Saving Quinton Read online

  I add a photo of Landon to the page, his sad honey-brown eyes reminding me of Quinton, which is a little weird because usually it's Quinton reminding me of Landon. Landon was so beautiful and when he left, the world lost a piece of its beauty. "Tristan wrote me a few times while he was in rehab, apologizing for anything he's done that might have hurt me and for bringing me into the whole Trace mess. I never wrote him back, because I didn't know what to say, or if I even could write him back, but he called yesterday...we talked a little bit about stuff--life. We even talked about Quinton. He says he has no idea where he could be--there are just too many places--but that he heard the building they were living in burned down. No one died, at least in the fire, because no bodies were found. But the fire was started on purpose and it makes me wonder what the hell happened. If Quinton was there when it happened. If Delilah was there when it happened. It hurts my heart to know that all of them could be living on the streets doing God knows what. And that there's a chance no one may find them. And poor Delilah. I'm guessing her mother isn't looking for her, considering how bad their relationship is." I sigh, feeling the hopelessness arise again. "I think maybe Tristan might know a little more than he's letting on about all this stuff--about everything that happened--but I didn't want to push him, since he's like a newborn baby deer learning how to walk again and a lot of things could make him fall, at least from what people tell me." I pull a piece of tape off the dispenser. "I've been going to these group meetings, kind of like the one I went to in Vegas...it's sort of scary...listening to people's stories, but at the same time it's good to hear the good parts, where someone survives and conquers their addiction. It gives me a little hope that it's not over for Quinton yet." I press the piece of tape to the page so it's securing a corner of a picture. "Plus, the meetings gave me some insight into what I'm in for, since Tristan is supposed to be heading over here today. It gives me hope that his visit will go well." I glance at the camera. "Although the pessimist side of me thinks it's going to be really awkward."

  I glance over at the clock on the microwave and realize he'll be here soon and I'm still wearing my pajamas. I return my attention to the lens. "I'll let you know how that one goes." I give the camera a little wave. "Until next time." Then I click the camera off and put it and the photo album stuff away in my room, on my desk, beside where I keep the few sketches of Quinton's that I took from his apartment the last time I was there. Just looking at them makes me miss him, makes me long to hold him. If I could do one thing at this very moment, that's what I'd do--hold him and never let him go.

  Sighing, I turn away from the drawings and go over to my dresser. I change into a pair of shorts and a black tank top and comb my hair, leaving it down. I don't put any bracelets on the wrist with the tattoo. I never do anymore, so that I can never forget any of it: my dad, Landon, Quinton, where I went, how I rose, how easy it is to fall. How easily my life can swirl out of control. It's kind of what the scratch on my car is becoming--a reminder to never forget. I never did fix it after that guy hit it with a tire iron. My mom offered to pay for it, but I told her no. I know it sounds crazy but it reminds me of the last time I saw Quinton and even though it's a horrible, terrifying memory, it's all I have to hang on to.

  When I'm finished changing, the doorbell rings. My stomach rolls with nerves and I head to the door. My mom and my stepfather Daniel are out on their daily hike and they won't be home until late, which means that it's just going to be Tristan and me. I can almost feel the awkwardness rising in the air.

  When I open the front door, he's standing on the edge of the porch like he was about to leave or something. The sun is blinding behind him, making it hard for my eyes to focus. The more he steps forward into the shade, getting closer, the more of his features I can see, but the glare still makes it seem like I'm looking through a camera lens. At first he looks blurry, then I can make out his blond hair, his facial features, then finally his blue eyes. He's wearing a clean plaid shirt, nice jeans, and a pair of sneakers. He looks good. Healthy. And those track marks that were on his arms have faded, but there are a few tiny white specks that I think are scars.

  "Hey," he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

  I just stare at him, my arm holding the screen door, my body drifting toward shock or something. He's almost unrecognizable and it makes me happy and hurts at the same time because it reminds me of just how unhealthy he used to look and how Quinton's still in that place.

