I rest my head on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling as I listen to the phone ring, trying to figure out what to say. I need to be careful with my words—make sure I don’t say anything that will upset him or put pressure on him. But what is the right thing to say? I’m not sure, especially since I have tons of questions sitting on my tongue, like what’s been going on? Are you okay? Do you miss me? Ever want to see me again?
“Hello.” A man picks up after four rings, sounding tired.
“Um… is Quinton there?” I ask, worried I’ve woken up his dad or something.
“Who is this?” he questions with an edge in his voice.
I hesitate. Does he even know who I am? “Um… Nova Reed.”
He pauses. “Nova Reed, Carry Reed’s daughter, right?” I’d almost forgotten that he knows my mother because she’s the one who convinced him to go look for his son when Tristan and I lost track of Quinton when he was living on the streets in Vegas.
I relax a little. “Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, trying to keep a light tone. “I know it’s late and everything, but I was wondering if I could talk to him.”
He remains silent and I worry that maybe Quinton told him he didn’t want to talk to me. Perhaps he told Tristan I could call only because he felt pressured and then changed his mind.
But then his dad says, “Let me go see if he’s awake.”
“Okay, thanks.” I chew on my fingernails as I wait. I can hear the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. There’s music playing in the background. “Cover Me” by Candlebox. I absent-mindedly get up from my bed and turn my iPod in the dock to the same song, quietly enough that he won’t hear it, but loudly enough that I can. It makes me feel connected to him in a strange way, but then again, my emotions are greatly connected to music, so this would probably be the case under any circumstances.
The music on the other end gets quieter as I go back over to my bed. His dad says something, there’s a reply, then his dad says, “Nova Reed.”
Silence, expect for the lyrics of Candlebox. I hold my breath as I lie down on the bed again, fearing his dad’s going to get back on the phone and say Quinton doesn’t want to talk to me. Instead there’s a thud followed by a rustle. A door clicks shut and then I hear soft breathing from the other end.
“Hello,” Quinton utters quietly, like he’s afraid to speak.
I get tongue-tied, trying to figure out what to say, and then Tristan’s and my earlier conversation pops into my head and I sputter, “Hi.” I roll my eyes and shake my head at myself.
There’s a pause and I scrunch my nose up, waiting for his response, wanting to smack myself on the head for not thinking of something more epic to say after not talking to him for months.
“Hi,” he finally replies, and I detect a hint of humor in his tone. “It’s… it’s good to hear your voice.”
Not the reaction I was expecting, but I’ll take it. “It’s good to hear your voice, too.”
“I’m sorry for not talking to you sooner,” he says uneasily. “I just… well, I felt like an ass because of the shit I put you through.”
“You’re not an ass.” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger. “And you didn’t put me through anything. Everything that happened was my own choice because I chose to stay and try to help you. You didn’t make me. In fact, you tried to tell me I shouldn’t be there about a thousand times.”
“I treated you like shit,” he says. “And honestly, the really messed-up part is I can’t even remember everything because I was so high a lot of the time.”
“That might be a good thing,” I reply. “Then it’s like we have a clean slate.”
“Clean slates don’t exist,” he mutters. There’s a long pause and considering how moody he’s been in the past, I half expect him to get angry with me, but thankfully he sounds calm when he speaks again. “But maybe we could try to create a new one.”
I perk up. “A happier one?”
“Yeah, maybe… and we can write everything down in bright-colored chalk and everything.” There’s playfulness in his tone that I’ve never heard before and it makes me laugh and feel giddy inside, tummy butterflies and everything.
“We are still speaking metaphorically, right?” I ask. “Or are we really planning on getting a slate and writing everything we do?”
“We don’t have to write. I can draw everything,” he jokes, but hidden in his light-humored tone is nervousness.
“We can do that.” I unsteadily play along, working to keep my footing in the conversation because this brighter, lighter Quinton is new territory for me. From the day I met him, he’s been sad. It’s actually what drew me to him to begin with. The sadness in his honey-brown eyes reminded me so much of Landon. “But when are we going to start on this new slate together… or I guess what I’m trying to say is, when am I going to see you again?”
The line gets quiet and I think he might have hung up on me. But then I listen really closely and I can still hear the music in the background and the sound of his breathing.
“I can’t go anywhere yet,” he eventually says. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I need to get my life on track here before I start doing other things.”
“So you’re going to stay in Seattle, then?” I ask, trying to conceal my disappointment but failing miserably.
“I kind of have to,” he tells me with a bit of remorse. “I have a therapist all set up and sobriety meetings… and my dad… well, he’s trying to work on our relationship and I think… well, I hope it’ll help with stuff. At least I’m hoping it does.”
By stuff, I think he means his guilt, which was the fuel driving his desire to use drugs, judging from the bits of information I picked up during my time in Vegas this summer.
“How are you doing with stuff?” I ask with caution.
“Honestly, I have my good and bad moments… I haven’t been sober in about two years and it’s sort of weird having a clear head. I really don’t know what to do with myself.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In fact, I know you will.”
“Maybe, but it seems really f**king hard whenever I think about it,” he says truthfully. “And I’ve only been out for a day.”