint of sadness.

“When did I ever agree to that?” I ask, confused, as I pour some coffee into the mug.

He glances around the room at the packed boxes on the countertops and on the floor. “Well, you never argued when I started packing and put the house up for sale, so I just assumed you were okay with everything.”

“Well, I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m almost twenty-one years old and I shouldn’t even be living with my father to begin with. Let alone moving across the country with him.” I take a swallow of my coffee, hoping that I’ll be able to calm myself down. There’s no reason to get angry. After all, he wants me to come with him. But for some reason I do feel a little resentful and I can’t even figure out why. “For the first time since the accident, I have some sort of structure in my life and I already told you I don’t want to just give that up—I don’t want to start over again. It’s too f**king hard.”

He stares at me with wide eyes and I realize how loud I’m talking and how much I’m trembling. I don’t say anything else and neither does he as I finish my coffee and he cleans up his plate and cup. After I make my lunch, I leave the house and take the bus to where I’m supposed to meet Wilson, because I don’t want to ask my dad to lend me the car or give me a ride. I just want a break to clear my head.

It’s a fairly long bus ride and I end up getting there about half an hour late. The address Wilson gave me ends up being that of a small, single-story house that’s almost completely finished, except for the yard work and a few spots that need siding. There are a few guys working on it right now, out in the cold, with their hammers and power tools, dressed in heavy coats and boots. Wilson is one of them.

I stand at the curb for almost an eternity, because I can’t seem to bring my feet to move. I’m puzzled by Wilson and his freeness. He can’t be real. He has to be fake. There’s no way anyone can live with that kind of guilt and laugh like that. It can’t be possible.