  "Hey," I reply, forcing myself to stop staring. I step back and gesture at him to come in. "You can come inside."

  He hesitates, nervous, but ultimately walks past me and through the doorway and I get a whiff of cologne mixed with cigarettes, which is a lot better than the I-haven't-showered-in-weeks smell he had the last time I was around him.

  I shut the door behind me and turn around, studying him as he looks around at the living room, the family pictures on the wall, the floral sofas, and the television.

  "I don't think I've ever actually been in your house," he states, turning in a circle before his eyes land on me. "It's nice."

  "Thanks," I say, fidgety. God, I have no idea what to say or do, where to put my hands, where to look. He has this scar on his cheek, like he had a gash there once and it healed, but the scar didn't used to be there. I want to ask him about it, yet I don't think I should.

  But he must notice me staring because he touches it and says, "Trace cut me there with a knife that day when...well, you know, everything went to shit."

  My lips form an o. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

  He nods and waves it off. "Yeah, it's pretty much healed now."

  Memories. Potent. Tearing my heart in half. Vegas. Quinton. Knife. Cuts. Drugs. I take a slow breath and let it out, telling myself to calm down.

  "I'm sorry," he says, taking his hands out of his pockets and crossing his arms.

  "For what?"

  "For bringing up Vegas."

  "You don't have to worry about bringing it up," I insist, sitting down on the sofa, and he sits beside me. "We can talk about it..." What am I doing? "If you want?"

  He eyes me skeptically, like he doesn't quite believe I'm being serious. "Maybe in a bit," he says. "How about we just chill for a while and see where things go."

  I nod and we spend the next hour talking about nothing important. High school. What we used to do for fun. He does tell me a little bit about when he got into drugs, but never does explain why. He got high for the first time quite a while before his sister died. His using never had to do with her death, although being high made that easier to deal with. I wonder what the cause was but don't dare ask, afraid I might upset him.

  Around dinnertime I order pizza and then Tristan and I sit back down on the couch in the living room and eat while we continue to talk.

  "So you're doing okay then?" I ask, opening up the pizza box. "I mean with being out in the real world."

  He shrugs, reaching for a piece of pizza. "Well, I've only been out for a week, so I'm still not sure...I'm still not sure about a lot of things, like what the hell I'm going to do with my life...I'm supposed to be making goals." He rolls his eyes. "I tried to tell my counselor that I didn't have goals but she didn't seem to believe me."

  "You could go to school," I suggest, picking up a slice of pizza. "It's a great place to start."

  He smiles amusedly. "Nova, no college is going to accept me. I barely graduated high school."

  "That's not true," I tell him. "Sure, Ivy League schools probably won't, but my college is pretty easy to get into. In fact, Lea, my friend you met in Vegas, well, her boyfriend didn't even graduate. He got his GED and still got into my college."

  He picks at the cheese on his pizza as he leans back in the sofa. "I guess I'll think about it, then," he says. "But I never did like school."

  "Neither did I in high school," I agree, relaxing back against the armrest with a slice of pizza in my hand. "But college isn't so bad."

  He seems surprised. "You always seemed li
ke you liked high school."

  "Yeah, but I was good at faking how I felt." I take a bite of my pizza.

  "Really?" There's playfulness to his tone. "I always sort of thought of you as an open book."

  I roll my eyes. "You did not."

  "I did too," he says. "I could always tell when you were angry or upset, which was a lot. Like that time we kissed." The corners of his lips quirk. "I could tell seconds afterward that you regretted it."

  I'm not sure how to respond. I don't quite think he's flirting with me, just being cheerful, but at the same time we're just sitting here joking around and it feels wrong.

  "Well, I'm not angry and upset a lot anymore," I say, taking a bite of my pizza. "And I'm sorry about the kiss thing, but I was going through some stuff."

  "I know," he says, picking a string of cheese off his chin. "And if you're not angry or upset anymore, then what are you?"

  "I'm not sure," I say honestly, staring down at my pizza. "Most of the time I just feel normal, but sometimes I feel sad."

