Breaking Nova (20 page)

But I don’t ask and tell her what she needs to hear. “I’ll take care of her. I promise.”
Promise. Promise. Promise me.
Tears form in my eyes again. I’m making promises about Nova and breaking my promise to Lexi, and half of me wants to break that promise.

Dylan gives me a hug, because he’s spun out of his mind and probably has no idea what he’s doing or where he even is, and I refrain from the urge to punch him in the face. Then they leave me, holding hands, and talking about a million miles a minute. And I stand there in the middle of the crowd, with my thoughts and my guilt, surrounded by people, but somehow feeling utterly alone.

I can’t find him anywhere and it’s pushing me toward a panic attack. I keep thinking about how upset he looked when he took off—how upset he always looked. I keep running and running deeper into the crowd, even when a voice flows through the speakers and is echoed by a strum of guitars. Then the opening band begins playing, and music and sweat and enthusiasm deluge the field, along with the enthralling scent of smoke. I stop in the middle with my hand on my head, trying to hold on to reality and figure a way out, searching the ground and the sky for something to count, but I can’t find anything.

I blink from the thought as a stray elbow rams me in the side. I’m being smashed into as people demand more room, flailing their arms and bobbing their heads. And everywhere I look I see Landon’s honey-brown eyes and inky-black hair, only sometimes the hair shifts to short and brown and suddenly Quinton is everywhere, a sea of replicates that need to be helped. And then I see the one image I loathe more than anything.

The rope is slightly frayed, like it was about to break, and all I could think as I fell to the floor was:
Why couldn’t it just break?

“God damn it.” I clutch at my head and my knees buckle as I collapse to the ground, knowing that there’s a good chance that I’m going to get trampled, especially if I’m near the mosh pit.

But I don’t care. I’m too lost in Landon. He would always say that, that he’d love me no matter what. At the time, I thought it was just something he said, but now I wonder if he was always saying it because he wanted me to know he loved me, even if he took his own life. The thought of this brings me no sense of relief, because that would mean that pretty much the entire time we dated, he was thinking about leaving me. Then he did, and now he’s gone, and I’m left sitting in the dirt at a concert that I really don’t want to be at. My hands are getting stomped on and I’m getting kicked, but I can’t get up. I’m starting to have a panic attack, which has happened a few times. My therapist always told me to breathe through it and that it would pass, but how the hell can I when my lungs are shriveling up and oxygen is getting restricted?

“Nova, what the fuck?” A voice rises over the shouting and music. A hand grabs my shoulder and someone lifts me from the ground.

It’s not the voice I want to hear, neither Landon’s nor Quinton’s. Instead, Tristan stands in front of me, holding my arm, and he looks pissed off for some reason.

“What are you doing?” He grips my elbow and hauls me to the right, thrusting his hand out in front of him to create a narrow walking path for us. “You can’t just sit down in the middle of this shit.”

I trip over my own feet as I aimlessly let him lead me through the people. Ultimately we break free from the chaos and step out into the mellower tent area. My head empties a little, but not a lot. In fact, the noise and loudness that’s diminished around me is replaced by noise and loudness screaming inside my head.
You didn’t find him… didn’t help him.
“Why did you say that to him?” I wiggle my arm out of Tristan’s grasp as we reach our tents. “That thing about being the driver?”

“Because…” He drags his hands through his hair, smoothing it out of his eyes, and he leaves his hand on the top of his head, his elbow bent out to the side. “Look, I fucked up, okay? I shouldn’t have said it. It doesn’t bring anyone back.” He turns around, clutching the back of his neck, and hikes over to the tent.

I know very little about Tristan, other than he’s my age, he does drugs, but he’s actually really smart. Even though he failed most of his classes, he always did well on tests, but he just never turned in his homework. I don’t know what his likes and dislikes are, or what he does besides smoke a lot of weed and drink. I’ve never met his parents. I don’t know if he has any sisters or brothers. But he’s always seemed like a nice guy, and so it doesn’t make sense to me that he would intentionally say something to Quinton that would hurt him.

He ducks in the tent and zips up the door. Seconds later, smoke seeps out of the screens on the side. I trudge over to the cooler, open the lid, and take out a beer. I pluck the fragments of ice off the glass, wipe the condensation on the side of my shorts, then sit down on the cooler and drink the beer while I survey the crowd from a safe distance. Delilah and Dylan’s tent occasionally shakes, and I’m pretty sure they’re having sex inside it.

How did I get here? To this place? This moment? This life?

I sit on the cooler for a while, drinking the beer, watching the stage, listening to the rhythm and the musical poetry flowing from the stage. The more alcohol that enters my system, the more calm I feel. The sky dims, and Delilah and Dylan come out and wander off somewhere while Tristan stays in the tent. I’m guzzling beer when Quinton emerges from the crowd. He’s got a cigarette in his hand, his brown hair is wet, along with the top of his shirt, and it looks like he’s been crying.

I lower the bottle from my lips and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Why is your shirt wet?”

He points over his shoulder without making eye contact with me. “Some asshole dumped a bucket of water on me when I walked by.”

“Are you okay?” I ask, not really referring to the water.

