Saving Quinton

by Jessica Sorensen

  "Because you wanted to." She grazes her thumb across the bottom of the cigarette, scattering ash across the floor. "We're all here because we choose to be here."

  I elevate my eyebrows. "Even you?"

  She frowns. "Yes, even me."

  "Then why were you crying a few minutes ago?" I don't really think that has anything to do with drugs, but I'm trying to get her to talk about it. Despite the fact that she can be a bitch most of the time, she was my friend once.

  "I was upset about something," she says, dropping her cigarette to the floor. "I'm allowed to be upset."

  "I know that." I move toward her. "Why's your cheek all swollen?"

  She narrows her eyes at me. "I walked into a wall."

  I don't believe her at all. "How the heck does that happen?"

  She shrugs, pressing the tip of her shoe to the cigarette, putting it out. "I was tripping out. Thought I could walk through walls."

  "Are you...are you sure it had nothing to do with the yelling?"

  "Yeah, I'm sure," she snaps, shuffling forward and grabbing hold of my arm. "Don't you dare speculate that Dylan hit me. Because he didn't."

  I flinch as her fingers dig into my skin. "I never said he did."

  She huffs, releasing her hold on me, and flips me off. "Fuck you. You don't know me. Not anymore." Then she stomps off down the hallway, throwing her arms in the air.

  "Delilah, wait." I call out as I hurry after her. "I wasn't trying to make you mad."

  She spins on her heels, her face red with anger. "Then what were you doing?"

  "I just." I squirm uneasily against her heated gaze. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

  "I'm fine," she says through clenched teeth.

  "If you ever need anything, you can call me," I say in a pathetic attempt to help her.

  Her mouth is set in a thin line. "I don't...won't ever need anything."

  The helpless feeling inside me magnifies and nearly drowns me as she turns and walks away, leaving me standing at the end of the hallway. I feel like banging my head on the wall, surrounded by a ton of people who need help, but don't want it. And I'm not strong enough to help all of them at once. What am I supposed to do? Keep trying until I break? Walk away and always regret not staying? Because I know that's where this will go. I'm already becoming obsessed with the what-ifs again, just like I did after Landon died. And maybe I'll eventually get over it, heal. But at the same time I want this to turn out good. I want just for once not to have to lose someone because I couldn't do things right--ride my bike fast enough or wake up a few minutes earlier and convince the person I love that life is worth living.

  "What are you doing?" The sound of Quinton's voice startles me and my heart speeds up.

  I spin around. He's standing in the doorway again with jeans on, sniffing profusely as he puts a shirt on. His eyes are much warmer and more coherent, like he's killed the monster that was emerging in him, or just put it to sleep.

  "I was talking to Delilah." I walk back down the hall to him.

  "And how did that go?" he questions, stuffing the plastic bag into his pocket.

  "Not very well," I admit. "I'm worried about her, not just because of the...well, you know..." I seek the right words, but I'm not sure there are such things. "Not just because she's on drugs, but because she's with Dylan."

  "But you can't help her if she doesn't want help." There's an underlying meaning in his tone.

  "But I can try," I reply, straining a small smile. "What kind of person would I be to give up on people?"

  "The normal kind," he says with honesty.

  "Well, I've always known I wasn't normal."

  "No, you're not." There's a mystified look on his face. "But it's a good thing, I think." He continues to stare at me for a moment, looking more and more lost, until finally he crouches down to grab a handful of change off the floor. "So where are we going tonight?" He stands back up with a ghost smile on his face. So hot and cold. So up and down. So much like Landon.

  "Where do you want to go?" I ask as he stuffs the coins into his pocket.

  He presses his lips together, scanning his room, the floor covered in coins and on his mattress a blanket and his sketchbook. "You just want to hang out around here?"

  "I'd rather not, if that's okay."

  "It's probably not the best place for you, is it?" He frowns, like he just realized where we were standing.

  "Or for you," I dare to say, pressing a point.

