Breaking Nova (9 page)

Tristan starts laughing at something on the order board and then he playfully slaps Quinton in the stomach. Quinton gives him a shove, a smile forming at his lips, but his eyes are still hued with sorrow. Tristan stumbles to the side, nearly crashing into an oblivious Dylan and Delilah, then he regains his balance and leans in to say something to Quinton. When he catches sight of me, he gives me a little smile and wave.

I return the wave and then my hand falls to the table as Quinton looks over at me. Biting his bottom lip, he seems uneasy as he raises his hand and waves at me. I return the wave with a tight smile, then sighing I turn back to my sad little melted bowl of ice cream.

Quinton starts to head over, even though he looks like it’s the last thing he wants to be doing. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his faded jeans, and there’s a small hole in the bottom of his black T-shirt. It looks like there’s dirt or some kind of shavings in his hair, and he’s got black smudges tracking up his arms. The closer he gets, the quicker I count, until the numbers in my head are blurred together and suddenly I can’t see a path. My adrenaline surges, and I feel overwhelmed. I need to find a path again, something to concentrate on, something I can control and keep track of.

“Hey,” he says when he arrives at my table, and the sound of his voice immediately begins to slow down my pulse.

“Hey,” I reply, stirring my melted ice cream as I tip my chin up, my gaze gradually scrolling up his body.

Silence builds between us, but a real, comfortable silence, just like when I spent time with Landon.
But he’s not Landon.

“So rumor has it that you’re a music junkie,” he finally says, scooting into the seat across from mine. “And that you play the piano and the drums.”

I nod, internally cringing at the mention of drums, the instrument I loved most, but can longer even contemplate playing without it hurting every inch of my mind and soul. “Who told you that? Tristan?”

His glances at Tristan, who’s up at the counter, rambling off an order to the cashier guy. “Yeah, he did the other day, after you left our house.”

I notice the smell of his cologne, laced with a hint of smoke, and I hate to admit it, but I kind of like it, even though it doesn’t remind me of Landon in any way. His eyes are glossy like caramel, and he keeps looking at my melted bowl of gooey ice cream like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Okay… why were you guys talking about me?”

He glances up from the ice cream, blinking his bloodshot eyes. “Because I asked him about you.” He bites his lip after he says it, like he wants to retract his statement.

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair,” I say, trying to keep the conversation effortless. “I don’t know anything about you.”

He flops back in his seat, putting his hands behind his head with his elbows sticking out as he gazes through the window. “There’s not much to know.”

I shut my eyes, telling myself to get up and walk away, because it feels wrong. But when I open them again, he’s looking directly at me, and I can’t help myself. I need to understand him, because in a weird, distorted way I feel like understanding him might help me understand Landon a little better, if I can get deep enough.

“You’re an artist,” I say straightforwardly as I set the spoon down on the table.

His arms drift to his lap and he looks so mystified that it momentarily eliminates the pain in his eyes. “How did you know?”

I inch my hand across the table, trying to keep my fingers steady as I touch a splotch of charcoal on his forearm. “Because of these.”

He glances down at my fingers on his arm, unnerved. “Yeah, but most people would think it was grease or something.”

I wonder if he knows—if Tristan told him about Landon. “I’m just that good.” I sink back in the booth, fold my arms, and chew on my bottom lip, fighting back a smile.

Curiosity crosses his face. “Well, I guess so.” He waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t. I’m kind of enjoying mystifying him.

I fiddle with the leather band bracelets on my wrists. “Where did you move from?”

His expression sinks as he looks back to the window. “Seattle.”

“Seattle… how far is that from here?”

“The plane ride was a little over an hour.” He thrums his fingers on the table, his shoulders stiffening as he grows more uncomfortable. “So Dylan said Delilah mentioned a concert, and I guess they want to go.” He changes the subject, just like Landon used to do when he’d get uncomfortable with a topic.

“Yeah, she was saying something to me about it earlier,” I say, picking up the spoon. I want to ask him more about why he came here, but I can’t seem to work up the nerve to press for information. I don’t know him, and generally when people don’t want to talk about something it’s hard to get it out of them. That was always the problem with Landon. He never wanted to talk. And I always let him get away with it. “I’m not a fan of concerts anymore, though.”

