Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(53)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

I shake my head as I lie down on the bed and drape my arm over my head. “I’m really tired. I think I might just take a nap.”

“You’re probably tired because you keep waking up in the middle of the night,” she says. “You’re a freaking restless sleeper lately.”

Because I keep dreaming of the dead and the soon-to-be-dead if I can’t figure out a way to help Quinton. “Yeah, I know…I have a lot on my mind.”

She looks at me suspiciously, like she can read through my life; like she knows that really, once she leaves, I’m going to go over to Quinton’s for the second time today and see if I can get someone to answer. “Nova, I know you’ve been watching Landon’s video.”

I’m not sure how to respond and thankfully, I don’t have to because her uncle peeks into the room, interrupting us.

“You girls about ready?” he asks. He’s an average-height man, with thinning hair and welcoming eyes. The kind of person who looks friendly, and he is. He’s usually wearing business attire when I see him, but today he’s wearing jeans and an old red T-shirt.

“Nova’s not coming with us,” Lea says, slipping the handle of her purse over her shoulder. “She’s tired.” She gives me a look that lets me know I’m going to get a lecture when she gets home.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he says, stepping into the room. “I was going to take you to Baker and Nancy’s. I hear they have excellent steak.”

“Maybe next time,” I tell him. “I really think I need to get caught up on some sleep.”

“Well, if you change your mind, call Lea and you can meet us,” he says, backing toward the doorway.

“All right, sounds good,” I say, then roll over and rest my head against the pillow.

I hear Lea’s uncle say something to Lea as they leave and it sounds an awful lot like “Are you sure she’s okay? She looks really down.” I can’t help but wonder just how down in the dumps I look, if a stranger can notice this.

A few minutes later the house gets quiet. The air conditioning clicks on. The sun glistens through the window. I’m starting to like the quiet because it eliminates all the worried looks and questions I keep getting. If I had my way, I’d avoid talking to my mom until I could pull my shit together, but like she’s read my mind, my phone suddenly rings and I know without even looking who it has to be.

I probably wouldn’t answer it, but she might have information about Quinton’s dad, so I reach over to the nightstand and pick up my phone.

“Hello,” I say, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling.

“You sound tired,” my mom says worriedly. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

I wonder if she’s been talking to Lea about my lack of sleep or, worse, if Lea’s told her about my watching Landon’s video, although I’m guessing it’d probably be the first thing my mom would ask me about if she knew.

“Yeah, but I think it’s the time change.” It’s a lame excuse, since the time change is only an hour and I’ve actually already gotten used to it.

“Well, make sure you get enough rest.” She gives a heavyhearted sigh. “And make sure you’re not overdoing it.”

“Okay, I will.” I feel the lie burn inside my chest. “So have you heard anything from Quinton’s dad?”

“Yeah…” She’s reluctant and I know whatever happened is bad. “It didn’t go very well.”

“What happened?” I ask, sitting up in the bed.

“I just don’t know if this is going to work,” she says. “If he’ll do anything to help his son.”

“Why not?” I get so upset I nearly yell.

“Honey, I think this might be deeper than we realize,” she says in the gentle motherly tone she uses when she knows I’m on the verge of cracking open. “I mean, I only talked to him for a few minutes, but I got the impression there’s a lot of problems there. Not just between the two of them but with Quinton, and that his dad would rather avoid the problem.”

“I know he has problems,” I drag my butt off the bed and look around the room for my purse. “That’s why I’m here trying to help him.”

“Yeah, but…his father seemed so upset on the phone and not for the right reasons…” She trails off and then clears her throat, like she’s getting worked up. “Look, sweetie, I know you’re really determined to help him, but maybe he needs more help than you can give him.”

“Do you think his dad will come down here and help him?” I ask, picking up my purse from the back of the computer chair and getting my car keys out of it. “If you talked to him a little more?”

“I’m not sure…but I can keep trying while you’re here,” she says persistently. “Please, Nova, come back home.”

“Not until I know for sure his dad will help him.” I walk out of the room and to the front door. “Look, Mom, I got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?” I don’t wait for her to respond. I know I’m being rude—worrying her. But the thing I was counting on—Quinton’s dad—has just been lost.

I need to see him now. Need to look at him. Need to save him.

Somehow.

* * *

I’m starting to hate the sight of that door. The one with the crack. The one that keeps Quinton on one side and me on the other. The divider. If I were strong enough, I’d kick it down, but I’m not, so all I can do is keep knocking on it.

“Would someone just open the damn door!” I shout, feeling like I’m going to lose it as I hammer it with my fist. “Please!” My voice echoes for miles like it’s the only thing that exists.

I sink onto the ground, frustrated, feeling beaten down. I want to give up, but I keep seeing Landon’s face that night we lay on the hillside, the last time I ever saw him. There was something in his eyes—I saw it. Sadness. Pain. Internal misery. It’s a look that will haunt me until the day I die, no matter how much time goes by. I don’t want to learn to live with it again and if I walk away from Quinton now, I’ll have to, because I’ve seen the same look in his eyes before. And I won’t let him die like I did with Landon.

So I sit there on the scorching-hot concrete, letting my skin scald, staring at the door, the only barrier between the truth and me. And I refuse to budge until it opens. It finally does. It’s getting late, and the horizon is fading behind me, but still the door opens and Tristan walks out wearing an open button-down long-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans, like it’s not sweltering hot out here. He startles back when he sees me and scrapes the heel of his foot on the concrete, splitting the skin open. He doesn’t seem fazed at all, though, ruffling his messy blond hair, and then he yawns as he stretches out his arms and legs.