  He swallows hard, and I can see the monster vanishing, probably because he's just fed it. "You're too nice to me," he ultimately says, and I that's when I think I see a glimpse of him. The Quinton I first met. The sad one, but still nice, still caring; a good guy who just needs help fighting his inner demons. Who needs to let go of his past.

  I force myself to be positive. "Just wait. I've got a whole lot more niceness for you that you haven't even seen yet," I say, playfully nudging him with my foot.

  He shakes his head, but fights back a smile, his honey-brown eyes flickering with a hint of life, and the sight makes me want to throw my arms around him and hold on to him--hold on to the life I see there in his eyes. "How about we go sit in your car and talk?"

  I work to keep my arms to my sides and nod, pushing myself to look past all the problems around me, even though it feels like maybe I shouldn't--that maybe I'm the one who needs to open her eyes. "I think that sounds like a great idea."

  *

  I'm not sure how much crystal he did, but by the time we make it to the car a burst of energy kicks in and his talking goes into hyper mode. "So how are you liking Vegas?" he asks as we climb into my car, parked in the parking lot in front of his house.

  It's such a formal question that it takes me a moment to answer. "Good, I guess."

  I get comfortable in the seat, rolling down the window and letting the warm air in as he tips his head back against the headrest. "Have you done anything fun?"

  I scoot my seat back a little so I can stretch out my legs "I went to the Strip the other night."

  "I hear it's intense." He rubs his eyes and then blinks as he gazes up at the ceiling.

  "Yeah, lots and lots of lights and people...do you go down there ever?"

  He shakes his head. "Nah, it's not really for me." His eyes land on me and through the dark I can almost pretend that he's sober. "Too many people."

  "You don't seem to like the city," I note, rotating in my seat to face him. "Yet you live here and you used to live in Seattle, which is pretty big, isn't it?" I tense when I feel him tense, worried that maybe bringing up Seattle wasn't the best thing.

  But he relaxes. "Yeah, but cities haven't always bothered me."

  "What changed?"

  "Me," he says, scratching at his arm where I know his tattoos are hidden. "I just decided I like the quiet...I already have too much noise in my head and the last thing I need to do is add more."

  "And yet you're here."

  "I'm here because I have nowhere else to go."

  "Not even back to Seattle." I hope I'm not about to break the thin ice I'm already walking on.

  "I'll never go back to Seattle," he replies disdainfully, cracking his neck and then his knuckles. "There's too many fucking memories there."

  It grows quiet as he stares at the building in front of us with a contemplative look on his face, like he's considering if he wants to bail out and go back in. Before he can, I take the opportunity to say something that I hope doesn't make him angry, that I hope makes him understand that I understand him more than he thinks I do.

  "You know, I used to feel that way about Maple Grove," I divulge. "Especially since it's where my boyfriend died. His house was actually across the street..." I swallow the lump in my throat, preparing myself to say the one thing I'll always hate saying aloud. "Where I found him...after he...well, he took his own life."

  Silence stretches by. I hear cars whizzing by on the streets. Their headlights illuminate the rearview mirror.

  "I'm sure
that had to be hard for you," he utters quietly, his breath becoming ragged.

  "It was really hard," I admit. "Especially because I blamed myself for his death."

  He turns his head toward me with his brows furrowed. "Why would you blame yourself over that? He chose to do it. You didn't make him." He pauses, composing his erratic breath.

  "Yeah, but at the same time, I saw signs that I sort of ignored because I was afraid to admit they existed. Afraid he'd get mad at me...I was afraid of a lot of things and I'll always regret that fear probably for the rest of my life."

  "Yeah, but even if you weren't afraid and you said something to him," he says, not looking at me but staring over my shoulder out at the darkness, "it doesn't mean things would have happened differently. He still might have decided it was time to let go."

  "Yeah, but I'd at least be able to sit here and say that I did everything I could." I press a point that feels really important now. "That I didn't give up before it was over."

  "Is that what you're doing with me?" He looks at me. I think he's aiming to be rude, but his uneven voice gives away that he's getting emotional.

