Saving Quinton

by Jessica Sorensen

  I tear myself away from the memory as Nova's quivering hand slides across the seat and takes hold of mine. Heat. Warmth. Comfort. Fear. All these things surge through me and all I can do is stare at our hands, fingers tangled, connected. It's been a long fucking time since I've felt a connection, the last time being with her last summer.

  "I went to therapy for a while," she divulges as she clutches my hand. Her fingers are trembling and I notice that just below the scar on her wrist is a tattoo: never forget. I wonder what it means, what she doesn't want to forget. "It was kind of helpful...it made me realize that I was running away from my problems instead of facing them. All the stuff I did...the drugs, how I cut my wrist, all of it was because I wasn't dealing with Landon...my boyfriend's death." She says it like it's so easy to talk about and I have no idea what the fuck is going on. I mean I remember her telling me her boyfriend had taken his own life, but she was bawling her eyes out and now she looks so calm. I remember the scar on her wrist, too, but she never flat-out said she did it herself until now.

  "That's good," I say, not sure what else to say. What I want to do is just hug her, feel her, be the kind of person to comfort her, but I can't do that to her--offer her this revolting ghost version of myself. "I'm really glad for you."

  "It is good," she agrees, stroking the back of my hand with her finger. The feel of her skin on mine makes me shudder and I don't know why. I'm numbed by drugs. I shouldn't feel anything, yet I do. I feel everything. The heat of the sun. The slightest variation in our body temperatures, the soft coolness of the air as it hits my cheek. How much I want to kiss her.

  "It made me realize who I was and what I wanted out of life...I want to live and I mean really live, not just go through life in a daze. And I want to help people who were going through the same thing I went through...people who won't ask for help when they need it." She pauses. "I actually spent a lot of time volunteering for a suicide hotline, helping people."

  "That's really great." I'm happy she's made a life for herself, one where she can use her good heart to help people. "I'm so glad you moved on from all this shit..." I glance down at my bruised and scarred chest and my scraped-up hand, markings of who I am now. "I've always told you that you didn't belong in our world."

  "I don't think anyone really does," she says with all honesty. "I just think that sometimes people think that they do."

  I press my free hand to the side of my head as it begins to throb. She's messing with my head and it's giving me a headache. It's like her words have a hidden meaning, yet I can't figure it out what it is.

  "I don't agree with that," I say, still holding her hand even though I know I should let go. Just a little bit longer. Just a few more minutes of warmth before I step into the cold. "I think that sometimes people do terrible things and deserve to rot and die."

  She winces, her breath catching, but she quickly gathers herself and scoots closer to me on the seat. "You didn't do anything terrible."

  I clamp my jaw tightly and pull my hand away. "You have no idea of the things I did...what I've done."

  "So tell me," she says, like it's that easy when it's not. "Let me understand you."

  "You can't--no one can. I already told you this. No one can help me who's alive, anyway." Remorse skyrockets through me as I accidentally let the truth slip, but there's no taking it back. Sometimes, when I'm really high, at that point where I almost feel detached from my body, I think that maybe Lexi can help me, even though she's dead. Sometimes when I get that far gone, she doesn't feel dead--or maybe it's that I don't feel alive--and I swear she can hear my thoughts, almost touch me. She tells me that it's okay. That she forgives me and loves me, like she did yesterday when I was getting beaten up. But the comfort is only brief, since when I come out of my daze, I realize that it wasn't real and that no one will ever forgive me. That I'm a junkie who killed two people and there's no changing that.

  "Quinton, you're not alone," Nova says, her eyes watering as she inches closer to me, looking like she feels sorry for me. I want the look to go away so goddamned bad I'm considering shouting at her, but then she gets close enough that her bare knee touches the side of my leg. "And if you'll talk to me, you might be able to realize that. That you're not alone. That people care...that I care."

  Heat swelters me--her heat. I feel it. It's been a long time since I've felt anything and I want to jump out the door and run, yet I want to melt into her, too. I can't think straight. I need her to stop this. Need her to stop trying.