His head slants to the side as he studies me. “You’re a fan of music, you play the drums and piano, but you don’t like concerts?”

“I used to,” I clarify as I start to stir the ice cream again. “But now… I don’t know, they’re too noisy.”
Chaotic, disorganized, sporadic.

“Music in general is noisy.” He’s amused by me, and for a moment the craziness inside my head is worth it.

“Yeah, but at concerts the crowd is, too.” I know I sound insane, but I can’t explain further without explaining all of me. I bring the spoon to my mouth and slurp the ice cream off it, pulling a face when I realize how warm it is.

He laughs at me as I gag, and it makes me smile a little because happiness looks so beautiful on his face. “That bad, huh?” he asks, and I nod. Sliding his hands across the table, his fingers seek the bowl. “Mind if I try it?”

I gesture at the melted bowl of goo. “Be my guest.”

He looks way too happy to be receiving my melted, secondhand ice cream as he grabs the bowl, and relaxes back in the booth, scooping up a spoonful. “Bottoms up,” he says and elevates the spoon to his lips. I’m fascinated by the way he sucks it off the plastic spoon, deliberately, like he’s savoring every taste of it. A little drips from his mouth and trickles down his lip, and his tongue slides out of his mouth to lick it off, and for a second I picture myself behind a camera, recording the movements of his lips and throat.

Then he takes another large bite, nearly devouring it, and I scrunch my nose. I never was a fan of melted ice cream, but he might be because he’s stoned. Landon would sometimes get these weird cravings when he was high, like for caramel ice cream topping straight out of the jar or cherries on a peanut butter sandwich. “So how is it?”

He stares up at the ceiling thoughtfully, then takes another bite. “Delicious, but I’ve always kind of had a thing for melted ice cream.”

“I think it’s gross,” I divulge, crossing my arms on the table. “I like it right out of the freezer when it’s so frozen you have to stab the spoon into it.”

He puts another spoonful into his mouth and then looks at me with a puzzled, amused expression as he points the plastic spoon at me. “You’re an interesting person, Nova, which by the way can I say is my favorite car.” His smile is adorable, but he’s hitting a sensitive subject. Not just with the mention of the car, but with me. Landon use to call me interesting—or quirky—instead of weird like everyone else.

“You’re not weird,” Landon had said once when I’d came home from school upset after Nina Ramaldy told me I was a freak who no one would ever want or understand. “You’re interesting and…” He’d tapped the end of his pencil on his chin. “Entertaining.”

“Is that a good thing?” I’d questioned doubtfully.

“It’s a beautiful thing, Nova,” he’d replied with one of his rare smiles. “It’d suck if you were normal. You’d be no fun.”

I shake the memory away and concentrate on Quinton and his honey-brown eyes. “Are you seriously going to eat all that melted ice cream?”

He puts another spoon full into his mouth and some of it drips down the back of his hand. “You know, melted or not, ice cream is just ice cream.” He licks the back of his hand, and it makes me laugh.

“No way,” I disagree. “Ice cream isn’t meant to be warm.”

He hesitantly stares down into the bowl as he scrapes the spoon around the edge, then peers up at me. “Here.” He moves the spoon toward me, and there’s a large chunk of cookie dough in it with very little ice cream. “Try this part. It’s not so bad.”

I shake my head and wrinkle my nose. “No thanks. You can eat it.”

He tries to look annoyed, giving me a cold, hard stare, but it’s more humorous than anything. “Nova, you have to have some of it; otherwise, I’m going to go home feeling guilty for eating all of your ice cream.”

I wonder if he’s this entertaining when he’s not buzzed—I wonder if I’ll ever get to find out. I over dramatically sigh, pretending it’s a burden, gather my hair behind my head and lean over the table. He meets me halfway and puts the spoon into my mouth, licking his lips to suppress a grin as I suck the chunk of dough into my mouth. Sitting back, I chew on it.

“So,” he says as he takes another bite himself, his eyes lingering on my mouth. “It’s not so bad without the melted ice cream on it, right?”