  "Maybe," I tell him honestly. "Does that make you afraid?"

  He shakes his head, holding my gaze. "No, because I know you're just wasting time."

  "I don't agree with you." I refuse to blink away from his intense gaze. "No time is wasted when you're trying to help someone."

  He's baffled by my words, his lips parting as he scratches his head. "So what? You're going to continue to hang out at this place in the hopes that you're going to save me?" He gestures at our surroundings. The neighborhood has started to come to life, people standing outside on the stairway of the building, walking around the front. "You really want this to be your life? Because even I sometimes hate it. Plus, it's dangerous and you shouldn't even be hanging out here." He falters over his words like he didn't mean to let the last part slip out. "But I deserve it. You don't."

  "Well, I don't have to stay here all the time," I say, getting an idea as I start up the engine. "No one does. Everyone has a choice of where they want to be. You. Tristan, especially after seeing what that Trace guy did to him."

  "Tristan will be fine...I'm taking care of him." He slides back in the seat.

  "Are you sure? Because I can help--"

  He cuts me off. "I'm not letting you get involved in this shit, so drop it, Nova."

  "Okay...but I just want you to know that I'm here if you need anything."

  "I know that." His expression softens. "And I want you to know that I don't want you getting involved in anything that's part of this." He gestures at the apartment building. "I want you safe."

  I shift the car into drive. "I know you do."

  We exchange this intense look that makes it hard to breathe. But then he clears his throat a few times and sits up straight as I start to back the car up. "What are you doing?"

  Getting you away from your crappy apartment. "I just need a soda. I'm freaking thirsty."

  "There's a gas station just down the road where you can get one," he says, pointing over his shoulder at the road. "It only takes like a minute to drive there and a few minutes on foot."

  "I'll just drive there." I crank the wheel to turn the car around. "And then we can keep talking."

  "But doesn't our conversation keep going in circles...you trying to help me when you can't? It's kind of a lost cause," he says as he guides his seat belt over his shoulder and clicks it into the buckle.

  I flip on the headlights as I pull out onto the road. "No time with you is a lost cause. It's actually very valuable."

  I hear his breath hitch in his throat and when he grips the door handle, I worry he's going to try to jump out, but he startles me when he says, "Nova, you're freaking killing me tonight." His voice is just a whisper, choked up, full of the agony he keeps bottled up. "You got to stop saying that shit to me."

  My heart races inside my chest. "Why?"

  He lowers his head and rubs his hand roughly across his face. "Because it means too much to me and stuff shouldn't mean things to me...it messes with my head."

  "Well, I'm sorry, but I got a whole lot of more meaningful stuff waiting for you," I tell him, unsure where the hell this conversation is going to go.

  He stares down at his lap. "I can't take it anymore. Please just talk about something else besides me." He glances up at me and the lights on the side of the street are reflected in his eyes, highlighting his agony. "Tell me something about you," he begs, slumping against the seat with his head turned toward me. "Please. I want to hear something about you."

  I turn my head and our gazes collide. I want to cry because he looks in misery and like he's silently begging me to put him out of it. God, what I'd give to know the right thing to say, something that could take away his pain. The problem is I know from experience there's no right thing to say that can take away the pain. There's nothing that can save him from it. He just has to learn to live with it and not give it so much power over him.

  "Like what?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice balanced.

  "I don't know." He shrugs. "You said on the roof that I was easy to talk to last summer and I said it was because you were high, so prove me wrong right now. Talk to me about something--something about you."

  I consider what he said as I tap the brakes, stopping at a red light. Something about me. Maybe something that will help him see that people can be helped. "I watched Landon's...my old boyfriend's video, the one he made minutes before he killed himself." I don't look at him when I say it because I can't, but his elongated silence says that I've stunned him. The light turns green and I drive down the road, heading toward the gas station on the right side.

  Finally he says, "When?"

  "I already told you he made it right before he died," I say as I pull into the gas station. "I actually had the video file forever, but I was too scared to watch it. I had it there on my computer and then my phone all last summer, but wouldn't...couldn't watch it."

