“I hope so,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “I hope one day I can be okay with everything and so can you.”
Is it possible, though? After the last few years, to heal and live a life where I’m not drowning? I used to think no and part of me still thinks there’s no way. But there’s a small part of me that has to wonder.
Does hope still exist for me?
Chapter 6
Quinton
December 10, day forty-two in the real world
I’m feeling pretty good when I wake up early to meet Wilson, especially after my talk with Nova last night. It’s amazing how good she makes me feel. I just wish I could hold on to the good feeling because the more time goes by since our conversation, the more the heaviness returns to me.
Still, I get up, trying to grasp Nova’s positivity. There are clouds in the sky and a little bit of frost on the grass, so I put a coat, gloves, and boots on, even though I have no idea if I’m actually going to be working outside.
After I get all bundled up, I go downstairs to have breakfast and pack a lunch. My dad’s sitting at the table with a slice of toast and coffee in front of him, and he’s reading the newspaper, surrounded by boxes. The sight of them makes it hard to stay optimistic, reminding me that I still have that problem to deal with.
When I enter the kitchen, my dad glances up and then offers me a small smile, but then he takes in my outdoor wear and it falls from his face. “Where are you going?” he wonders, reaching for his coffee mug. “I thought you had your therapy session today.”
“I do,” I tell him, getting a Pop-Tart out of the cupboard. The kitchen walls have been sunshine yellow forever and the countertops a deep green. It’s a ghastly sight, but my dad always refused to change it because it was the color palette my mom picked out. “But I have to go somewhere else first.”
He folds up his newspaper, seeming skeptical. “Where?”
I rip open the wrapper on the Pop-Tart. “Remember that Wilson guy I was telling you about?”
He raises his mug to his mouth and takes a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, the one that runs those meetings for people who…” He trails off, uncomfortable with the subject. Always is.
“The meeting for ex–drug addicts who are dealing with guilt and loss,” I say bluntly. If I can say it, he should be able to say it.
He nods, setting the mug back down on the table. “Yeah, that one.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.” I bite the corner of the Pop-Tart off as I pull out a chair and take a seat at the table. “And he wants to show me some house he’s building for Habitat for Humanity. I think he wants me to get involved or something.”
“But you’re involved in a lot of stuff already.” He doesn’t seem that thrilled.
I shrug as I get up to pour myself a cup of coffee. “What else am I going to do with my life?” I ask, getting a mug out of the dishwasher.
“I don’t know.” He bites his toast and chews it slowly as he thinks. “I just don’t want you to get too involved when we’re going to be moving soon.”
“I never said I was moving,” I say bitterly as I grab the pot of coffee. “You said you were moving.”
“But I thought we agreed you’d come with me,” he says with a hint of sadness.
“When did I ever agree to that?” I ask, confused, as I pour some coffee into the mug.
He glances around the room at the packed boxes on the countertops and on the floor. “Well, you never argued when I started packing and put the house up for sale, so I just assumed you were okay with everything.”
“Well, I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m almost twenty-one years old and I shouldn’t even be living with my father to begin with. Let alone moving across the country with him.” I take a swallow of my coffee, hoping that I’ll be able to calm myself down. There’s no reason to get angry. After all, he wants me to come with him. But for some reason I do feel a little resentful and I can’t even figure out why. “For the first time since the accident, I have some sort of structure in my life and I already told you I don’t want to just give that up—I don’t want to start over again. It’s too f**king hard.”
He stares at me with wide eyes and I realize how loud I’m talking and how much I’m trembling. I don’t say anything else and neither does he as I finish my coffee and he cleans up his plate and cup. After I make my lunch, I leave the house and take the bus to where I’m supposed to meet Wilson, because I don’t want to ask my dad to lend me the car or give me a ride. I just want a break to clear my head.
It’s a fairly long bus ride and I end up getting there about half an hour late. The address Wilson gave me ends up being that of a small, single-story house that’s almost completely finished, except for the yard work and a few spots that need siding. There are a few guys working on it right now, out in the cold, with their hammers and power tools, dressed in heavy coats and boots. Wilson is one of them.
I stand at the curb for almost an eternity, because I can’t seem to bring my feet to move. I’m puzzled by Wilson and his freeness. He can’t be real. He has to be fake. There’s no way anyone can live with that kind of guilt and laugh like that. It can’t be possible.
But the longer I stare, the more I realize he just might be real and that he really does seem to be at some sort of inner peace with himself. I’d call it a miracle, but I don’t believe in miracles, not since Lexi and Ryder died and I lived. That would mean my life was the miracle, but it’s not. It should have been the other way. They should have lived and I should have died. That would have been the miracle.
“So are you just going to stand there and stare all day?” Wilson’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I realize that he’s crossing the front yard toward me.
“Sorry, I was just admiring the house,” I say, then start across the yard and meet him in the middle.
“It’s nice, right?” He nods at the almost-finished house.
“Sure.” I honestly wouldn’t call it nice. It’s small, with plain tan siding, no grass in the narrow front yard, and no front porch or shutters.
“For someone who hasn’t ever had a home, it’s nice,” he tells me, and then motions for me to follow him as he walks back to the guys working on putting up the siding.
When I get over there, he hands me a nail gun. “Get busy,” he says.
I gape at the nail gun and then at him. “You want me to help you put up siding?”
“What else are you going to do?” he asks. “Stand around and watch us put it up?”