  "What if I told you I killed someone?" I say, hoping that maybe it's what will finally cut the ties...the connection between us that needs to be severed. "Would you still want to understand me then? Would you still care about me?"

  She winces and I think, There you go. Now are you scared? Now do you want to understand me?

  "I don't believe that," she tells me, quickly composing herself.

  "But I did," I say in a low voice, leaning in. "I took two lives, actually."

  "Not on purpose, I'm sure." She barely seems worried and it annoys me because I don't understand the reaction. Everyone around me told me what I fuckup I was, how much I messed up, how much I ruined everything. And she's just sitting here, looking at me like it's perfectly okay.

  "No, but it was still my fault." My voice cracks, revealing that I'm not really okay with talking about this, just pretending.

  "Not necessarily," she insists and then shifts so she's pretty much sitting on my lap, her knees on mine, her back against the dashboard so she's looking at me straight on and I seriously forget how to breathe. The sensation is so intense that it actually hurts, in my chest, my gut, my heart, what's left of my broken, insignificant soul. "I think that maybe you think it was your fault, but I know that sometimes blaming yourself is the only way to deal." She places her hand on my cheek and I feel a spark of life inside me, one I thought had burned out a long time ago.

  "That's not what I'm doing...I don't even deal with it." I pause, wondering how she got me to say that aloud when she doesn't even know what the heck I'm talking about. I've been so shut down for months and now she shows up and I can feel that pull to life again. I've taken a breath again and it's time to return to my drowning because I can feel the painful prickle of memories surfacing. What death felt like on my hands; Lexi's blood, my own, the guilt, all still memories decaying inside me.

  "I need to go back." I ball my hands into fists to keep from touching her and I stare out the window, avoiding her overpowering gaze. "I'm done talking. I just want to go back now."

  She hesitates and I expect her to argue, but instead she puts the car in reverse. "Okay, I can take you back, but can I ask for a favor before I do?" she asks.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath, wishing I could stop breathing altogether. "Sure."

  "Can I come visit you tomorrow?" she requests in a soft tone. "I'm not going to be here for very long and I'd like to see you and talk to you a little bit more before I have to go."

  I should tell her no, save her like she's trying to save me, but even in my cracked-up head I can't bring myself to let her go just yet, so I greedily say, "Yeah, if you want to, but I hope you don't." I open my eyes and watch her reaction.

  She smashes her lips together, battling her nerves. "But I do want to see you. I really, really do."

  I'm not sure what to do with that, so I decide to do nothing, shutting myself down, and it's easy because seconds later I'm thinking about something else, getting home, getting to Johnny's, getting my next hit. Then nothing will matter. Not this. Not the future. My past. What I did.

  It'll all be gone.

  *

  I don't say much to her on the ride back to my place, but she talks lightly about music, how she's been playing again, and I love hearing her talk that way. I love hearing her happy. It makes me almost want to smile and I haven't wanted to smile in a really long time, but I don't think I quite get there.

  Then we're pulling up to my building and the slight elation I wa
s feeling deflates into the darkness that engulfs the place where I live and my mouth begins to salivate, knowing what's waiting for me as soon as I get Tristan and get to Johnny's. I want it more than sitting in this car, more than eating, breathing, living.

  "So when should I come over tomorrow?" she asks, the tires of the car grinding against the gravel as she stops the car a little ways from the building.

  "Whenever you want," I tell her, because it doesn't really matter. I know I'm going to be up all night and all day after I get enough lines in my system. Then I start to get out of the car, ready to get inside my apartment. Ready to forget all of this. Ready to be free again from my emotions, my conflict, my memories. I'm ready to return to my prison.

  "Wait, Quinton," she calls out, and I pause, turning to look at her.

  Her lips part, like she's about to say something, but then she shuts her mouth and scoots over toward me. I freeze up, wondering what she's doing. Then she opens the glove box and takes out a pen and tears a corner off an envelope. She jots down some digits and then hands the paper to me. "This is my number, just in case you need to call me for something."

  I stare down at the paper in my hand, baffled that she gave it to me. "I don't have a phone."

  "I know," she says, tossing the pen down on the dashboard. "But Delilah does and I want to make sure you have that just in case."