He shrugs, reaching behind his head, and tugging off his shirt. “It’s just a little water.” He tosses the shirt toward the tent and then motions for me to stand up.

I obey, getting to my feet as I take in the lines of muscles carving his chest and stomach, along with the coarse-looking scar running vertically down the middle, right over his heart. He opens the lid to the cooler and grabs a beer, the muscles of his arms flexing with his movements, and the names tattooed on his arm ripple.
Ryder
and
Lexi
. There’s also the phrase
no one
below the names. Who are Ryder and Lexi? Why do they mean so much to him that he’d permanently tattoo a reminder of them of them on his body? And who’s no one?

When he stands up straight with a beer in his hand, he notices my gaze. I start to ask him what they mean, but he covers the tattoos with his hand, and the harsh look in his eyes makes me snap my mouth shut. He unscrews the cap off the beer, and then he lets his head fall back as he nearly guzzles half of it in one large gulp. Lowering the bottle from his mouth, he licks the remaining alcohol off his lips.

“Where’s Tristan?” he asks, staring at the stage.

“In the tent.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. Smoking weed, I think.”

He twists his head in my direction with his eyebrow crooked. “How would you know that?”

I shrug. “I smelled and saw the smoke coming from the tent.”

He pops the end of his cigarette into his mouth and gradually inhales. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He holds the breath in for longer than seems necessary, and his lips part as a stream of smoke rises out of his mouth and surrounds his face.

I’m confused because it smells like weed, but he’s smoking a cigarette. His eyes look glassy, though, and his pupils are immense. He continues to drag on the cigarette, looking more and more out of it with each breath. Finally he grabs one of the fold-up chairs in front of the tent and sits on it. I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do or say to him when Tristan exits the tent, his shirt still off and his blond hair disheveled.

I stand there awkwardly as the two of them pretend that the other one isn’t there. Tristan goes over to the cooler and takes out a beer, and then he stares at the ground in front of his feet while he rotates the bottle around in his hand.

“Sorry, man,” he mutters, freeing a breath from his chest. “I really didn’t mean it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Quinton replies without looking at him. “I deserved it—deserve more.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I don’t think it was your fault.”

“But it was.”

“No, it wasn’t. Shit just happens and I was just being a douche bag because… of stuff.”

“Because I deserved it.”

Tristan drags a chair next to Quinton’s and sits down. “How about we agree to disagree?” He tilts the top of his beer bottle in Quinton’s direction.

Quinton sighs and taps his bottle against Tristan’s. “You should really start acting more like your parents toward me. And my father.”

“My parents are fucking idiots,” he says. “And your dad’s always been a dick, even before.”

Quinton doesn’t respond, and silence sets in as he hands Tristan his cigarette. I stand just behind them, gripping my beer bottle, wondering if I should leave because they seem to be having a little bonding moment. I feel awkward, because I have no idea what’s going on and the moment seems so personal.

“Nova, are you alive back there?” Tristan asks without looking at me.

“Yeah,” I reply and then finish off the rest of my beer before tossing it in the trash bag just outside the tent.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tristan glances over his shoulder at me. It’s getting dark and his blue eyes look like sapphires. “Or do you prefer sitting in the dirt in the middle of the crowd?” The corners of his mouth tug upward, and it’s like nothing even happened, as if there had been no fight between the two of them.

My eyes drift around our little area. “I’m fine. There are no chairs anyway.”

“Why were you sitting in the dirt?” Quinton glances at me for first time since he returned, and I have this crazy impulse to hug him and say I’m sorry for not being able to find him, but I don’t.

“I went looking for you,” I say with a shrug. “And then everyone went crazy when the band started to play.”

“So you just sat down?” he asks, gaping at me unfathomably. “In the middle of a fucking concert?”

I shrug again. “Just another thing to make me amusing, I guess.”

The two of them gape at me and then they bust up laughing. I feel kind of stupid and all the problems and worries I’d been having shift to the fact that they think I’m insane. I debate whether to pretend I have to go to the bathroom or just dive into the tent.

Their laughter dies down and Quinton wipes a tear from his eye as he beckons to me. “Come here,” he says.

I briefly dither and shuffle over to him. “I told you concerts are too noisy. It’s messing with my head.”

He sets his empty beer bottle into the cup holder on the arm of the chair and stretches his arm out to the side, keeping the smoke as far away from me as possible. “Did you really go looking for me?”

I nod. “Yeah, you looked sad.”

I can feel Tristan’s eyes on me, even though it looks like he’s staring at the crowd.

Quinton scans my face and then reaches up and spreads his fingers around my hips. Pulling me down, he sits me on his lap, then he sweeps my hair to the side, and places his lips next to my ear. His breath is hot against my skin and smells pungently of weed. “I’m really okay. You don’t need to worry about me.” He moves away and releases my hips from his grip.

I’m uncertain if he wants me to stay on his lap or get up, or if I want to stay put or run like hell. “Yeah, I do,” I say, and we trade a look that neither of us really understand. All I know is that something is changing inside me. I don’t know what it is or if it’s good or bad, because it’s unknown and unplanned and surprising and new. I’m terrified, because it feels like I’m tumbling off a cliff and I have no idea when I’m going to hit the bottom. Or if I ever will.