I admire him for being so blunt and follow him over to the small pile of siding that needs to be put up. He quickly introduces me to everyone and then we pick up pieces of siding and he shows me where to put the nails. We don’t really talk about anything except lining up the siding and putting the nails in right.
There’s country music playing from an old stereo near the tools and the air smells like cigarette smoke because everyone keeps taking smoke breaks. About halfway through, I realize how comfortable I feel, but the revelation freaks me out more than it calms me.
“So what do you think?” Wilson asks as he holds a piece of siding on one side and I hold the other side.
I put the tip of the nail gun up to the siding and shoot a nail into it. “About what? Building the house?”
He nods as I put another nail in. “Yeah, does it make you feel invigorated?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I move the nail gun to put another nail into the siding, but he stops me, grabbing my arm.
“You want to hear the story of the family the house is for?” he asks, taking the nail gun from me.
I dither, almost afraid it’s going to be too much for me to handle. “I guess so.”
He gives my unenthusiastic attitude a disapproving look, but tells me the story anyway. “It’s for a widow and her three daughters.”
Normally I don’t ask about stuff that I know is going to be dark, but for some reason I find myself asking, “How’d her husband die?”
I can tell the moment I ask the question that it’s going to be something bad. Something that he worries I’m going to react to.
“A drunk driver.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can say. While I wasn’t drunk when I crashed the car into another car that night, I was driving too fast. It triggers something inside me and for a brief moment I think about running the hell away from this place and shoving as much crystal up my nose as I possibly can. Maybe even shoot my veins up, although it’s only part of me that wants it. The other never wants to go back to that wandering, pointless place again.
But before I can even take a step, Wilson picks up another chunk of siding and pretty much throws it at me. “Here, let’s switch jobs,” he says as I catch it with a grunt. “You put the nails in and I’ll hold up the siding.” He rolls his shoulder. “My arm’s getting f**king tired.”
I end up staying there until a couple of hours later when all the siding is put up, listening to country music and breathing in the cigarette smoke. With each piece that goes up, I feel a little bit lighter. It’s kind of amazing when I think about it. How at the moment I’m not beating myself down, but holding myself up without feeling guilty. But maybe that’s because I’m doing something good for someone who needs it. Maybe it’s because I’m making up for what I did. Who the hell knows? But I’ll take it for the moment.
After we’re done, the guys start to pack up their tools with pleased looks on their faces, like they feel the same way. Wilson explains to me that three out of the four of them are exchanging their time in order to get help on their own houses.
“Did you get a ride here?” he asks, after we’ve packed all the tools and scraps of siding into the back of an old pickup truck.
“No… I don’t have a car and my dad couldn’t drive me this morning.” I lie about the last part but only because I don’t want to think about the little argument I had with my dad. And I’m hoping that when I get back to the house, he’ll be there to take me to therapy. “So I took the bus.”
He nods at the old pickup parked in the driveway. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, not wanting to be a burden.
“Quinton, quit trying to be nice and get in the f**king truck,” he says in a joking tone. “I have nothing better to do anyway.”
Again, I want to ask him if he has a family, but I don’t dare. “Thanks,” I say, then get into the passenger side of the truck and slip off my gloves.
He climbs into the driver’s side and shuts the door, then starts up the engine. The truck backfires and he laughs as he pats the top of the steering wheel. “Got to love old cars, don’t ya?” He grabs the shifter and puts it into reverse. “I personally love the classics, though.”
“What year is it?” I ask, buckling my seat belt.
“A 1962 Chevy,” he tells me as he backs up into the street. “It was actually my dad’s.” He aligns the truck and drives toward the corner of the road. “He left it to me when he died.”
“My girl… a friend of mine,” I correct myself, “got a Chevy Nova when her dad died.”
He seems really interested as he heads out of the neighborhood and toward the city. “What year?”
“I think it’s a 1969,” I reply, unzipping my coat. “It’s completely restored and everything.”
“I bet it’s a nice ride,” he remarks as he turns out onto the main road, where the lampposts are decorated with Christmas lights along with the houses.
“I guess so.”
“Has she ever let you drive it?”
I shake my head and then shrug. “I never asked her if I could.”
He gapes at me like I’m crazy. “Why the hell not? Do you know how badass those cars are?”
I shrug again. “Things are complicated with Nova.” That would be the understatement of the year.
He arches his brows as he pulls the beanie off his head and tosses it onto the seat between us. “Things are complicated with the car or is the girl’s name Nova?”
“Yeah, her dad named her after the car,” I explain as I put my frozen hands up to the heater vent, wishing we could get off the subject.
He appears impressed by this. “A girl named Nova,” he muses. “I’d really like to meet her.”
“You can’t,” I say hastily. “She lives in Idaho.”
“Okay, then I’ll visit her when she comes here next time.”
“She never comes here.” I’m being vague because the last thing I want to do is talk about my issues with seeing Nova. How I desperately want to, but at the same time I’m afraid to.
“Are you going to tell me the story behind why she doesn’t?” he asks. He shifts the truck and the engine groans in protest.
“There’s no story,” I tell him. Not one I want to share, anyway.
He looks me over with doubt as he presses the brake and stops at a red light. “Yeah, I’m not buying it.”
I drum my fingers on my knee, getting agitated. “Fine, there is a story behind it, but it’s a really long, fucked-up story and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“We have about a twenty-minute drive to your house,” he says. “You could at least start explaining why just the mention of her has gotten you all worked up.”