Saving Quinton, Page 30

  I figure he's dumping me, so I climb out, stumbling a little as the cold air hits me. I've been so used to the sweltering heat, but now I just feel cold all the time.

  "Where are we?" I ask, wrapping my arms around myself. I have a jacket on, but it's still so cold.

  He looks at me with pity as he shuts the door. "I already told you, we're getting you help."

  I don't know why he keeps saying this but then I look over at the sign on the building and I understand. "I'm not going to rehab," I say, reaching back for the door handle. "Now take me out of here."

  He shakes his head and puts his hand on the door. "No, I won't."

  "Why the fuck not?" I ask, jerking the door open, my body starting to uncontrollably shiver.

  He pushes on it and slams it shut. "Because I'm not going to let you ruin your life anymore."

  I almost laugh at him. "Anymore? Why the change of heart? After all these years?"

  "Because it's what your mother would have wanted," he says in an unsteady voice, but it looks like he's holding back, not telling me the entire reason. "And I should have realized that a long time ago."

  He's barely spoken about my mom in the twenty-one years I've known him and now all of a sudden he is. More emotion piles over me and I'm not high so I feel it. It's been a very long time since I've been this sober and I feel so lost and disoriented. Sick to my stomach. Overwhelmed. Maybe it's because of this that I go inside. Or maybe it's the simple fact that when I look down the road that will take me out of here, it looks so far and I feel so goddamned tired and beaten down. But I walk into that building with zero expectations, because I can't even think that far ahead yet. I'm moving forward by a half step at a time and sometimes it feels like I'm moving backward. But I manage to get checked in. They take everything of mine away, which is pretty much nothing. Then they give me something that will supposedly help me deal with the withdrawal, but I know it won't help because it's not a shot of heroin and that's the only thing that would make this whole process less painful.

  I go into a small room with a bed and a dresser, and then sink down on the bed, feeling too much of this moment. It's excruciating, the fire in my veins burning hotter and hotter. I feel like ripping my skin off, banging my head on the wall, anything to get the fire--the emotion out of me. I start desperately begging, to the door, to the ceiling, hoping someone will hear me and help me, but all I have are the four walls surrounding me. No one is going to help me out of this. No one is going to hurt me like I want to hurt myself.

  So all I can do is take the next breath and then another.

  About the Author

  Jessica Sorensen lives in Wyoming with her husband and three children. She is the author of numerous romance novels and her first new adult novels, The Secret of Ella and Micha and The Coincidence of Callie and Kayden, were both New York Times and kindle bestsellers.

  Keep in contact with Jessica: jessicasorensensblog.blogspot.com

  Facebook/Jessica Sorensen @jessFallenStar

  Loved Saving Quinton? Make sure you've read the first book in the Nova series, out now:

  Breaking Nova

  Discover the intense, passionate and page-turning novel from the number one New York Times bestseller. Turn the page for a taster . . .

  And buy it here: http://www.littlebrown.co.uk/books/detail.page?isbn=9780751555349

  Chapter 1

  May 19, Day 1 of Summer Break

  Nova

  I have the web camera set up perfectly angled straight at my face. The green light on the screen is flickering insanely, like it can't wait for me to start recording. But I'm not sure what I'll say or what the point of all this is, other than my film professor suggested it.

  He'd actually suggested to the entire class--and probably all of his classes--telling us that if we really wanted to get into filming, we should practice over the summer, even if we weren't enrolled in any summer classes. He said, "A true videographer loves looking at the world through an alternative eye, and he loves to record how he sees things in a different light." He was quoting straight out of a textbook, like most of my professors do, but for some reason something about what he said struck a nerve.

  Maybe it was because of the video Landon made right before the last seconds of his life. I've never actually watched his video, though. I never really wanted to and I can't, anyway. I'm too afraid of what I'll see or what I won't see. Or maybe it's because seeing him like that means finally accepting that he's gone. Forever.

