“What rumors?” I lean against the wall and she stands across from me, relaxing against the door.
She shrugs, taking another drag of her cigarette. “That you’re here in Vegas.”
“Yeah, I got here a little over a week ago,” I tell her. “And you saw me the other day.”
“Really?” She stares at the ceiling as she tries to recollect. “I don’t remember that.”
“That’s because you were out of it,” I reply, folding my arms.
She sizes me up and I can see the hatred in her. “Why did you come here?”
“To see Quinton.” I ignore her rude attitude.
Smoke circles her face as she exhales. “Why?”
“Because I want to try and help him,” I explain to her.
“With what?”
I glance up and down the hallway, at the garbage on the floor, the used syringes, the empty alcohol bottle. There’s no carpet on the floor. The ceiling is cracked. The entire place looks like it’s about to collapse. “With getting out of this place.”
She laughs snidely. “Yeah, good luck with that.” She puts the cigarette between her lips again and breathes deep. “No one around here wants to be saved, Nova. You should remember that, since you were once in this place.”
“But I got out.”
“Because you wanted to.” She grazes her thumb across the bottom of the cigarette, scattering ash across the floor. “We’re all here because we choose to be here.”
I elevate my eyebrows. “Even you?”
She frowns. “Yes, even me.”
“Then why were you crying a few minutes ago?” I don’t really think that has anything to do with drugs, but I’m trying to get her to talk about it. Despite the fact that she can be a bitch most of the time, she was my friend once.
“I was upset about something,” she says, dropping her cigarette to the floor. “I’m allowed to be upset.”
“I know that.” I move toward her. “Why’s your cheek all swollen?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “I walked into a wall.”
I don’t believe her at all. “How the heck does that happen?”
She shrugs, pressing the tip of her shoe to the cigarette, putting it out. “I was tripping out. Thought I could walk through walls.”
“Are you…are you sure it had nothing to do with the yelling?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” she snaps, shuffling forward and grabbing hold of my arm. “Don’t you dare speculate that Dylan hit me. Because he didn’t.”
I flinch as her fingers dig into my skin. “I never said he did.”
She huffs, releasing her hold on me, and flips me off. “Fuck you. You don’t know me. Not anymore.” Then she stomps off down the hallway, throwing her arms in the air.
“Delilah, wait.” I call out as I hurry after her. “I wasn’t trying to make you mad.”
She spins on her heels, her face red with anger. “Then what were you doing?”
“I just.” I squirm uneasily against her heated gaze. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” she says through clenched teeth.
“If you ever need anything, you can call me,” I say in a pathetic attempt to help her.
Her mouth is set in a thin line. “I don’t…won’t ever need anything.”
The helpless feeling inside me magnifies and nearly drowns me as she turns and walks away, leaving me standing at the end of the hallway. I feel like banging my head on the wall, surrounded by a ton of people who need help, but don’t want it. And I’m not strong enough to help all of them at once. What am I supposed to do? Keep trying until I break? Walk away and always regret not staying? Because I know that’s where this will go. I’m already becoming obsessed with the what-ifs again, just like I did after Landon died. And maybe I’ll eventually get over it, heal. But at the same time I want this to turn out good. I want just for once not to have to lose someone because I couldn’t do things right—ride my bike fast enough or wake up a few minutes earlier and convince the person I love that life is worth living.
“What are you doing?” The sound of Quinton’s voice startles me and my heart speeds up.
I spin around. He’s standing in the doorway again with jeans on, sniffing profusely as he puts a shirt on. His eyes are much warmer and more coherent, like he’s killed the monster that was emerging in him, or just put it to sleep.
“I was talking to Delilah.” I walk back down the hall to him.
“And how did that go?” he questions, stuffing the plastic bag into his pocket.
“Not very well,” I admit. “I’m worried about her, not just because of the…well, you know…” I seek the right words, but I’m not sure there are such things. “Not just because she’s on drugs, but because she’s with Dylan.”
“But you can’t help her if she doesn’t want help.” There’s an underlying meaning in his tone.
“But I can try,” I reply, straining a small smile. “What kind of person would I be to give up on people?”
“The normal kind,” he says with honesty.
“Well, I’ve always known I wasn’t normal.”
“No, you’re not.” There’s a mystified look on his face. “But it’s a good thing, I think.” He continues to stare at me for a moment, looking more and more lost, until finally he crouches down to grab a handful of change off the floor. “So where are we going tonight?” He stands back up with a ghost smile on his face. So hot and cold. So up and down. So much like Landon.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask as he stuffs the coins into his pocket.
He presses his lips together, scanning his room, the floor covered in coins and on his mattress a blanket and his sketchbook. “You just want to hang out around here?”
“I’d rather not, if that’s okay.”
“It’s probably not the best place for you, is it?” He frowns, like he just realized where we were standing.
“Or for you,” I dare to say, pressing a point.
He swallows hard, and I can see the monster vanishing, probably because he’s just fed it. “You’re too nice to me,” he ultimately says, and I that’s when I think I see a glimpse of him. The Quinton I first met. The sad one, but still nice, still caring; a good guy who just needs help fighting his inner demons. Who needs to let go of his past.