Tristan is still in his room when I get the dishwasher loaded and I can hear him talking through the door. I think about putting my ear up and listening, but it makes me feel bad, so I go into the living room and crank up the stereo, putting on some Papa Roach. Then I start to rock out, dancing around. I’d play my drums but I’m not allowed to anymore, ever since the neighbors complained about the noise. So sadly I have to dance to vent and I pretty much suck at dancing.
I’m whipping my long brown hair around and really shaking my ass as I belt out the lyrics when suddenly I hear a cough from behind me. I immediately stop dancing and try to ignore the rush of heat I feel on my cheeks as I go over and turn the music down.
I smooth my hair and wipe the sweat from my forehead before I turn around and face Tristan. “So what’d he say?” I ask, breathless.
He crosses his arms and arches a brow at me, trying not to smile. “Nice dance moves.”
I take an embarrassed bow and it gets him to relax. “Thank you.” I straighten back up. “Now tell me what he said. Is he okay? Good? Bad? What?”
“Come sit down.” He nods at the leather sofa and I walk over and have a seat. He sits down beside me, seeming slightly nervous as he fiddles with the bottom button on his shirt. “He’s doing okay,” he says.
“And.” I motion my hand, needing him to give me more details. “Did he seem, I don’t know, in need of help?”
He sighs, sweeping his fingers through the locks of his blond hair. “I think he sounded pretty okay. He’s staying with his dad and he says they’re talking and everything, which they never used to do. He’s supposed to start going to a therapist next week and to a sobriety support group, which is good in my opinion. A support group helped me a lot when I got out of rehab. He told me he’ll probably stay in Seattle for a while and try to find a job there.” He pauses, watching my reaction, like he thinks I’m about to break apart.
“Oh.” I should sound happier than I do—should be more happy for him. And I am, but for some stupid reason I was hoping for… I don’t know… that I could see him again. “That all sounds great, I guess.”
“Then why do you sound so sad?” he questions, searching my eyes for the truth.
I lift my shoulders and shrug. “I’m happy for him. Just sad that I can’t see him.”
“You could always call him… in fact, I told him you might.”
I swallow the lump of nerves that has shoved its way up my throat. “And what’d he say?”
“He said you could.” He looks like he wants to retract the statement as soon as he says it. “Well, I mean, he sounded nervous about it and everything, but I think that’s more because he feels guilty about what happened to you while you were down in Vegas, which he shouldn’t.” He stares down at his hands. “That shit that happened with the drug dealers… that was my fault.”
I remain silent, not just because of what Tristan told me about Quinton but also because of Tristan’s guilt. Even though it was his fault—what happened with the drug dealers and them threatening me and beating up Quinton—it still doesn’t mean he needs to feel guilty about it. “You don’t need to feel bad for that, Tristan.” I slouch back in the sofa and cross my arms over my chest. Everyone’s always blaming themselves for stuff, including me, and I’m sick and tired of it. I just want us to let go of stuff. Move on. “I get that your mind wasn’t in the right place when all that stuff happened.”
He glances over at me. “You’re too forgiving sometimes.”
“And you’re too sad sometimes,” I retort. It gets quiet and I can feel us both moving toward a depressing slump. Before we can get there, I rise to my feet and extend my hand to him. “Come on. Let’s go do something fun.”
He cocks a brow. “Like what?”
I shrug with my hand still extended. “I don’t know. We could go see a movie, maybe? Or rent one, pick up some pizza, and come back here and watch it.”
“No documentaries,” he says quickly, taking my hand, and I help him to his feet. “I know you love them and everything, but I can’t take another one.” He lets go of my hand and clutches his head with a joking smile. “They give me a boredom headache.”
“Oh, poor baby.” I roll my eyes, then walk toward the door, collecting my purse from the table, but when Tristan doesn’t follow me, I turn around. “What’s wrong?”
He dithers in the middle of the living room, massaging the back of his neck tensely. “Aren’t you going to call him?”
I slide the handle of my purse over my shoulder, nerves bubbling inside me at the idea of actually getting on the phone and hearing Quinton’s voice. God, I want to hear it so much, but it’s scary at the same time, because I want him, yet I don’t think he wants me—at least he isn’t ready for whatever it is between us. “I was thinking that I would do it tomorrow… after I figured out what to say.” I pause as he shuffles over to me, trying to figure out what on earth I’m supposed to say to Quinton, especially if he’s read the letter. “What do you think I should say to him?”
The corners of his lips quirk as he stops in front of me. “ ‘Hi.’ ”
I gently pinch his arm. “Come on. I’m being serious. I have no clue where to begin.”
He considers my question intently, his expression twisted in deep thought, then he abruptly relaxes. “Just be yourself, Nova.” He swings his arm around my shoulder and steers me to the front door. “You have this way about you that makes it easy for people to feel like they can talk to you and I know Quinton feels that way, too, since, besides me, you’re the only person he really talked to through all that shit.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I get a little uncomfortable with his touch—always do. Tristan and I have a weird history full of awkward conversations. He’s always sort of flirted with me and once, right after my boyfriend committed suicide, I got really drunk and made out with him. Then I ran away crying and tried to slit my wrist open.
I wasn’t exactly trying to kill myself when I did it. It was just a really low time in my life, perhaps the lowest I’ve ever been, and I was confused. But I’m better now—stronger. I don’t get drunk and make out with random guys and I even have a tattoo right below that scar—never forget—to remind me never to forget any of the stuff that’s happened. Good or bad. It’s a part of me and sometimes I think it’s made me stronger.