My only response is the softness of his breathing. I check his pulse with my other hand and it’s there, murmuring against my skin. I try to tell myself there’s still hope, that I can get out of this, but looking around…looking at him, taking in the silence that’s almost as quiet as death…I’m not so sure anymore. And it hurts, almost as much as if I’d lost him, just like I lost Landon.
Quinton
I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming. Or maybe I’m dead. I’m hoping for the latter, but I don’t think it’s the correct assumption because this feels different from the first time I died. If I’m dreaming, it’s a beautiful dream, one where I’m with Nova and we’re happy. I’m surprised I’m seeing myself with her and normally I’d stop my thoughts from going there, but I’m not awake enough to care. Plus, I feel really good, better than I have in a while. Everything feels light. Breathless. Hazy and weightless. My memories of my past are fading. I can no longer feel the blood on my hands or the weight of guilt on my shoulders. Something wonderful is taking over. I’m not in the darkness, locked within myself. I’ve been swept up by light and I feel like I could do anything at the moment as I lie on my back, gazing up at the sky. Nova hovers over me, cupping my cheek, and her skin is so damn warm and she smells amazing. And her eyes…bright blue with specks of green, her skin dotted with freckles, and her full lips that look so delicious I want to taste them…and I’m going to, because nothing matters at the moment. It’s not real, which makes it easier to take what I want—admit what I want.
I lean up, not even thinking about what I’m doing, and press my lips to hers. It hurts my mouth but the pain is worth it—it’s worth everything just to taste her again. I could do it forever, and I want to, but when I slip my tongue deep inside her mouth, she pulls away, her eyes widening and swarming with confusion. I open my mouth to tell her to come back to me, because I want her—need to kiss her again—but then her lips start moving and the haze from my brain gradually starts to lift.
“Quinton, can you hear me?” she asks, her voice soft, distant. Or maybe I’m the one who’s distant.
“I…” It hurts to talk, my throat too dry, and the brightness of the sun is stinging at my eyes.
“Are you okay?” she says, and the sunlight dims as the blue sky changes into my shitty bedroom ceiling, cracked and stained with water. That stupid drip comes into focus, haunting me again.
I suddenly realize that I’m in my room. Awake. And Nova’s here. With me. My thoughts start racing as I try to recollect what happened. I was planning on those guys beating me to death. Why didn’t that happen? Because it was too easy? Do I deserve not to be let off so easy—do I deserve worse than death? But if that’s true then why’s Nova here?
“What are you doing here?” It’s painful to talk, but I force the words to leave my mouth. “Or am I dreaming?”
She repositions her hand on my cheek, but doesn’t pull away, the startled look in her eyes diminishing. “You’re not dreaming…you were unconscious but…are you okay?” She seems nervous and it reminds me of how innocent and good she is, and how she shouldn’t be here in the crack house that I call home.
“Why are you here?” I ask, my voice feeble as I try to sit up, but my arms aren’t working and I fall right back down on the mattress.
“I came here to see you,” she replies, absent-mindedly touching her lips, and I wonder if I really kissed her or if I was imagining it.
She stares at me with her fingers on her lips and it’s uncomfortable because she’s really looking at me. I’ve been so used to people looking through me, as if I were a ghost, seeing the drugs, the person that I am now, the worthlessness all over me, instead of who I used to be. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be really looked at and for a split second I enjoy it. Then she looks away and I feel like I’m dying, my brain registering the pain in my legs, arms, chest—everywhere. And I’m crashing. Badly. My hands start to shake, my heart rate picking up as soon as I realize this.
“Go put some ice in a plastic bag,” she says, snapping her fingers at someone.
I hear a mutter and then Tristan steps into my view. He glances down at me and the haziness in his eyes lets me know he’s high on something, but I’m glad he’s at least here and it doesn’t look like he’s been beaten up. “Dude, you look like shit,” he tells me with a dopey-ass grin.
“I feel like shit,” I mutter, managing to get my hand up to my face to rub my eyes. “You look like you got away.”
“I did, and you should have run with me, you dumbass…I thought you were for a while until I realized I was alone.” Tristan chuckles under his breath. “Wait until you see yourself in a mirror.”
His amusement seems to piss Nova off and she gets to her feet, tugging the bottoms of her shorts down, fury burning in her eyes. “Go get a f**king bag to put the ice in,” she says, not yelling, but her tone is cold, abrupt, harsh, and she sort of shoves him. This isn’t the Nova I remember at all and she kind of scares me.
She seems to scare Tristan, too, who surrenders with his hands in front of him and backs toward the doorway. “Fine. Jesus, Nova. You don’t have to get crazy about it.”
“You haven’t even begun to see me get crazy,” she snaps, pointing at the door. “Now go get a damn bag.”
After Tristan leaves, she turns to the doorway and says, “What am I going to do?”
I can’t see who she’s talking to and it makes me wonder who the hell is in here. Delilah? I doubt it, since I don’t think she’d be asking Delilah that question.
“I don’t know,” someone replies. I still can’t see who it is, but I can tell the voice belongs to a female and I hate how excited I get over the fact that Nova’s not here with a guy.
Suddenly a girl with black hair and big blue eyes steps in. “He looks…” She assesses me, then looks at Nova. “He looks like he needs to go to a hospital.”
“No hospitals,” I croak. “I don’t have the cash to pay for that.” And I don’t deserve to heal so easily. I should suffer for getting up and running away from my death.
Nova stares down at me with reluctance. “Quinton, I really think you need to go to a hospital.” She kneels back down on the mattress, sweeping her long brown hair to the side as she leans over me. Her fingers gently enfold my wrist and, moving slowly, she bends my arm so I can get a good view of my hand. It’s twice the size it normally is and my skin is purple and blue. Even where her fingers are, the skin is swollen and raw, and it seems like her touch should hurt, but all I can feel is heat—her heat. God, I’ve missed her heat. I’ve spent the last year wrapped up in coldness, feeling the numbness of drugs and sex with random women and now she’s here and I feel like I’m burning up.