I make my lips curve into an even bigger smile and either he doesn’t notice I’m faking being happy or he doesn’t say anything. He returns his attention to the movie, his eyes locked on the screen as he gets another slice of pizza. I start to become hyper-aware of him and his movements, how tired he looks, the bags under his eyes. I think he’s tired and I start to debate whether I should say I’m exhausted as an excuse to get out of the growing discomfort of the situation. It’d be so easy to go back to my room, but at the same time I know my being here helps Tristan stay out of trouble. So I stay put and attempt to concentrate on the movie the best I can.

* * *

“What are we doing here?” I ask Quinton as I stand on the edge of a cliff, staring out at the land before us. Rolling hills that go on for miles and miles, until they connect with the horizon.

“We’re getting some peace and quiet,” he says, and I can feel his honey-brown eyes on me so I turn and look at him.

He looks healthier than the last time I saw him, more muscular, his eyes brighter, his hair cropped short like the first time I met him. He’s not wearing a shirt, the defined scar on his chest visible, along with the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One. Even though I know both the scar and the tattoos are related to the accident, I only know from the stuff I’ve put together on my own. Quinton’s never really told me anything himself about what happened that night, and I wonder if he ever will.

“What?” he asks, his brow arching, and I realize I’ve been silently staring at him.

I shake my head, still unable to take my eyes off him. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I was just wondering…” I trail off. “Never mind.”

He reaches out and touches his palm to my cheek. “It’s not nothing, Nova. So please just tell me… I want to know… I want to know everything you’re thinking.”

It’s such an honest request that it takes me a moment to respond.

“I was just thinking about your tattoos and scars and what they mean.” As soon as it leaves my lips, I know I’ve said the wrong thing.

I can see his muscles wind tight, his fingers fold into his palms, his scruffy jaw go taut. I want to retract what I said, but it’s too late and suddenly he’s stepping away from me.

“Don’t go,” I call out, reaching for him, but my feet won’t move. “Please, I didn’t mean it.”

He shakes his head, his skin paling, his muscles shriveling until he looks like a skeleton. His eyes sink in and his cheekbones become more distinct. When his body is finished shifting, he looks just like the Quinton I last saw, the one who lost his body to heroin. The one who gave up on life. The one who wanted to die because he hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says, which isn’t what I was expecting.

“For what?” I question, lowering my hand to my side.

“For this.” He starts running toward the cliff like he’s going to jump.

“No!” I scream as he springs onto his toes, leaping toward the edge.

I’m finally able to move my feet and run for him, but it’s too late. He flies through the air and when he starts to drop, he’s falling off the cliff toward the rocky bottom…

My eyes shoot open and I gasp for air. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but when I finally do, I realize that I was dreaming and that I’m not on a cliff, watching Quinton fall, but lying on my side, cuddled up with Tristan on the couch with our legs tangled. My eyes widen as I realize this and I hurry and wiggle out of his arms. I end up rolling off the sofa and falling face-first onto the floor. I quickly sit up, worried he’s going to wake up and wonder what the heck’s going on. I can’t see him because night has settled, the living room nearly pitch black except for the light flowing through the window and from the television screen, which has gone blue, the movie long over. But I can hear the soft sound of his breathing, which hopefully means he’s asleep.

I get to my feet and shake off the lingering terror of the dream as I tiptoe into my room. I close the door behind me and take my phone from my pocket. I want to call Quinton, but even thinking about it with the phone in my hand is terrifying. Besides, what if he’s asleep or something?

It’s ten o’clock and that makes it nine o’clock in Seattle, so it doesn’t seem likely. Still, I dither for about ten minutes, organizing my CD collection while I carry the phone around in my hand, my OCD habits kicking in with my nerves. Finally, after realizing that I’m just going to have to rip off the Band-Aid and get it over with, I flop down on my bed and dial Quinton’s dad’s home phone number, which Tristan gave me.

I rest my head on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling as I listen to the phone ring, trying to figure out what to say. I need to be careful with my words—make sure I don’t say anything that will upset him or put pressure on him. But what is the right thing to say? I’m not sure, especially since I have tons of questions sitting on my tongue, like what’s been going on? Are you okay? Do you miss me? Ever want to see me again?

“Hello.” A man picks up after four rings, sounding tired.

“Um… is Quinton there?” I ask, worried I’ve woken up his dad or something.

“Who is this?” he questions with an edge in his voice.

I hesitate. Does he even know who I am? “Um… Nova Reed.”

He pauses. “Nova Reed, Carry Reed’s daughter, right?” I’d almost forgotten that he knows my mother because she’s the one who convinced him to go look for his son when Tristan and I lost track of Quinton when he was living on the streets in Vegas.

I relax a little. “Yeah, that’s the one,” I say, trying to keep a light tone. “I know it’s late and everything, but I was wondering if I could talk to him.”

He remains silent and I worry that maybe Quinton told him he didn’t want to talk to me. Perhaps he told Tristan I could call only because he felt pressured and then changed his mind.

But then his dad says, “Let me go see if he’s awake.”

“Okay, thanks.” I chew on my fingernails as I wait. I can hear the sound of footsteps and then a door opening. There’s music playing in the background. “Cover Me” by Candlebox. I absent-mindedly get up from my bed and turn my iPod in the dock to the same song, quietly enough that he won’t hear it, but loudly enough that I can. It makes me feel connected to him in a strange way, but then again, my emotions are greatly connected to music, so this would probably be the case under any circumstances.

The music on the other end gets quieter as I go back over to my bed. His dad says something, there’s a reply, then his dad says, “Nova Reed.”

