“Yeah, but it’ll get easier.” I sit up and rest my head against my headboard, stretching my legs out and crossing them. “You think a lot more now, right? I mean, your head’s not so foggy.”
“Yeah, and sometimes I really hate my thoughts,” he admits. “And it makes me want to…” he trails off, but I know what he was going to say. Do drugs.
“Well, I think you can do it,” I say, aiming to be motivating. “I think you’re strong and you’re going to keep your clear head.”
“You’re always so optimistic and caring,” he says, sounding confused by his own words. “I’ve missed that… missed you.”
A small smile touches my lips and my head gets all foggy, but in a good, what-the-hell-am-I-feeling way. “I want to see you.” Crap, how can I slip up twice in one conversation? “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait, I mean, I do want to see you, but I just didn’t want to put pressure on you.” I bite my lip to shut myself up. “God, I’m so sorry. I went into this phone conversation not wanting to put any pressure on you and I’m totally doing that already.” I sink my teeth down harder on my lip until I draw blood, because it’s the only way to get myself to stop rambling.
“Nova, relax,” he says. “I’m not some breakable object that’s going to shatter at any moment. You don’t have to be so careful around me.”
“I know, but at the same time, at least from what Tristan told me, when you first get out of rehab, it’s really hard and you’re really fragile.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Did he actually use the word ‘fragile’? Because it makes him sound really girly.”
“He actually did,” I say, feeling a little more at ease. “But it’s not really his fault. He’s been living with two girls for the last couple of months and I think we’ve been rubbing off on him. In fact, my friend Lea convinced him to let her paint his fingernails once. Granted, it was the color black, but still. I think he’s one step away from letting us put makeup on him.”
Quinton laughs harder and I feel very proud of myself. I was terrified of this conversation and it’s been okay so far—well, minus my two slipups about wanting to see him. I do have a feeling that he hasn’t read my letter yet because if he had, there could very easily be some tremendous awkwardness between us.
“Thanks. I really needed that,” Quinton tells me after his laughter dies down. “I haven’t laughed in a while.”
“Anytime,” I say, my pride increasing. “I can keep going if you want me to. Tell you all of Tristan’s little secrets that only happen behind the walls of our apartment.” He grows quiet again and I wonder if I said something wrong. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that it’s weird… you two living together.”
“Us three live together,” I remind him, kind of thrown off by the hint of jealousy in his voice.
“Yeah, I know, but still…” He trails off. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t even be getting onto the subject of this anyway.”
The subject of what? Tristan and me living together? I’m not 100 percent sure what he’s trying to get at, but I let it go, deciding it’d be stupid to push him. “So what is the weather like over there?”
It takes him a second to answer. “Cloudy and windy. How’s the weather over in Idaho?”
“Dry and sunny.” I scoot back down on the bed and roll to my side to face the frosted window. “Although it’s a little cold.”
“Yeah, it’s the same way here, too.” He wavers. “Nova, we don’t have to talk about mundane things like the weather. Like I said, I’m not fragile.”
I’m not sure where to go from here. We’ve been through so much together, yet at the same time I don’t really know him, not the sober version, anyway. “So what do you want to talk about?”
“How about you and me,” he says, his voice cracking. “And what we are.”
His bluntness makes me stutter. “I-I’m not sure how to answer that. I mean, I don’t really know the answer.”
“Neither do I and I’m not sure how we can figure that out or… or if we should.” He pauses. “God, I just replayed what I said in my head and I didn’t mean for that to come out the way that it did. What I meant was that right now, I kinda am still trying to fix myself and I don’t want you to feel obligated to wait around for me to get better.”
My heart slams excruciatingly against my rib cage. “You read my letter, didn’t you?”
“No… why? Did you say something like that in your letter?”
“No,” I say quickly. “And you don’t even have to read it if you don’t want to. Or maybe you threw it away already.”
“I still have it,” he tells me reluctantly. “I was just too afraid to read it, afraid of what you said. Afraid it might mean too much.”
“You should probably just burn it. I sometimes ramble when I write, like when I talk, and I don’t know how you’re going to take the stuff I said.”
“I don’t want to burn it. And besides, I’ve always liked your rambling. It can actually be insightful sometimes.”
“You say that now,” I tell him, forcing a teasing tone. “But try living with it.”
He’s silent for a moment and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Whether he thinks I’m crazy? Amusing? I remember that when I was younger I wished I could have mind reading powers, and I’m starting to wish that again so I could crack his head open and see what on earth he’s thinking.
“Nova, I’m going to read the letter,” he says. “I just want to make sure I can handle whatever’s in there.”
“I wish I could answer that for you,” I say. “But I don’t know what you’re expecting. Really, it’s just my feelings. About you and me.” Feelings I can still barely admit to myself. I was actually surprised at what came out of me. How much I care for him and how much I see him when I look into the future.
“Then I’m not sure I’m ready yet.” There’s an ache in his voice. “If it’s rejection then I’m worried it’ll break me and if it’s the opposite… if you want me as more than a friend then I’m not sure I’m ready for that, either. Because honestly, I’m really weak right now and even taking care of myself feels really hard.”