But he doesn’t answer and I end up lying in my bed, feeling so alone.
Chapter 9
Quinton
I’m feeling decent today after I get back from work. Tired, but tired can be a good thing. It helps me block out all the boxes in the house when I walk inside, and the fact that in about ten minutes I’ll be heading right back out the door isn’t too bad either.
“Hey, you’re home early,” my dad says, cutting me off in the foyer. He’s dressed in old jeans and a faded shirt and he’s wiping his hands on a towel.
“I could say the same thing to you,” I tell him, reaching for the phone in my pocket as it vibrates, but I get distracted by something. “Why are you home?”
He tosses the towel down on the back of the chair in the living room. “I actually have some news,” he says. “My boss wants me to go over to Virginia a little bit early. Next week, actually.”
“Are you kidding me?” I frown, pulling my hand out of my pocket without checking my phone. “Please tell me you’re kidding me.”
He shakes his head with an apologetic expression. “But don’t worry. It’s going to take me a few weeks to get a place set up there, so I figure you can stay here while I do.”
“Stay here for a few weeks and then what? I move to Virginia?” I shake my head, hurrying for the stairs. “I already told you I don’t want to do that.”
“I know what you said, but that’s just how things are,” he says, catching hold of my arm before I get too far. It’s weird that he’s touching me because he never does. In fact, when I really think about it he never has. I can even remember thinking how weird it was when he gave me a handshake at my middle school graduation.
“Well, I’m not moving.” I turn to face him and he swiftly lets go of me.
“Quinton, I understand how you feel.” He gives me a look of pity as he rolls up his sleeves. “But sometimes we just have to do things we don’t want to do.”
“I know that, but I just can’t move across the country,” I say, folding my arms. “I’m going to find somewhere else to live.”
“Do you have enough money saved up for that?” he wonders as he reaches for a folded-up box on the floor near the front door.
I unzip my coat. “No, but I’ll figure something out.” I think about what Nova said about getting a roommate. “I’ll get a roommate or something.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?” He places the box on the floor beside his feet. “Because…” He massages the back of his neck tensely. “Because I was really looking forward to you coming to Virginia with me.”
I’m wondering if he really means it or not. It’s hard to tell with him, but I want to believe that he does, so that’s how I’m choosing to see things. “I want—need to stay here.”
“But I worry about you living alone and what might happen,” he says. “I worry that you might relapse.”
“If it’s going to happen, then it’s going to happen,” I say, rubbing some paint off the back of my hand. “But I don’t want it to happen and staying here and doing what I’m doing is going to make it more possible for me to stay out of trouble.” I hope. I’ve been doing good. Haven’t wandered in places I don’t belong. Haven’t lost control. I just hope nothing triggers me to do otherwise.
He unfolds the box. “Well, if you absolutely need to stay at the house, then you can until the new buyers move in, which I think is next month.” He backs into the living room and picks the packing tape up off of the sofa. “But Quinton, I just want to make sure that you stay in touch with me this time.”
I nod and then go up into my room to change out of my painting clothes and get my work clothes on. I put on holey jeans, an insulated coat, then some gloves, pulling a gray beanie onto my head. I’m glad my dad and I finally talked and everything, but I still have the huge problem of finding a place and saying good-bye to this home and all the memories it carries.
As I’m getting ready to head down the stairs, I glance around at the sketches and photos on the wall. I still haven’t taken them down. Still holding on. I stare at a picture of Lexi on the wall, the one where she’s smiling so brightly it makes me want to smile with her. I lift my hand and touch my finger to the photo, noting how badly my hand shakes.
“Will you forgive me?” I ask, my hands still shaking as I pull the photo off the wall, feeling something break in half inside me. “If I keep going forward this way… keep healing instead of dying?” I wish I could hear her say yes. I wish that for just one moment I could hear her voice and she would let me go.
But of course the only response I get is silence and I know that I’ll never hear her voice again. As I go to put the picture back on the wall, I draw back and decide that maybe this is the first step to moving forward. That this is it.
“I can do this,” I tell myself, then walk over to my nightstand and put the photo in the drawer. The moment I do, it feels like I’ve done something wrong. But I still walk away from the room. Step by step. Trying to move forward, even though I can feel an invisible pull drawing me back. To her. Begging me to put that picture on the wall and never let go. Never change anything. Just keep holding on until it kills me.
* * *
“Do you want to tell me what’s got you so upset?” Wilson asks me as I hammer a nail into a piece of wood. We’re inside the house, although it’s not really inside. Two-by-fours make up the walls, the floor is plywood and the roof isn’t even close to being finished. The air smells like sawdust and my hands feel like sandpaper. The sound of power tools encircles me and it just quit raining so everything’s wet and the temperature is low. But I like everything about it. It helps me somewhat forget that I took down one of Lexi’s photos today. And that I’m going to be homeless soon. And that through all of this I have to feel everything because I decided to become sober.
“I’m not upset.” I toss the hammer aside and then reach for another board. “I’m just working through some stuff.”
“Well, maybe if you tell me what, then I can help you work through it?” He rolls up the sleeves of his worn plaid jacket, even though it’s cold, because we’ve been working hard so it feels hotter than it is. I align the board into place and he steps up with the nail gun. “Come on, Quinton,” he says, putting the tip of the nail gun up against the wood. “Just give it up and share what the hell’s got you looking so cranky.”