Silence, expect for the lyrics of Candlebox. I hold my breath as I lie down on the bed again, fearing his dad’s going to get back on the phone and say Quinton doesn’t want to talk to me. Instead there’s a thud followed by a rustle. A door clicks shut and then I hear soft breathing from the other end.

“Hello,” Quinton utters quietly, like he’s afraid to speak.

I get tongue-tied, trying to figure out what to say, and then Tristan’s and my earlier conversation pops into my head and I sputter, “Hi.” I roll my eyes and shake my head at myself.

There’s a pause and I scrunch my nose up, waiting for his response, wanting to smack myself on the head for not thinking of something more epic to say after not talking to him for months.

“Hi,” he finally replies, and I detect a hint of humor in his tone. “It’s… it’s good to hear your voice.”

Not the reaction I was expecting, but I’ll take it. “It’s good to hear your voice, too.”

“I’m sorry for not talking to you sooner,” he says uneasily. “I just… well, I felt like an ass because of the shit I put you through.”

“You’re not an ass.” I twist a strand of my hair around my finger. “And you didn’t put me through anything. Everything that happened was my own choice because I chose to stay and try to help you. You didn’t make me. In fact, you tried to tell me I shouldn’t be there about a thousand times.”

“I treated you like shit,” he says. “And honestly, the really messed-up part is I can’t even remember everything because I was so high a lot of the time.”

“That might be a good thing,” I reply. “Then it’s like we have a clean slate.”

“Clean slates don’t exist,” he mutters. There’s a long pause and considering how moody he’s been in the past, I half expect him to get angry with me, but thankfully he sounds calm when he speaks again. “But maybe we could try to create a new one.”

I perk up. “A happier one?”

“Yeah, maybe… and we can write everything down in bright-colored chalk and everything.” There’s playfulness in his tone that I’ve never heard before and it makes me laugh and feel giddy inside, tummy butterflies and everything.

“We are still speaking metaphorically, right?” I ask. “Or are we really planning on getting a slate and writing everything we do?”

“We don’t have to write. I can draw everything,” he jokes, but hidden in his light-humored tone is nervousness.

“We can do that.” I unsteadily play along, working to keep my footing in the conversation because this brighter, lighter Quinton is new territory for me. From the day I met him, he’s been sad. It’s actually what drew me to him to begin with. The sadness in his honey-brown eyes reminded me so much of Landon. “But when are we going to start on this new slate together… or I guess what I’m trying to say is, when am I going to see you again?”

The line gets quiet and I think he might have hung up on me. But then I listen really closely and I can still hear the music in the background and the sound of his breathing.

“I can’t go anywhere yet,” he eventually says. “Not because I don’t want to, but because I need to get my life on track here before I start doing other things.”

“So you’re going to stay in Seattle, then?” I ask, trying to conceal my disappointment but failing miserably.

“I kind of have to,” he tells me with a bit of remorse. “I have a therapist all set up and sobriety meetings… and my dad… well, he’s trying to work on our relationship and I think… well, I hope it’ll help with stuff. At least I’m hoping it does.”

By stuff, I think he means his guilt, which was the fuel driving his desire to use drugs, judging from the bits of information I picked up during my time in Vegas this summer.

“How are you doing with stuff?” I ask with caution.

“Honestly, I have my good and bad moments… I haven’t been sober in about two years and it’s sort of weird having a clear head. I really don’t know what to do with myself.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. In fact, I know you will.”

“Maybe, but it seems really f**king hard whenever I think about it,” he says truthfully. “And I’ve only been out for a day.”

“Yeah, but it’ll get easier.” I sit up and rest my head against my headboard, stretching my legs out and crossing them. “You think a lot more now, right? I mean, your head’s not so foggy.”

“Yeah, and sometimes I really hate my thoughts,” he admits. “And it makes me want to…” he trails off, but I know what he was going to say. Do drugs.

“Well, I think you can do it,” I say, aiming to be motivating. “I think you’re strong and you’re going to keep your clear head.”

“You’re always so optimistic and caring,” he says, sounding confused by his own words. “I’ve missed that… missed you.”

A small smile touches my lips and my head gets all foggy, but in a good, what-the-hell-am-I-feeling way. “I want to see you.” Crap, how can I slip up twice in one conversation? “I didn’t mean to say that. Wait, I mean, I do want to see you, but I just didn’t want to put pressure on you.” I bite my lip to shut myself up. “God, I’m so sorry. I went into this phone conversation not wanting to put any pressure on you and I’m totally doing that already.” I sink my teeth down harder on my lip until I draw blood, because it’s the only way to get myself to stop rambling.

“Nova, relax,” he says. “I’m not some breakable object that’s going to shatter at any moment. You don’t have to be so careful around me.”

“I know, but at the same time, at least from what Tristan told me, when you first get out of rehab, it’s really hard and you’re really fragile.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Did he actually use the word ‘fragile’? Because it makes him sound really girly.”

“He actually did,” I say, feeling a little more at ease. “But it’s not really his fault. He’s been living with two girls for the last couple of months and I think we’ve been rubbing off on him. In fact, my friend Lea convinced him to let her paint his fingernails once. Granted, it was the color black, but still. I think he’s one step away from letting us put makeup on him.”

Quinton laughs harder and I feel very proud of myself. I was terrified of this conversation and it’s been okay so far—well, minus my two slipups about wanting to see him. I do have a feeling that he hasn’t read my letter yet because if he had, there could very easily be some tremendous awkwardness between us.

“Thanks. I really needed that,” Quinton tells me after his laughter dies down. “I haven’t laughed in a while.”