I glance down at the drawing of Nova’s eyes and then at the drawing of Lexi on my wall. Images devour my thoughts, yanking me back to the dark moment that changed me forever.

“Quinton,” Lexi whispers, and even though her eyes are open, they’re glazed over and I can tell she can’t see me. “Just promise me that…”

Tears stream from my eyes as I lift her head up from the ground and move it onto my lap. Blood immediately soaks my jeans, and in the glow of the moon, I can see blood all over her, me, the ground below us. “It’s okay, baby…” I fight back the tears, knowing I have to be strong because I’m not the one hurting. In fact, I feel numb. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

She shakes her head from side to side as her breaths become ragged, and she clutches my arms. “Just promise me that you’ll never forget me, no matter what. That you’ll always love me more than anyone else.”

“Of course,” I say, with my fingertips pressed to her wrist. I can feel her lethargic pulse, and the longer time goes on, the more time goes on between each beat. “Lexi, that’s a stupid thing to say, though, because you’re going to be fine.” I’m lying. She knows it. I know it. Blood is gushing from her body and her limbs are contorted in odd, unnatural angles.

But I found her phone, and the naïve part of me thinks that if the ambulance can just get here in time, everything will be okay; they can fix her, mend her, put her back together, and erase this entire night.

I focus on the uneven rhythm of her breathing, knowing it’s fading but praying to God she can hold on. If I can just keep concentrating on it, she’ll keep breathing. She has to.

“Quinton,” she says in a feeble voice, and I can no longer choke back the tears. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, and I reach up and wipe them away before she can see them. “I’m sorry for sticking my head out of the window.”

I start to cry, my body trembling as I feel her heart slowing down. “It’s not your fault.” I manage to get out. “I should have just pulled the damn car over. Lexi, I’m so fucking sorry. I promise I’ll make this better somehow. I’ll never let go of you. I promise.”

“Always trying to make things better.” She tries to smile, and it looks crooked and wrong. “One day you’re going to make someone really happy…”

“Yeah, you…” I trail off as she shuts her eyes. It’s the last thing I say to her, and I wish it was the last thing I ever say. Maybe if I lie down with her and try hard enough, I can get my own heart to stop beating.

I wince, wrenching myself out of the memory. Tears drip from my eyes. I gradually walk up to the drawing of Lexi on the wall beside the window, study the dark lines I put on the paper when I wanted to capture the perfection of her body. “Is it breaking the promise if I’m friends with her? Because I want to be friends with her, despite how much I don’t deserve it. I used to think it was breaking my promise to you, but I don’t know anymore… I blame it on the fact that the old me is trying to push his way through and make me be a good guy again, because she looks so sad and lonely.” I pause, waiting for some sort of sign or answer.

The room stays silent and I sigh, rubbing my hand across my face, knowing that I should just get it over with. End my life. Say good-bye. Leave the thoughts and memories and self-hatred behind like I’ve wanted to do for a year now instead of wasting space and breaths. But I don’t seem to have it in me. It’s like I’m waiting around for something to happen, even though nothing ever does.

I back away from the drawing, toward the door, taking more steps into the future, even though I want to remain stuck in the past.

Chapter 9

July 10, Day 56 of Summer Break

Nova

I’ve been taking a little break from trailer parks and guys for the last couple of days. It’s been neither a good break nor a bad one, which is becoming the story of my life. Nothing is good. Nothing is bad. Everything just exists, like me floating through life with no direction or meaning.

Despite my break from trailer park guys, I can’t seem to get Quinton or his sadness out of my head. I want to learn more about him, perhaps find out about the girl in the picture, but he seemed so upset that I even brought her up. I tried to search him on the Internet, even though it felt kind of wrong and nosy on my part. But I was to trying to find something else about him, other than he likes art, he lived in Seattle, and he smokes weed. But there are too many Quinton Carters, and I couldn’t find the one I was looking for, not even on Facebook or any other social media network. The more I search and come up empty-handed, the more frustrated I get, but I think there’s an underlying reason to my frustration, stemming from how I connect Landon to Quinton. It feels like I’ve stepped back into the past again, meeting the sad, haunting guy that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I can’t figure out the reason why.

I wake up a couple of mornings after it happened, feeling more jumbled than I usually do. I count the seconds it takes the sun to move over the hill line, just like I always do, but there’s no sense of order and comfort this morning. I get out of bed and take a shower, then head to my computer desk and open up Landon’s video file. The longer I stare at it, the more I start wondering what exactly he said on it. Are there answers to my questions? About him? About his life? His thoughts? Stuff about us? Shit, what if there is? What if this whole time the answers have been right here, but my fear and anxiety have been getting in the way.