  "No, I mean when did you watch it?" he asks as I park the car in front of the gas station doors and beneath the florescent glow of the signs.

  I turn off the engine. "It was the day I took off from the concert," I tell him, our gazes locked. "The morning after you left me at the pond."

  "And did it make you feel better?" he questions. "Knowing what he thought before he..." His voice cracks and he clears it, putting his hands at his sides.

  "Yes and no," I answer honestly, and when he looks at me funny, I explain. "Yes, because it helped me see what I'd really become--what I was turning into. Even though it was right in front of my eyes, I couldn't see it and his words reminded me of what I used to be and what I wanted to be again."

  He absorbs my words like they're oxygen, breathing in and out. "And why do you regret it?"

  I shrug, but everything inside me winds tight as I stare out the windshield at the store lights, letting them burn against my eyes so I won't cry. "Because I still ended up confused over why he did it...he never did give a real explanation, and honestly, I'm not even sure one exists. Plus, it hurt to watch him like that, you know." I look over at him and even though it's hard I hold his gaze. "Watching him hurt like that and knowing that soon his pain was going to end--that he was going to die soon and I couldn't do anything to stop it. That I missed my chance...I never want to miss my chance again."

  "I'm not going to die, Nova," he says. "If that's what you're getting at."

  "You don't know that," I say, looking back at him, seeing spots from staring at the lights. "What you're doing...it could kill you."

  "Well, it's not going to," he insists. "Trust me, I've been trying to die for a very long time and I can't make it happen, no matter how hard I try."

  The hope inside me poofs out and before I can even get myself together, tears flood my eyes. Quinton's honey-brown eyes become Landon's and abruptly it feels like I'm sitting in the car with him and we're just talking, but I can feel that he's sad and I'm just watching h
im getting sadder and sadder and not doing a goddamned thing about it--watching him die.

  "Why would you ever say something like that?" I say as hot tears drip from my eyes. I want to hit him but at the same time I want to hug him. I'm conflicted, so instead I just sit there and cry and he just sits there and watches me like he doesn't care. But then the tears start streaming down my cheeks and splattering on the console and when he sees them falling it's like he suddenly realizes I'm crying and that he played a part in it.

  He leans over quickly and wraps his arm around me and pulls me against him, crushing our bodies together. "God, Nova, I'm so sorry. Fuck. I'm such an asshole...I don't even know what I'm saying half the time...don't even listen to me."

  I let him hold me as tears soak his shirt and he kisses the top of my head, whispering apologies. For a fleeting moment, it's not me and this warped version of Quinton in the car. It's me and a different Quinton I wish I could meet, the one from before the accident. I'm not really sure what he's like, but I've gotten enough glimpses of him that I can picture a loving, genuinely good guy. And he's the one holding me right now, rather than the one who made me cry.

  Eventually I suck the tears back and return to reality. I start to retreat, but he keeps his arms around me, pressing on my back, and I notice his arms are trembling.

  "I'm so sorry," he says and he's shaking like he's scared. "I should have never said that."

  "It's fine." I move back enough to look him in the eyes. "You're probably just tired, right?" I offer him an excuse, hoping he'll take it and we can let this go.

  "Yeah...tired," he says warily because we both know that's not the case.

  I lift my hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks, but he grabs my hand. Then he moves forward and I instantly tense as he brushes his lips across my cheeks where the tears stain my skin.

  "Tired or not," he says between kisses. "I should never make you cry. Ever. I'm a horrible person who you should just stay away from," he whispers through another kiss. "God, I don't deserve to be here with you. You should just take me back home."

  "No, you do deserve to be with me." My eyes shut as his warm breath touches my cheeks and his chest brushes against mine with every breath he takes. Emotions surface...how much I care for him...how much I wish he could be in my future...my life...healed. I'm painfully reminded of why I came here. Why I needed to help him. And it's painful because I know how hard it is, how hopeless it's becoming, but how worth it it is because of the glimpses like these.