I swallow the dough and let go of my hair. “No, it’s worse,” I lie, biting my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

He licks some ice cream off the bottom of his lip and I notice him eyeing my mouth again. For a second I wonder what his lips would taste like after he’s eaten all that ice cream, but then guilt creeps over me as I picture Landon and his lips and how he was the only guy I’d ever really wanted to kiss. The calm bubble that discreetly formed around us pops, and I start counting the tiles on the floor around our table, searching for an excuse to get up. Then a shadow casts itself over the table.

I glance up and I’m relieved to find Delilah standing next to the table. She has a cone in her hand, along with a napkin. “Hey,” I say to her.

“Hey,” she replies, giving me a questioning look, then her eyes wander to Quinton as she sticks out her hand. “Hi, we haven’t really met yet. I’m Delilah.”

Quinton sets the bowl of ice cream down on the table, wipes his hands off on the front of his shirt, and shakes her hand. “Quinton.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says, letting go of his hand. There’s something in her tone—insinuation, maybe—that makes me wonder if she knows something about him. “You’re from Seattle, right?”

His hands twitch as he balls them up and folds his arms on the table. “Yeah.” His fists are so tight his knuckles are turning white and I wonder what he left back in Seattle. Or maybe who. He clears his throat and then scoots to the edge of the booth. “I have to go.” He gets up, swings around Delilah, and then hurries for the door.

Delilah and I watch him as he shoves the door open, walks outside, and then dashes down the sidewalk with his head tucked down. Seeing him like that, so upset and disheartened, brings up a memory I’d almost forgotten.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Landon had said to me once, and then he’d walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the yard, totally confused because I’d only asked him where he wanted to go to college and if he’d still want to be with me. After I thought about it for a few minutes, though, I realized how huge the question was and how silly I was for putting it on him, so I didn’t chase after him. I wished I had, though. I wished I had more than anything. Maybe if I would have chased him down and forced him to talk, things would have ended differently—maybe things would have never ended at all.

I start to slide to the edge of the booth, seriously contemplating chasing Quinton down, even though I don’t know him.

“What are you doing?” Delilah asks as she sits down in the booth, stopping me from sliding out, and licks the top of her vanilla ice cream cone. “Don’t chase after him.”

I inch back inside the booth, slip my flip-flop off, and tuck my foot under my leg. “Why?”

“Nova, you barely know him,” she says. “I mean, it’s great to see you smiling like that, but you should probably learn more about him before you go chasing him down.”

My shoulders slump as I reach across the table for the bowl of ice cream. “He looks so sad.” I frown at the empty bowl. “Like really sad. I wonder why.”

“So do you,” she remarks, licking the top of her cone. She keeps licking and slurping on it and it starts to drive me nuts. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something about him, and then I’m going to let you decide whether you want to go there or not, because you’ve been through a lot, and you deserve to know what you’re getting into before you dive in.”

Deserve? Who’s to decide what I deserve? I shove the bowl to the side and lean forward, crossing my arms. “You’re making me worry. Is there… is there something wrong with him? Quinton, I mean?”

“She drums her fingers on the table. “Sort of.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, fleetingly glancing at Tristan and Dylan over at the counter, chatting it up with the cashier guy. They look so happy and they make it look so easy. I fix my gaze back on Delilah. “Please just tell me.”

She dabs some ice cream off her lips with a napkin and starts to open her mouth, when Dylan strolls up to our table.

“Hey, babe,” Dylan says over cheerfully as he puts his arms around Delilah. He has dirt on his cheek, and he smells like beer and cigarettes. He kisses the top of her head and glances up at me. “Hey, Nova.” His eyes travel to the empty seat across from me. “Where’d Quinton go?”

I point over my shoulder at the window. “He left.” I eye Delilah over, wanting to hear what she has to say about Quinton, but she shrugs, obviously not wanting to talk about it in front of Dylan.

“Where’d he go?” Dylan asks as he shovels up a spoonful from the ridiculously large bowl of ice cream he’s holding.

“He probably just needed to get some air.” Tristan struts up to the table carrying a bowl of ice cream that’s piled with marshmallows. “He does that sometimes.”

I note the slight annoyance in Tristan’s tone. “Is he okay?” I ask. “Maybe someone should go check on him.”

Tristan stares at his ice cream, then his eyebrows elevate. “He’s fine.”