“So try not to freak out,” Tristan tells me as he halts in front a shut door near the end of the hallway.
My body goes rigid. “Why would I freak out…God, Tristan, how bad is he?”
“Personally, I think he looks worse than he really is.” He grips the doorknob, pressing his other hand to his chest, the one holding the bag of ice, and the bag knocks against his stomach. “But I’m not sure if you’ll agree.”
My muscles ravel into even more knots as he opens the door, then my breath hitches in my throat at what’s on the other side of it. A room about the size of a closet with clothes and coins all over the linoleum floor, along with a mirror, razor, and small plastic bag. And just beside the doorway, there’s a lumpy mattress on the floor, and Quinton’s lying on it.
Quinton.
His arm hangs lifelessly over the side of the mattress and his eyes are shut, his body motionless, and the leaky ceiling is dripping filthy water on him. And his face…the bruises…the swelling…the cuts…if I couldn’t see his scarred chest rising and falling, I’d think he was dead.
“Oh my God.” I cover my mouth with my hand, tears stinging at my eyes, my gut twisting in knots.
He looks dead. Just like Landon. Only there’s no rope, just bruises and cuts and a room full of the darkness that’s consumed his life.
“Relax.” Tristan sets the bag of ice down on the floor just inside the doorway. “I already told you he looks worse than he is.”
“No, he looks as bad as he is,” I argue in a harsh tone, my heart plunging into my stomach as I push my way into the room and stop when I get to the mattress. “What happened to him?”
“I told you, he got beat up,” Tristan replies, standing in the doorway right in front of Lea.
“And why didn’t you take him to a hospital?” Lea asks in a clipped tone, giving Tristan a hard look that makes him lean back a little.
“Um, because hospitals draw attention, especially when you’ve got all kinds of shit running in your blood,” Tristan says with zero sympathy and I realize I don’t like this Tristan very much. The old Tristan I knew was a lot nicer, but this one seems like an ass**le. “And the last thing we need is more attention drawn to us.”
Lea glares at him as she crosses her arms. “Wow, what a friend you are.”
“I’m not his friend,” Tristan points out. “I’m his cousin.”
“And that changes things because?” Lea asks with irritation.
“What the f**k is your deal?” Tristan retorts, stepping toward her.
They start arguing but I barely hear them, their voices quickly fading into the background as I focus on Quinton. I want to help him—it’s what I came here to do. But this…I don’t even know what to do with this. He’s hurt, bleeding, unconscious. I don’t know how long he’s been like this, what he did to end up like this, what kind of drugs he has in his system, or if he’ll act like Tristan when he wakes up.
I need to do something.
I carefully kneel on the mattress and it sinks beneath my weight. He’s changed since I last saw him, his jaw scruffy, but more defined, since he’s lost weight. His hair’s grown out a little and he looks shaggy and rough. He’s shirtless and the muscles that once defined his stomach and chest are gone, his lean arms now lanky. The only things that are really the same are the indistinct scar over his top lip, the large scar on his chest, and the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One. Before, I wondered what they meant, but now I’m pretty sure I know. Lexi was his girlfriend, Ryder was his cousin and probably Tristan’s sister, and No One is Quinton. How can he think of himself as no one? How can he think he doesn’t matter? God, it’s like I’m back with Landon again and I’m looking at him withering inside himself.
“Nothing I say or do matters in this world, Nova,” he says to me as he leans back on his hands, staring at a tree in front of us. “When I’m gone, the world will keep moving.”
“That’s not true,” I say, stunned by his declaration. Sure, he gets depressed sometimes, but this is dark and heavy and hurts me to hear. “I won’t be able to keep moving.”
“Yes, you will,” he says, sitting up and cupping my cheek with his hand as we sit at the bottom of the hill in his backyard. The sun gleams down on us and there’s not really a point to what we’re doing other than to be with each other, which is fine with me.
“No I won’t,” I argue. “If you die, I’ll die right along with you.”
He smiles sadly and shakes his head. “No you won’t, you’ll see.”
“No, I won’t see.” I scoot away from his touch, getting frustrated. “Because you’re not leaving before me,” I say. “Promise me you won’t. Promise me that we’ll grow old together and that I’ll go first.”
He starts to laugh like I’m amusing, but it’s stiff and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nova, you know I can’t promise that when I have no control over life and death.”
“I don’t care,” I say, knowing I’m being irrational, but I need to hear him say it. “Just tell me that you’ll let me go first. Please.”
He sighs tiredly and then scoots across the grass, getting close to me and placing his hand back on my cheek. “All right, I promise. You can go first.”
I can tell he doesn’t mean it and I want to cry, but I don’t. I just keep silent, stewing in my own thoughts, fearing to press him—fearing I’ll make him mad at me. Fearing the truth. Fearing that whatever’s going on his head, I won’t be able to handle it or help.
I blink from the memory and focus on Quinton. “My poor Quinton,” I utter under my breath, like he belongs to me, even though he doesn’t. But at that moment I wish he did and I could just pick him up and take him out of here. Clean up his cuts and feed him because he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. I become hyper-aware of just how much I care for him and want to make him better—help him. And this time I’m not going to silently watch him slip away.
Hesitantly I reach for him, but then pull back fearing I’ll hurt him, and instead lean over him with my hands to my sides, clenched into fists. “Quinton,” I say softly. “Can you hear me?”
He doesn’t respond, breathing in and out, his chest rising and sinking. I dare to touch his cheek, gently cup it in my hand, feel how cold his skin is. “Quinton, please wake up…I’m so sorry…for not seeing…for not being able to see…” I struggle for words through the abundance of emotions surfacing. Regret. Worry. Fear. Remorse. Pain. God, I feel his pain, hot beneath my skin, flooding my heart, and I wish I could pull it out of him. “Please, please open your eyes,” I choke.