  I originally signed up for the film class because I waited too long to enroll for classes and I needed one more elective. I'm a general major and don't really have a determined interest path, and the only classes that weren't full were Intro to Video Design or Intro to Theater. At least with the video class I'd be behind a lens instead of standing up in front of everyone where they could strip me down and evaluate me. With video, I get to do the evaluating. Turns out, though, that I liked the class, and I found out that there's something fascinating about seeing the world through a lens, like I could be looking at it from anyone's point of view and maybe see things at a different angle, like Landon did during his last few moments alive. So I decided that I would try to make some videos this summer, to get some insight on myself, Landon, and maybe life.

  I turn on "Jesus Christ" by Brand New and let it play in the background. I shove the stack of psychology books off the computer chair and onto the floor, clearing off a place for me to sit. I've been collecting the books for the last year, trying to learn about the human psyche--Landon's psyche--but books hold just words on pages, not thoughts in his head.

  I sit down on the swivel chair and clear my throat. I have no makeup on. The sun is descending behind the mountains, but I refuse to turn the bedroom light on. Without the light the screen is dark, and I look like a shadow on a backdrop. But it's perfect. Just how I want it. I tap the cursor and the green light shifts to red. I open my mouth, ready to speak, but then I freeze up. I've never been one for being on camera or in pictures. I'd liked being behind the scenes, and now I'm purposely throwing myself into the spotlight.

  "People say that time heals all wounds, and maybe they're right." I keep my eyes on the computer screen, watching my lips move. "But what if the wounds don't heal correctly, like when cuts leave behind nasty scars, or when broken bones mend together, but aren't as smooth anymore?" I glance at my arm, my brows furrowing as I touch the scar along the uneven section of skin with my fingertip. "Does it mean they're really healed? Or is that the body did what it could to fix what broke..." I trail off, counting backward from ten, gathering my thoughts. "But what exactly broke...with me...with him... I'm not sure, but it feels like I need to find out...somehow...about him...about myself...but how the fuck do I find out about him when the only person that truly knew what was real is ...gone?" I blink and then click the screen off, and it goes black.

  *

  May 27, Day 7 of Summer Break

  I started this ritual when I got to college. I wake up and count the seconds it takes for the sun to rise over the hill. It's my way of preparing for another day I don't want to prepare for, knowing that it's another day to add to my list of days I've lived without Landon.

  This morning worked a little differently, though. I'm home for my first summer break of college, and instead of the hills that surround Idaho, the sun advances over the immense Wyoming mountains that enclose Maple Grove, the small town I grew up in. The change makes it difficult to get out of bed, because it's unfamiliar and breaks the routine I set up over the last eight months. And that routine was what kept me intact. Before it, I was a mess, unstable, out of control. I had no control. And I need control, otherwise I end up on the bathroom floor with a razor in my hand with the need to understand why he did it--what pushed him to that point. But the only way to do that is to make my veins run dry, and it turned out that I didn't have it in me. I was too weak, or maybe it was too strong. I honestly don't know anymore, what's considered weak and what's considered strong. W
hat's right and what's wrong. Who I was and who I should be.

  I've been home for a week, and my mom and stepfather are watching me like hawks, like they expect me to break down again, after almost a year. But I'm in control now. In control.

  After I get out of bed and take a shower, I sit for exactly five minutes in front of my computer, staring at the file folder that holds the video clip Landon made before he died. I always give myself five minutes to look at it, not because I'm planning on opening it, but because it recorded his last few minutes, captured him, his thoughts, his words, his face. It feels like the last piece of him that I have left. I wonder if one day, somehow, I'll finally be able to open it. But at this moment, in the state of mind I'm stuck in, it just doesn't seem possible. Not much does.

  Once the five minutes are over, I put on my swimsuit, then pull on a floral sundress over it and strap some leather bands onto my wrists. Then I pull the curtains shut, so Landon's house will be out of sight and out of mind, before heading back to my computer desk to record a short clip.

