Wreck Me (Nova #4)(18)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

But she keeps repeating herself until I eventually come to the realization that I’m awake and high and I’m completely hearing her correctly.

“Ryder’s dead,” she says as she sobs, grasping onto the doorframe of my bedroom as if it’s the only thing holding her up.

Ryder’s dead?

Ryder’s dead?

Ryder’s dead?

Suddenly, my general depression about everything seems misplaced. All this time, I was sad about life and now my heart hurts so goddamn badly that I can’t breathe.

“What? How…?” I manage to get two words out as I sit up and stagger to my feet.

“Ryder’s dead!” This time she shouts it with tears streaming out of her eyes as she collapses to the floor on her knees.

I’m not sure what to do. Panic? Cry? Hug her? We haven’t hugged since I was twelve years old, and she’s always seemed pretty content about it. But now she’s not content. She’s breaking on my bedroom floor because Ryder is dead.

My older sister is dead.

Gone.

And I never got to know her.

Not really.

Never got to tell her that I loved her.

Never told her I’m sorry for being the dark cloud in the family.

And now I never will.

I choke on my thoughts as I make my way over to my mother. Then I drop down on my knees in front of her, and after hesitating, I wrap my arms around her.

“I’m so sorry, mom.” Tears sting at my eyes as I say it, realizing that I am sorry.

For everything.

How can this be happening?

How can Ryder be dead when I just saw her a few weeks ago?

How? Why? How?

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she sobs hysterically, trying to push away from me but I pull her closer, not sure what else to do. “I want it to be you!”

It feels like a slap across the face.

A fucking knife in my heart.

I’m bleeding out.

No, I’m not.

I tell myself that I heard her wrong. That I was really hallucinating the entire time like I originally thought. That she’s not here crying in my arms and Ryder isn’t gone. That this is all a goddamn nightmare.

But it’s not.

I know it’s not.

I’m not sure what to do or say, whether to pull away from her or continue to console her when she’s pushing me away. I’m still deciding when my father appears in the hallway behind her, his eyes filled with tears too. And there’s a look of remorse on his face directed at me.

“I’m so sorry,” he utters while he reaches for my mother.

Sorry for what?

For losing my sister?

For my mother wishing it was me that died?

What is it, Dad?

Please tell me.

Help me figure out what I’ve done wrong.

The only answer I get is his silence, leaving me with my own interpretation.

To all of this.

“Yeah, me too,” I choke back at him as he helps my mother to her feet. She doesn’t push him away, instead falling into his embrace. My father gives me one last apologetic look before guiding my mother down the hallway, leaving me alone in my room.

And for the briefest moment, I wish I was the one dead too.

Present Day…

Chapter 8

It’s just a little wound. Nothing a scar won’t fix.

Tristan

So much for avoiding Avery. I didn’t mean to run into her the first morning on the job. I’m not even sure what it is about her that makes me do nice guy stuff. I’m not a nice guy, haven’t been for a while. If Avery knew half the shit I’ve done, she wouldn’t be calling me cute and smiling at me. She’d be running the other way, just like she did when she got that phone call earlier.

After our encounter the first day, I warn myself to stay away and the following morning I even try to run the urge to get to know her out of me. But Avery appeared so distraught when she left that afternoon that I wonder if it has something to do with Conner. That thought weighed heavily on my mind, more so than drugs and I decide that the next morning that I’ll talk to Avery, because I need to know if she’s okay—have needed to know for three months now.

But when I arrive at the worksite, my nerves reveal that there might be more to it than just checking up on her. Because I’m so damn nervous that it’s starting to show to outside observers.

“Why do you look so squiggly?” Nova studies me as she picks up a bag of nails from off the ground near the front section of the house where construction has started.

Music is playing from the stereo of a truck, and the sounds of drills and saws fill the air. It’s ridiculously hot and the sun is relentlessly beaming down on us. I’m so hot I’m sweating even with my shirt off and just a pair of cargo shorts and boots on.

“Is it because of the job thing I was talking about this morning?” Nova asks. “Because if it is, I didn’t mean anything bad by it, Tristan. I just think it’d be good if we all had jobs.”

She’s right. We all should have jobs. But I’m qualified for nothing except dealing drugs, which makes getting hired a problem. She, on the other hand, walked straight into a camera store and was hired for an evening shift. On top of that, she has a tiny bit of funding for the documentary she’s making about her journey of helping people out. Then Wilson, the foreman and mentor to Quinton, helped Quinton find a job working in construction during evening hours.

“No, that’s not what’s bothering me. I’ll find a job like I said I would.” I search the dirt for a bag of nails that I left around here yesterday. “And what kind of word is squiggly anyway?”

“The kind of word to describe someone who seems nervous and fidgety,” Nova explains, putting the nails into a pouch on her tool belt.

“I’m not nervous.” I find the bag of nails near the corner of the foundation. “Just looking for these.” I feign a smile as I reach into the bag, scoop out a handful of nails and then dump them into a pocket on my tool belt. “You know, we should really start driving your car here with how hot it is,” I say in an attempt to divert the subject.

“You know, I can tell when you’re trying to change the subject, right?” She narrows her eyes at me as she puts her hands on her hips. “And when you’re lying. But the question is why?”

“I’m not avoiding or lying. Nor am I squiggly, fidgeting, or nervous.” I undo the buckle of my tool belt and loosen it a smidgeon.

“You do seem a little out of it,” Quinton agrees as he strolls up to us with a to-go cup of coffee in his hand. “You barely talked at all on our way here.”