Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(8)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“Not a whole lot. School. Work. I’ve been playing the drums again, too.”

“Really,” he says and I hear him flick a lighter. “You know, I never did get to see you play.”

“I know.” Memories flood me, like water, rising…rising…rising. I can hear, smell, feel the concert we were at a little less than a year ago. “But there’s still time. I could come visit you or you could come visit me.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, his mood instantly deflating, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. “Look, Nova, I got to go. Tristan needs my help with something.”

“Hold on a second.” I quickly sit up, not ready to stop the conversation. I haven’t even accomplished anything yet, talked to him enough, saved him. God dammit, what the hell am I supposed to say? What is the right thing to say? “I’ve actually been wanting to use that video clip you made for a project I’m working on…the one you made in the tent when we were at the concert. I know it’s sort of personal and everything, so I won’t use it unless you say it’s okay.” I’m getting desperate to keep him on the phone, keep hearing his voice.

He pauses, but only for a second or two. “I really don’t care if you do, Nova. So much has happened between then and now that I can barely even remember what I said on it.”

My chest aches and I ball up my fist and massage my hand over it, seeking relief but not getting any. “Thanks, but I also need you to sign a release. My professor won’t let me use the clip unless I have one from each of the people in the video.”

“Okay…how do I sign the form?”

“Can I mail it to you?” I ask, reaching for a pen and paper on the nightstand, feeling like a real ass**le for not telling him my ulterior motive for getting his address.

“Sure,” he responds, then he tells me the address and I jot it down. As I set the pen and paper down on the bed, I hear someone say something in the background about getting a move on. “Look, Nova, it’s been great talking to you, but I have to go.”

I’m afraid to let him go, cut the connection, not know he’s okay, but I know that I have to. “Okay, I understand.”

I wait for him to hang up, but then he says, “Are you okay?”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. I’m just worried about you and I have no idea how to go about this. I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Are you sure?” he asks again and I remember all the times last summer when he asked the same thing.

“Yeah, but it’s been really nice talking to you.” I open my eyes, trying to think of something epic to say, but I just can’t get there. “Would it be okay if I called you again?”

He wavers. “I guess, but I don’t have a phone.”

“That’s okay…I can call Delilah’s. Just make sure to mention to her that you want to talk to me the next time I call or else I don’t think she’ll let me talk to you.”

“Okay, I will,” he says, but I don’t think he means it. “Take care of yourself, Nova.”

“I will.” I feel like a part of my heart has died the moment he hangs up the phone. The line goes dead and it reminds me of the sound of a flat line after a heart stops beating, desperate to be revived. And I want to do that for him. Help him. Revive him.

I feel so helpless, just like I did with Landon.

I know I have to do something, but I’m not sure what exactly. What way is the right way or if there even is a right way. This isn’t some story or fairy tale where I’ll set out on this mission to save someone and after a long, exhausting battle we’ll reach our happily ever after. I actually don’t believe in happily ever afters. They’re sappy in my opinion and super unrealistic.

But what I do believe in is not giving up on something that I feel passionate about. And I feel passionate about helping people. I’ve been doing it on the phone for months now, at the suicide hotline I work at. I talk with people. I try to help them see that they’re not alone. That there are other people in the world who have felt the same way and they’ve survived.

That things may seem really shitty sometimes, dark, bleak, and hopeless, like being stuck in a dark hole with no light, and no hope of ever getting out. But that’s never the case. There is hope. There is light. There is a way to get back to a life where you can smile and laugh and feel weightless. No, it’s not easy, and the hardest part is actually seeing it from that angle, but it exists. I know this for a fact, because I’ve been in that dark place where smiling seems so hard and giving up seems so easy and now I smile every day and it’s the lightest feeling.

Maybe it’s because I understand this that I do what I do next. Maybe it’s because I can smile and see the light—see that hope exists for Quinton. Or maybe it’s because I want to save him, like I couldn’t save Landon or even my dad. For whatever reason, I march out to the living room where Lea and Jaxon are sitting on the sofa and say four words that change the entire course of my summer.

“I’m going to Vegas,” I announce and my voice quivers and pours out all my nervousness in it. I feel nauseous and like I’m going to pass out, which makes the situation even realer. “Now who wants to come with me?” It’s a desperate measure, but I’m desperate and it’s the only thing I can think of to do.

Lea glances at Jaxon, who looks completely lost. “Vegas?” he questions. He’s got his arm draped around her, but he looks tense. “Really?”

I nod, collecting my bag and laptop off the sofa. “I got his address and he’s living in Vegas, so that’s where I’m going…as soon as I get the rest of the apartment packed up and my finals turned in, I’m hitting the road.”

“Nova…” Lea struggles with something to say as Jaxon moves his arm away from her. “I know you want to help people, but this isn’t like working on the suicide hotline. It’s more complicated…and maybe even dangerous.”

“More complicated than helping Quinton realize life’s worth living?” I inquire, hugging my laptop to my chest.

“Yeah, because you’re going to be doing it in the crazy world Quinton is now living in,” she states with apprehension, scooting forward on the sofa. “And that’s not the same as doing it from the safety of a hotline.”