I get what he’s saying a little too well. It took me over a year to watch Landon’s video after he committed suicide, because I worried whatever was on there was going to shatter me into pieces. When I did finally watch it, though, I didn’t shatter. In fact, I started picking up the pieces of my life, but only because I was ready to.
“Then wait to read it until you’re ready,” I tell him. “And for now, I’m okay with just being your friend.” It feels like such a huge lie when I say it and actually kind of hurts my heart a bit.
“I would love that,” he says, unwinding. “So tell me something friendly.”
I snort a laugh. “What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know.” He sounds amused. “Tell me something you’d tell Lea or Tristan.”
“Um, well, I watched Anchorman for the first time tonight.” God, I’m so lame.
“And what’d you think of it?”
“I fell asleep,” I admit. “But only because I was tired to begin with.”
“Yeah, but it’s not for everyone,” he explains. “Although I know Tristan loves it.”
“Yeah, he’s the one who made me watch it,” I divulge. “He acted like I was crazy because I never had.”
He pauses again. “I’m jealous of him,” he confesses. “And I only said that because my therapist has been pushing me to talk aloud about stuff that’s bothering me… and it’s bothering me… that you and Tristan get to spend so much time together.”
“It’s not like that,” I promise. “We’re just friends and roommates.”
“I know, but I just wanted you to know that it’s making me feel… jealous,” he says hesitantly. “Although, if something did happen between you two, I’d understand.”
“We’re not going to get together. Trust me,” I say, thinking about what happened back on the sofa and how much I would rather it had been Quinton than Tristan. “And besides, we fight all the time.”
“Really? You two never did before.”
“Yeah, we did. And he can be kind of cranky… I think he sometimes has a hard time adjusting to the boredom.”
“I can see that,” he states with understanding. “I’m already getting sick of staring at my walls and I’ve only been out for a day, but talking to you helps.”
“Well, I can talk your ear off.”
He laughs. “Please do.”
I smile at the beauty in his laughter. “What do you want me to talk about?”
“You.”
“What do you want me to tell you about me?”
“Everything… I want to know everything about you, Nova like the car.” Amusement laces his tone as he says the nickname he gave to me pretty much the first day he met me.
My smile takes up my entire face. Not because of his comment but because it’s the first real moment I think Quinton and I have had without drugs and anxiety filling in the blanks in our conversation. And so I do the only thing I can do. I start talking. In fact, I talk well into the early hours of the next day. And for a moment everything feels perfect, but I have a hard time believing it’s going to stay because it never seems to. Things just always sort of happen. Life always just sort of happens. And no matter what I do, I can never keep the bad out completely, despite how much I want to.
Chapter 3
Quinton
November 17, day nineteen in the real world
Jesus, time moves slow. Really, really slow. Especially when all I can think about is everything that’s happened. I knew I had a rough road ahead of me, but this is ridiculous. Everything is pissing me off today. The rain. The clouds in the sky. My therapist. It’s our sixth meeting and I’m starting to realize he’s a pushy bastard. Nothing like Charles at the rehab center, who always let me do things on my own terms. Greg, my new therapist, seems to take the opposite approach, like if I don’t start talking as soon as possible, then I’ll never get better or “learn to deal with my feelings,” as he puts it. Plus, after a suggestion he made to my dad, I’ve started helping around our community. Doing things like volunteering at the homeless shelter and visiting the elderly to keep me busy, like that’s the key to keeping me out of trouble. It’s not like I hate doing it. In fact, at times it’s nice because it makes me feel like I’m attempting to create something good to make up for all the bad I’ve put in this world. I just feel weird being out and about with people, who I swear can see what’s hiding under my skin. The invisible scars that make up my past and the things I’ve done.
Add that to the fact that I’m living in my old bedroom in my old home with my father, and I’m feeling a little unbalanced right now, like I’m walking on a tightrope and am about to fall. On one side lies a fall to that rock bottom I’m so familiar with and on the other is the fall that just ends it all. Both seem like easy choices, yet I keep making myself attempt to balance and walk forward, especially when life keeps throwing me challenges. Like the other day when I was in the grocery store and I saw Lexi’s mom. She didn’t see me, thankfully, otherwise I might have slipped up in my sobriety. She’s verbalized in the past how she feels about me and she has every right to feel that way. One day, though, I wish I could just tell her I’m sorry and that I hope maybe she can forgive me. The same with Ryder’s parents. I want them to know that I think about them all the time. That I hate that I’m the one who lived. That I’m trying to make up for it the best I can.
Despite the fact that life is complex, writing seems to help a lot, actually. So here I am writing and in just a few minutes I’ll go to a job interview for a painting job. Not an artist painting job, but a construction painting job, which isn’t ideal, but the hours are flexible and right now I have no more than a high school education so my job options are limited. Nova thinks I should go back to school, but I’m not sure I can handle that right now. Still, it’s nice listening to her ramble about the plus sides of getting a college education. The girl really could have a job as a motivational speaker if she wanted to, with all the positivity she sends out. I like her positivity, just like I like having her as a friend. I like everything about her and I wish I could tell her that. How much she means to me. But that’d be opening a door I know I’m not ready to open, which is why I haven’t read her letter, even though I’m dying to. In fact, I stare at it every day.