  I click Record and stare at the screen as I take a few collected breaths. "So I was thinking about my last recording--my first--and I was trying to figure out what the point of this is--or if there even had to be a point. " I rest my arms on the desk and lean closer to the screen, assessing my blue eyes. "I guess if there is a point, it would be for me to discover something. About myself or maybe about...him, because it feels like there's still so much stuff I'm missing...so many unanswered questions and all the lack of answers leaves me feeling lost, not just about why the hell he did it, but about what kind of person I am that he could leave so easily...Who was I then? Who am I now? I really don't know...But maybe when I look back and watch these one day far, far down the road, I'll realize what I really think about life and I'll finally get some answers to what leaves me confused every single day, because right now I'm about as lost as a damn bottle floating in gross, murky water."

  I pause, contemplating as I tap my fingers on the desk. "Or maybe I'll be able to backtrack through my thoughts and figure out why he did it." I inhale and then exhale loudly as my pulse begins to thrash. "And if you're not me and you're watching these, then you're probably wondering who he is, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to say his name yet. Hopefully I'll get there. One day--someday, but who knows...maybe I'll always be as clueless and as lost as I am now."

  I leave it at that and turn the computer off, wondering how long I'm going to continue this pointless charade, this time filler, because right now that's how it feels. I shove the chair away and head out of my room. It takes fifteen steps to reach the end of the hall, then another ten to get me to the table. They're each taken at a consistent pace and with even lengths. If I were filming right now, my steps would be smooth and perfect, steady as a rock.

  "Good morning, my beautiful girl," my mother singsongs as she whisks around the kitchen, moving from the stove to the fridge, then to the cupboard. She's making cookies, and the air smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, and it reminds me of my childhood when my dad and I would sit at the table, waiting to stuff our mouths with sugar. But he's not here anymore and instead Daniel, my stepfather, is sitting at the table. He's not waiting for the cookies. In fact he hates sugar and loves healthy food, mostly eating stuff that looks like rabbit food.

  "Good morning, Nova. It's so good to have you back." He has on a suit and tie, and he's drinking grapefruit juice and eating dry toast. They've been married for three years, and he's not a bad guy. He's always taken care of my mom and me, but he's very plain, orderly, and somewhat boring. He could never replace my dad's spontaneous, adventurous, down-to-earth personality.

  I plop down in the chair and rest my arms on the kitchen table. "Good morning."

  My mom takes a bowl out of the cupboard and turns to me with a worried look on her face. "Nova, sweetie, I want to make sure you're okay...with being home. We can get you into therapy here, if you need it, and you're still taking your medication, right?"

  "Yes mom, I'm still taking my medication," I reply with a sigh and lower my head onto my arms and shut my eyes. I've been on antianxiety medication for a while now. I'm not sure if it really does anything or not, but the therapist prescribed it to me so I take it. "I take them every morning, but I stopped going to therapy back in December, because it doesn't do anything but waste time." Because no matter that, they always want me to talk about what I saw that morning--what I did and why I did it--and I can't even think about it, let only talk about it.

  "Yeah, I know, honey, but things are different when you're here," she says quietly.

  I remember the hell I put her through before I left. The lack of sleep, the crying...cutting my wrist open. But that's in the past now. I don't cry as much, and my wrist has healed.

  "I'm fine, Mom." I open my eyes, sit back up, and overlap my fingers in front of me. "So please, pretty please, with a cherry on top and icing and candy corn, would you please stop asking?"

  "You sound just like your father...everything had to be referenced to sugar," she remarks with a frown as she sets the bowl down on the counter. In a lot of ways she looks like me: long brown hair, a thin frame, and a sprinkle of freckles on her nose. But her blue eyes are a lot brighter than mine, to the point where they almost sparkle. "Honey, I know you keep saying that you're fine, but you look so sad...and I know you were doing okay at school, but you're back here now, and everything that happened is right across the street." She opens a drawer and selects a large wooden spoon, before bumping the drawer shut with her hip. "I just don't want the memories to get to you now that you're home and so close to...everything."

