Nova and Quinton: No Regrets (Nova #3)(42)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

I hold the board in place while he shoots some nails into it, then he sets the nail gun down and picks up his water bottle. “Fine,” I say, stepping away from the now-sturdy board. There are rows around us and soon the Sheetrock and insulation will go up to make walls. It’s an amazing thing to be a part of—it really is. “My dad’s moving to Virginia in like a week and I have no place to stay because he’s selling our house.”

He takes a swig of his water while I sit down on the floor and retrieve my pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “Why don’t you just go with him?” he asks.

“Because of all this.” I remove a cigarette from the pack as I gesture around the partially built house. “I don’t just want to give it all up.”

He sits down on the floor beside me and stretches out his legs in front of him. “You know you can do this stuff anywhere, right? You can even do other stuff and still get the same experience.”

“Yeah, but.” I put the cigarette into my mouth and reach for my lighter in my pocket. “I’m comfortable here.” I cup my hand around the end of the cigarette. “And I like how things are going here.” I light the cigarette and inhale before blowing out smoke. Part of me wants to run and call Nova, because she’d try to cheer me up and figure out solutions, instead of telling me that I should probably go with my dad. And she probably could even help me deal with taking down the photos. Talk me down. Get me to see things in a different light—a brighter light. Because she always makes things seem ten times better.

Wilson takes another swig of his water before screwing the cap back on. “All right, I’m going to throw an idea out there and see where it goes.” He rises to his feet and sets the water down before picking up the nail gun again. “Why don’t you live with me for a little while? At least until you can get on your feet.”

I give him an unfathomable look. “Are you seriously offering me your place?”

He shrugs as he lifts the cord of the nail gun over a pile of wood it’s snagged on. “Sure, why not?”

“Because it would be weird,” I point out. “Having a twenty-year-old ex-junkie living with you.”

“Well, since I’m a thirty-five-year-old ex-junkie, I don’t think that’s too big of a deal,” he says. “Besides, I’m barely there anyway.”

I get to my feet, grazing my thumb across the bottom of the cigarette and scattering ash all over the floor. “Why?”

“Because I travel around a lot to do this.” He gestures around the construction site, where the sounds of hammers and power tools are going off all around us. “In fact, you could always do that, too. You’d have a place to live while we’re on the road and when you’re here you can stay at my place, until you’re ready to get a place of your own.” He points his finger at me. “Now there’s an idea.”

For a second I actually consider it. Just going. Leaving. Taking off and working the crap out of myself to help others. I’d have to say good-bye to a lot of things, though, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet, since an hour ago I nearly cracked saying good-bye to a photo.

I put the cigarette into my mouth and take a slow drag before exhaling. “It seems too easy just to move in with you.”

“What? Things can’t be easy?” he asks as he puts the nail gun up to a board. “Life’s not right if it isn’t hard?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy for me,” I say. “It’s supposed to be difficult and a struggle to pay back for what I…” I stop talking, not wanting to go down that road right now. It’s weird, but the only person I’ve really talked to about this is Nova, which I think says a lot about her… a lot about how she makes me feel.

After putting a few nails into the board, he places the gun down on the floor. “You know, I get the whole self-punishment thing and wanting to pay back for what you did by slowly torturing yourself,” he says, “However, do you really want to be homeless again? Living outside in the f**king cold? Behind a Dumpster or in a crack house with a bunch of other crack addicts? Holes in the wall. Probably no plumbing. Doing God knows what? Snorting lines? Shooting up? Whatever your drug of choice was.”

I hate how direct he is sometimes and the images he’s vividly painting are crawling under my skin. “No, but if I did end up that way I’d probably deserve it… maybe that’s why this isn’t working out for me.” I drop my cigarette to the ground and put it out with the tip of my boot. “I’ll never be able to deserve much of anything, but I’m going to make sure I keep trying to pay everyone back until the day I die again.” I bend down to pick up my hammer, realizing I let something slip out that I’m not sure he knew yet.

“Wait. What do you mean again?” He waits for me to explain, but I don’t, instead going up and hammering a nail that doesn’t necessarily need to be hammered. “Did you die at the scene of the accident?” he asks and I pound the hammer harder against the wood. “Quinton, talk to me.”

My heart misses a beat as I ram the hammer into the nail repeatedly. “Yeah, so what if I did?” I shrug, like it’s no big deal, even though the urge to go find a bump is hitting me harder than it ever has. “Shit happens sometimes.”

“Shit happens sometimes?” He’s astounded, standing there with the nail gun loosely in his hand, about ready to drop it. “Quinton, you’re a walking miracle.”

Miracle? Miracle? Is he f**king kidding me? One pound. Two pound. Three pound. The nail is so far in that the wood is starting to split around it. But I can’t stop until he stops talking. “Yeah, try telling that to Lexi’s parents,” I say, wiping the sweat from my brow with my arm, and then move to another nail. “Or Ryder’s. They’ll tell you how delusional you are.”

He shakes his head and then snags hold of my arm as I swing back to hit the nail again. “Quinton, you can’t expect them to think any differently,” he says, looking me directly in the eye. “They lost their children and are probably never going to forgive you.” His words are sharp and jagged like the shrapnel that cut open my chest and nearly killed me.

I jerk my arm away from him. I’m not really mad at him; it’s more that there’s so much panic and anguish in me that I can’t figure out any other outlet than to yell at him. “I need to tell them I’m sorry at least… I never did that.”