  His chest sinks as he blows out a slow breath. It grows silent between us, the only sound the chewing of our pizza, as my thoughts drift to what's making me sad--Quinton. I wish things could be different. I wish he could be sitting here with us in the awkwardness, eating pizza, and talking about everyday things for the most part.

  "Do you still think about him a lot?" Tristan finally asks, giving me a sideways glance.

  I blink my gaze off my pizza and look at him. "Think about who?"

  He picks a pepper off his pizza and tosses it into the box. "Quinton."

  I nod. "All the time."

  "Me, too," he utters.

  "Have you heard anything from his dad, by chance?" I ask, setting my half-eaten slice of pizza down on the plate on the coffee table in front of us. "My mom said he went down there for a while to look for him, but with how hard she worked to get him there, I'm not so convinced he'll really look for him."

  He swallows a bite of pizza. "Yeah, he took a week off from work and went down there. I guess he put up flyers and everything..." He pauses, picking at a string of cheese hanging off the pizza. "I hate to say this, but I have to...no one's going to find Quinton."

  A massive lump forms in my throat as I force a bite of pizza down. "Do you really think that?"

  Tristan tosses his crust in the pizza box as he puts his feet up on the coffee table and leans back in the sofa. "I think he'll only be found when he wants to be found."

  "And do you think he'll ever get to that point?" I tuck my foot under me, turning sideways on the sofa.

  Confusion vanishes from his face as he folds his arms across his chest. "Honestly, Nova, I'm not sure. I know that if you would have asked me a few months ago if I wanted to be found, I'd say no. In fact my parents actually tried to call me a couple of times and I blew them off." He pauses, staring at the window across from us, where I can see Landon's house just outside. "But after almost dying...well, things changed a little."

  "So you were glad you were found?" I ask. "Glad you're here instead of Vegas?"

  He contemplates this deeply. "I'm not going to lie." His fists tighten as he crosses his arms. "Even after all that shit happened, I still crave it...crave the solitude drugs gave me." He pauses again. "But I prefer being here at the moment."

  "Because you're sober," I say. "And can see things a little clearer now."

  "Yeah, I guess that's it...but I don't think that helps with Quinton, since I was forced to get sober and someone would have to force him to get sober." He searches my eyes for something. "You managed to walk away from it once. How did you do it without anyone forcing you?"

  I don't want to tell him, but at the same time I'm the one who brought up the subject, so I decide to just be honest, even though it'll probably sting a little. "It was a video Landon--my boyfriend who died--made. It made me rethink what I was doing and reminded me of who I used to be." My hands shake as I pick up my soda, thinking about how watching the video this summer had the opposite effect and kind of made things worse, because I wasn't letting it go. Letting go. A really big problem for me.

  "Are you okay?" Tristan asks, noting how emotional I'm getting.

  I nod. "Yeah, it just gets to me sometimes...I mean, I still feel guilty for leaving Quinton down there."

  He considers something for a moment while I take a sip of my soda. "I feel guilty, too, because I think he's out there somewhere thinking what happened to me is his fault and it's not. Just like he blamed himself for my sister's death and his girlfriend's. I think he's been spending two years blaming himself for everything." He starts picking more peppers off of his pizza and dropping them on top of the pizza box. I can tell he's trying to internally work through his thoughts. Processing something. Finally he slumps back in the sofa. "You want to know what I think?"

  I nod with eagerness. "Yeah, I do."

  He pauses, then he takes a deep breath. "I think that what Quinton needs is to realize that all of the stuff wasn't his fault--that shit just happens sometimes and is out of our control."

  Easier said than done. I've heard how Quinton thinks about himself, what he thinks people think of him--how he thinks everyone hates him. I know he needs to be freed from those thoughts so he can breathe again, but I'm still not 100 percent sure how to make him see that. I spent the first part of the summer trying to get to him, make him see that he was a better person than he thought.