I put my finger on the mouse pad and let the cursor hover over the file, something I’ve never done before. My finger shakes as I consider tapping the mouse, clicking the file, letting it open up. I’d get to see his eyes again, watch his lips move as he spoke and took breaths. His heart would be beating and he wouldn’t be silent in a wooden box, at least for the moment of the clip.

My heart picks up in my chest. What does he say on it? How does he look? What does he feel? How will I see it—see him?

I instantly pull my hand back, shaking from head to toe, my nerves so contorted and confounded I can barely breathe. I’d almost turned it on, which means what exactly? That I’m starting to move on from him? That I’m starting to move on in my life?

“No… no… no…” I shake my head and shove away from the computer, turning it off, and counting as I race to the bathroom. Running away from the problem, like I always do.

It’s late afternoon, and this morning’s episode is a shadow of a memory in my mind. After a lot of counting, I was able to calm myself down. I’m sitting on my bed with every picture of Landon I own scattered around me, along with a few psychology books. Beneath the bed is a locked box of Landon’s drawings. They’ve been there since his parents gave them to me. The window is open, the fan on, and I pulled my hair up in a ponytail, trying to reduce the sweat forming on the back of my neck. But even in my denim shorts and grey tank top, my skin is getting a little salty.

I have the computer opened up and the web camera aimed at me as I search through photo after photo, looking for something in his eyes or expression that’ll give me a clue to why he did it. I can spot sadness in almost all of them, but there has to be more to it than that. He couldn’t have just decided to give up because he was sad.

“I know there are more pictures than this,” I mutter to myself. I uncross my legs and scoot off the bed, heading for the garage. My mom boxed up a lot of stuff when I went away to college and stacked the boxes on the garage shelves.

As soon as I step into the garage, I instantly regret it. Too many memories swarm around the drums set in the corner, covered up by a sheet. I haven’t touched them since Landon died; my passion to play died right along with him. He was the one who encouraged me to play, bought me the drums, and shared my love for music. But now it all seems pointless, and I can’t even bring myself to pick up a set of drumsticks.

I skitter around the drum set and head toward the 1967 sleek, cherry-red Nova parked in the middle of the floor and the bike leaning against it, the last thing my dad touched before his death. Painful memories of everyone I lost hit me from every direction, and I start to count each step as I maintain a steady stride around the car, dragging my hand along the shiny hood. I was never into cars, but my dad always was, and he always tried to get me into them, so I wasn’t surprised when he left the Nova to me in his will. What did surprise me was that he had a will, like he knew he was going to die young and wanted everything planned out before he went.

Sighing, I remove my hand from the car and grab the box labeled “Nova’s Photos” on the bottom shelf near the back. Then I go back to my room and dump the photos out, trying not to cringe at the mess I’ve made or the fact that there are too many photos to keep track off. Landon and I never really went anywhere important, but I loved taking pictures of him. He was so beautiful, and his beauty was only amplified in pictures—like a piece of art that looks plain and ordinary from a distance, but up close the angles and shapes and colors fit perfectly together and create something so amazing it couldn’t possibly exist.

“Knock, knock,” Delilah says as she enters my room. I haven’t seen her since I got high at Dylan’s house, but that’s because I’ve been avoiding Dylan’s house and she’s been spending most of her free time there. She has an iced coffee in her hand, and her hair is divided into two braids. She’s wearing a pink shirt and cutoffs, she has no makeup on, and she’s wearing a backpack for some reason.

“Planning on making a trip back to high school?” I tease as she shuts the door.

“Huh?” Her face contorts in puzzlement.

I point at the backpack. “What’s with that?”

She glances at the bag on her back. “Oh, that.” She jumps on the bed, landing on her knees, and the mattress bounces underneath her weight. The ice swishes in her cup, pictures start to slide to the side, and I work to keep them together on the bed. “I brought goodies.”

“Goodies?” I ask, grabbing a stack of photos and putting them on my lap.

Her eyes light up as she removes the backpack off her back and drops it onto the bed. She unzips it, and I’m starting to get really curious about what the hell she’s doing when she takes out a glass pipe and a small plastic bag full of weed.

“Where did you get that? And why did you bring it here?

She opens the bag and picks up a pinch of weed. “From Dylan, duh?”

I align the stack of photos that are on my lap. “Okay, then why did you bring it here?”

“Because I thought we could have a nice relaxing day together now that I know you’re cool.” She fills the pipe with weed and grabs a lighter out of the backpack. “You know, I used to try and keep this as far from you as possible, but after the other day…” She trails off as she glances up at my shocked expression. “Okay, well, maybe I totally just misread you. Was it like a onetime thing or something?”