  I try not to get worked up over the fact that she gave her number to me, like she actually doesn't mind if I call. Like she wants to talk to me. No one has given me their phone number in a very long time and I'm not sure what to do with it. Part of me wants to throw it away and get rid of the temptation to call her, but instead I find myself putting it in my pocket. Then I start to get out of the car, and she leans over and gently places a kiss on my mouth. I'm not sure why she does it, if it's simply a friendly kiss or if she's experiencing the same kind of pull I am. But the kiss feels twisted and wrong in a way, because I'm high and I wonder if she can taste it on me--the decay inside me. But in another way the kiss feels so damn right, like if I was living a normal life, one where I hadn't gotten in a car accident, and I'd simply broken up with Lexi and met Nova, we would have kissed like that all the time.

  I'm so sorry, Lexi. For forgetting you. For living. Moving forward in life, while you remain motionless.

  Thoughts of Lexi stab at my mind, yet I still kiss Nova back, slipping my tongue into her mouth, getting a brief taste of her before I pull back. "I'll see you later," I whisper against her lips and then lean back and take the food when she hands it to me, feeling like I'm leaving a piece of myself behind. But I shove the sensation aside and go back to my apartment, where I belong.

  When I open the door, I'm flooded by a musty cloud of smoke and my senses of taste, sight, smell, touch, go haywire. God, I need to feed my addiction. Now. In fact, waiting to get back to my room seems nearly impossible.

  Delilah and Dylan are sitting on the sofa, heating up some crystal on a piece of aluminum foil. Delilah is fixated on it, cuddled up to Dylan's side, watching him drag the lighter back and forth and create smoke. They both have bags under their eyes and I wonder how long it's been since they've slept...I wonder how long it's been since I've slept.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Dylan asks, glancing up from the piece of aluminum foil. He looks down at the McDonald's bag in my hand, confused because we rarely eat. "And where did you get that?" He's got a fresh bruise under his eye and there's dried blood on his lip.

  "From McDonald's," I say, heading for my room, not wanting to talk about Nova to either of them because it feels wrong to talk about her in such a crappy-ass environment. "What happened to your face?"

  "You and Tristan happened to my face," he says, irritated. Then he hands the aluminum foil and lighter to Delilah as he gets to his feet, scooping up something I didn't notice before on the coffee table. A small gun. What the fuck? "Do you want to tell me what happened with Trace...why you look like you got the shit beat out of you?"

  I stop near the curtain that shields the kitchen from the living room and flex my bruised fingers as I eyeball the gun, trying not to look alarmed, but it's a fucking gun for God's sake. "He sort of kicked my ass." I pause, deciding whether I should ask. "Where did you get that?"

  Dylan glances unconcernedly at the gun in his hand. "I got it the other day to protect myself."

  "Protect yourself from what?" I ask as Delilah's attention lazily drifts up from her crystal. Her eyes widen as she spots the gun in Dylan's hand and when she looks at me she appears horrified, very unlike herself, since usually she pretends she doesn't give a shit about anything.

  "Baby, put the gun down," she says, her voice quiet--scared. She's scared and I am, too, honestly.

  "Fuck you," Dylan snaps at her, and then he looks at me. His expression is stone-cold as he ambles toward me, the veins in his neck bulging, anger simmering in his eyes about ready to burst. "I had to get this after you two fucked up and now we're all on very thin ice." He points his finger at the bruise below his eye. "You see this fucking thing right here? I got this because I was jumped by Trace and his guys." He jabs a finger roughly against my chest. "Because you two worked for me and messed him over...like it's my fault you're dumbasses." He leans forward, his breath hot on my face. "Do you know how stupid you are to mess around with Trace?" He steps back and rakes his hand over his bald head, his other hand at his side, grasping the gun. "Jesus, I knew this was coming and I'm sure it isn't over with yet. The guy's a relentless douche."

  "You don't know anything for sure...maybe Trace is satisfied now that he beat the shit out of me and you," I say, knowing it's a stupid thought process and that there's no way that could be possible, but Dylan is all worked up with a gun in his hand. I glance over at Delilah as she gets up from the couch, watching us with caution. At first I think she's going to come over and try to talk him down, but then she eyes the door like she's going to run.