  I stare at my reflection in the stainless-steel microwave. It's not the clearest. In fact, my face looks a little distorted and warped, like I'm looking into a funhouse mirror, my own face nearly a stranger. But if I tilt sideways just a little, I almost look normal, like my old self. "I'm fine," I repeat, observing how blank my expression looks when I say it. "Memories are just memories." Really, it doesn't matter what they are, because I can't see the parts that I know will rip my heart back open: the last few steps leading up to Landon's finality and the soundless moments afterward, before I cracked apart. I worked hard to stitch my heart back up after it was torn open, even if I hadn't done it neatly.

  "Nova." She sighs as she starts mixing the cookie batter. "You can't just try to forget without dealing with it first. It's unhealthy."

  "Forgetting is dealing with it." I grab an apple from a basket on the table, no longer wanting to talk about it because it's in the past, where it belongs.

  "Nova, honey," she says sadly. She's always tried to get me to talk about that day. But what she doesn't get is that I can't remember, even if I really tried, which I never will. It's like my brain's developed its own brain and it won't allow those thoughts out, because once they're out, they're real. And I don't want them to be real--I don't want to remember him like that. Or me.

  I push up from the chair, cutting her off. "I think I'm going to hang out next to the pool today, and Delilah will probably be over in a bit."

  "If that's what you want." My mom smiles halfheartedly at me, wanting to say more, but fearing what it'll do to me. I don't blame her, either. She's the one who found me on the bathroom floor, but she thinks it's more than it was. I was just trying to find out what he felt like--what was going on inside of him when he decided to go through with it.

  I nod, grab a can of soda out of the fridge, and give her a hug before I head for the sliding glass door. "That's what I want."

  She swallows hard, looking like she might cry because she thinks she's lost her daughter. "Well, if you need me, I'm here." She turns back to her bowl.

  She's been saying that to me since I was thirteen, ever since I watched my dad die. I've never taken her up on the offer, even though we've always had a good relationship. Talking about death with her--at all--doesn't work for me. At this point in my life, I couldn't talk to her about it even if I wanted to. I have my silence now, which i
s my healing, my escape, my sanctuary. Without it, I'd hear the noises of that morning, see the bleeding images, and feel the crushing pain connected to them. If I saw them, then I'd finally have to accept that Landon's gone.

  *

  I don't like unknown places. They make me anxious and I have trouble thinking--breathing. One of the therapists I first saw diagnosed me with obsessive-compulsive disorder. I'm not sure if he was right, though, because he moved out of town not too long after. I was left with a therapist in training, so to speak, and he decided that I was just depressed and had anxiety, hence the antianxiety medication for the last year and three months.

  The unfamiliarity of the backyard disrupts my counting, and it takes me forever to get to the pool. By the time I arrive at the lawn chair, I know how many steps it took me to get here, how many seconds it took me to sit down, and how many more seconds it took for Delilah to arrive and then take a seat beside me. I know how many rocks are on the path leading to the porch--twenty-two--how many branches are on the tree shielding the sunlight from us--seventy-eight. The only thing I don't know is how many seconds, hours, years, decades, it will take before I can let go of the goddamn self-induced numbness. Until then I'll count, focus on numbers instead of the feelings always floating inside me, the ones linked to images immersed just beneath the surface.

  Delilah and I lie in lawn chairs in the middle of my backyard with the pool behind us and the sun bearing down on us as we tan in our swimsuits. She's been my best friend for the past year or so. Our sudden friendship was strange, because we'd gone to high school together but never really talked. She and I were in different social circles and I had Landon. But after it happened...after he died...I had no one, and the last few weeks of high school were torture. Then I met her, and she was nice and she didn't look at me like I was about to shatter. We hit it off, and honestly, I have no idea what I'd do without her now. She's been there for me, she shows me how to have fun, and she reminds me that life still exists in the world, even if it's brief.