  I stare down at the backs of my hands, worried about what I'm about to ask, but needing to ask it nonetheless. "Do you think he'll ever be able to get to that place? Be able to forgive himself for what happened? Realize that it wasn't his fault?"

  Tristan doesn't say anything right away. I wonder if it's because he's actually thinking about the answer or if it's just hard for him to talk about things related to his sister's death. "I'm not sure." His voice slightly trembles and he clears it. "I want to try, though...help him if I can find him...help him realize it's not his fault, like I should have been doing instead of injecting my veins with poison."

  I bite at my lips. "So you don't blame him for...for the accident? Like your parents do?"

  He shakes his head. "I've never really looked at it like that. Yeah, it kind of made me angry the first few times I saw him after I lost my sister, but at the same time, I got that it was an accident. He wasn't drunk or high or anything. Shit just happened. It was no one's fault." He pauses, rubbing his hand tensely down his face. "Besides, if it wasn't for Quinton I wouldn't even be here right now, I don't think...he called the ambulance when I OD'd...he did CPR..." He trails off, seeming distracted by the memories. "And he tried so hard to save me even before that. Get me to stop doing stupid shit. Tell me that I was better than it...help my sorry ass when I got us into trouble."

  God, what I would give for Quinton to be here and hear that. I wonder if he'd see it that way--that he saved a life. Not took one. That he did good. Helped someone. "You could tell Quinton all that," I say. "We just have to find him."

  He turns his head for a moment and I'm pretty sure he's wiping away tears. But I don't say anything and when he turns around to me, his eyes are dry. "You know, you're one of the most determined people I've ever met," he says.

  "Not determined enough," I say, thinking about how I left Vegas--left Quinton there.

  "Hey." He puts a hand on my knee and I flinch. "You staying there wouldn't have done any good. Like I said, Quinton needs to stop blaming himself before anything can change, and realize there are people that care about him. And even then he still has a lot of shit to work through."

  "Do you think there's still hope?" I ask. "For him? That he could still get better?"

  I hold my breath as I wait for the answer and I swear it takes hours when really it's probably only seconds. He nods and I breathe again.

  "I think as long as he's alive still, there will always be hope," he says softly. "And if we could get him sober, or at least give him an intervention and get him to a place where he could get sober, li
ke my parents did with me, then maybe he could start working on forgiving himself."

  It grows quiet between Tristan and me, as soundless as that day I spent with Quinton on the roof. I wonder if it's quiet where he is, if he's enjoying the quiet, or if he even realizes it is quiet. I wonder if he has a roof over his head. I wonder if he's eaten anything. I wonder if he still looks at things from an artist's point of view. I wonder if he still draws. I wonder if he still thinks about me.

  There are so many things I wonder but the biggest question I'll always have is if he's okay.

  Quinton

  I have lost track of time. I can't remember what month it is, what day. I can barely tell it's night. I'm down to my last pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I lost one of my shoes somewhere, but I can't remember where. I've barely had any water to drink in days and I'm starting to feel it, a slow ache in my throat and belly, but I can't bring myself to leave the roof, so I stay up there most of the time. Nancy complains about me being a lazy-ass junkie, leaving it to her to make all the money, dealing and whoring herself out. I always tell her to go and I wish she would so I'd finally rot all the way into nothing, yet she always comes back and keeps me going when I'm on the verge of dying.

  Nancy's been on her cell phone for a while, something she came back with the other day, telling me it'd help her with her clients, but I look at it as money wasted on the phone and the stupid card she paid for to get minutes. We're getting low on our stash, only a hit or two left, and she's trying to find more for cheap. She's yammering away in the background, but her voice is barely there as I stand on the edge of the roof, staring down at the vacant houses and stores below, the wind against my back and my arms out to the sides. I don't have a shirt on or shoes and my pants barely stay up at my hips. There's hardly anything left to me, but I'm still here, wasting away.

  One more step and I could be free. One more step and I could finally just fall and crash to my death. The lights would go off. The guilt would be gone. This personal hell that I live in would end.