  "Yeah, because that's the way the world works," Dylan snaps, swinging the gun around while he turns in a circle. Delilah freezes in place while I realize just how severe this situation is: that he's high and he's got a gun and I'm standing right here in front of him. The question is: do I care? I'm not sure.

  He stops spinning and lowers the gun. "You two better stop fucking up," he warns in a low tone. "I have a lot riding on connections and I don't want you messing up any more of them."

  My heart is thudding in my chest as I think about how ruining his connection with Trace is only part of the problem. Tristan has also been stealing drugs and money from Dylan, like he did the other day. But as far as Dylan knows I was the last person with the money. Does he know it's gone? Does he think I took it? Will he shoot me if I tell him it was Tristan? Do I care? Jesus, my thoughts are racing a million miles a minute, flowing in a crooked stream through my brain. I'm losing control and I need to get out of here.

  Dylan tosses his gun onto the coffee table, making both me and Delilah jump. I seriously expected it to go off, but it doesn't and the air starts to cool, although Dylan still looks like he's going to hit me, his jaw set tight, his fist clenched, his arm kinked and ready to strike.

  But then he settles down and backs away, putting up his hands. "Take care of this mess--fix things with Trace. Get him drugs or pay him back--do whatever you have to to make this good again. And pay me back that fucking money you two were supposed to use for the exchange at Johnny's before your dumb ass got beat," he says in a voice that carries a warning. "Or else you're out of the house. You and Tristan both. I'm tired of your shit."

  I want to tell him that this apartment doesn't belong to him, since we're renting it together, but the gun is lying on the table, so instead I nod, even though I have no idea how I'm going to do either of those things. Then I go back into my room without saying another word. Tristan is waiting there with a mirror out in front of him along with a spoon and a syringe and a small plastic bag filled with crystallized powder. He's just staring at it with his knees pulled up to his che
st and his arms wrapped around his legs.

  When the door creaks, he glances up, looking relieved, and as soon as I see what he has in front of him, our emotions match. "Thank God," he says. "I thought I was going to lose my mind if I had to wait a second longer."

  "We have a huge problem," I announce as I kick the door shut behind me. "Did you know Dylan has a gun?"

  Tristan nods his head distractedly as he stares at the spoon. "Yeah, he made a point to show it to me yesterday when he threatened me and told me that I needed to patch things up with Trace and to pay him back the money we took."

  Anger flickers when he says "we," but I quickly simmer down, remembering I owe Tristan more than I'll ever be able to pay him back for killing his sister. "You should have said something. He completely blindsided me with it just now."

  He shrugs, glancing up at me. "Sorry, I forgot."

  I want to get mad at him, but at the same time I sort of understand how he could forget--how easily our spun minds can make things disappear. "So what are we going to do about it? I mean, he's super pissed and I guess Trace gave him a shiner--kicked his ass like he did mine."

  "We'll look for the gun when he's asleep or something and get rid of it," Tristan suggests, stretching his arms above his head as he blinks tiredly, probably ready for his next boost of adrenaline.

  "Okay, but even if we do that, we still have to worry about Trace coming to kick your ass."

  "If he does then he does," Tristan says indifferently, his hands flopping onto his lap.

  I bend down and lower myself to the floor beside the mattress, moving slowly because my body still aches. "I think we need to take care of it." Not for me, but for him.

  He rolls his eyes. "Just because Trace threatens us doesn't mean he's actually going to do anything about it."

  I look down at my banged-up body. "You really think so?" I ask.

  Tristan grunts unenthusiastically. "Fine, I'll figure out a way to pay him back or something. Or better yet, we could just find where Dylan hides his dealing stash and give him that."

  "Yeah, I don't think pissing Dylan off is going to help this situation at all." I bring my knee up and rest my arm on it. "We just need to find a way to pay Trace back what you owe him." I glance at the spoon and mirror on the floor and the bag of crystal. "And I'm guessing we need to find a way to pay Dylan back, too, since I'm assuming you already spent that money you stole from him."