He pauses. “Nova, it’s really my decision whether I want to wear one or not.”
I shake my head, my jaw set tight. “No it’s not. Regardless of your fucking reason for not putting one on, if anything happens then everyone who ever cared about you will be left hurting and missing you and probably pissed off because you chose not to put your seat belt on.”
There’s a long pause as my words and sharp tone startle both of us.
“No one cares about me, so it’s fine,” he states with indifference. “And I never wear one.”
“I care about you,” I insist, and my chest compresses as I realize that it’s the truth. The painful, inconceivable, unplanned truth. I care about him. My breath shakes as I say, “So, if not for you, will you please put it on for me?”
He’s quiet for a while, and I think he’s going to refuse. I get ready to drive forward, back to the field, and skip out on breakfast, when he sighs and straps his belt on.
“There, are you happy?” he mutters, slumping back in the seat.
“Yes.” I shove the car into drive, feeling a little bit lighter, like I might have just done something right.
Quinton
She’s still pissed off about the seat belt even when we arrive at the restaurant. I don’t really think it has to do with me not putting on my seat belt and more with the fact that I’m not cherishing my life. I’m still trying to process the fact that she cares about me enough to want me to put on my seat belt. Part of me is angry with myself for allowing things to get this complicated between us, for letting her in enough that she actually cares about my life. She shouldn’t be caring about it. It’s worthless. I’m worthless. I may be walking around, breathing, heart beating, blood running through my veins, but my existence, my soul, everything that made me who I was is dead. At least I thought it was. But there’s another part of me, one that’s been repressed for a very long time, that relishes in the fact that she cares about my life—about me.
I was torn with putting the seat belt on, because I really don’t care what happens to me, and I sometimes secretly hope that something bad will happen and I’ll finally be able to be buried with everything one else, beneath the ground, right where I’m supposed to be. But in the end I give in to Nova, because I remember what happened to her boyfriend and how it probably has something to do with that. But I know that by giving in to her, I’m admitting that I’m developing feelings for her, so I try to mentally picture Lexi during the drive. It becomes harder with each movement Nova makes, though, like when she fiddles with the keys and adjusts the mirror, because it makes her real, and the images of Lexi just memories.
She doesn’t talk to me the entire drive, only nodding when I give her directions. It takes a few minutes to get up to the restaurant because the road is rocky and bumpy and made more for four-wheel-drive vehicles.
Finally we pull up to a small log cabin in the center of the trees. There are flashing neon signs on the windows and twinkle lights trimming the roof, along with a few around the doorway. Plants and flowers and trees surround the path that leads to the entrance, and the sun shines down through the branches above, making everything fun and cheerful on the outside.
She turns off the engine, removes the keys, and opens the door to climb out.
“Nova, wait,” I say, unclicking my seat belt, and mentally screaming at myself to keep my mouth shut and let her remain angry with me.
She pauses with her legs out of the car and her back turn to me as she adjusts one of her fallen straps on her red shirt back over her shoulder. “Yeah.”
Just let her be. “I’m… I’m sorry.”
She glances over her shoulder at me and locks of her hair fall across her bare shoulders. “For what?”
“For being an ass,” I tell her, letting the seat belt slide up into the wall.
“It’s fine.” She gets out of the car and stuffs the keys into the pocket of her short denim shorts.
I climb out of the car and meet her at the front of the car. She doesn’t say a word as we walk into the restaurant, where it seems the entire concert has flocked to. We manage to find a small booth at the back, squished between the back door and the kitchen. It’s noisy, but our table is agonizingly quiet because Nova’s not talking to me. The waitress comes and takes our orders. Nova starts fiddling with the salt shaker, twirling it around in her hand. I’m searching my mind for something to say, but nothing seems right, and I’m beginning to think I should just let her stay upset with me when she just starts talking.
“You just seemed like you didn’t want to wear it because you were…” She spills a little salt and sweeps it off the table and onto the floor with her hand. “Because you were sad.”
“It wasn’t because of that,” I lie, unrolling the silverware from the napkin.
“But that’s what it seemed like.” She’s still staring at the table and it looks like her eyes are getting watery. “And I had someone… close to me… a friend who stopped… doing stuff because of the sadness.” She bites on her trembling lip so hard she draws blood.
“Nova, I…” I have no fucking idea what to say to her.
“It was my boyfriend,” she whispers, and tears stream down her cheek. “And he was sad and then he stopped doing everything.” Her voice is trembling, and she’s sniffling as she wipes the tears away from her eyes. But more tears escape her eyes and drip all over her skin, and the tabletop beneath her ends up soaked with her grief.
I’m the last person she should be talking to this about, because I think about it all the time. I think about stopping everything because of the sadness. But she’s crying, and it hurts to watch, so I end up climbing out of my side of the booth and sliding into hers. She starts to sob as soon as my shoulder touches hers and then she buries her face into my chest, drenching it with her tears. I place my hand on the back of her hand and hold her, because it’s all I can do, because I know death hurts, death breaks, death consumes, and there’s no magic cure to making it go away.
I let her cry for as long as she needs with my arm around her shoulder. Even when she stops sobbing, she keeps her face pressed against my chest. The waitress drops off our food, giving us a strange look, but I shrug it off and wait. Finally, when the food’s getting cold, Nova pulls back.
Her cheeks are stained red and her eyes are swollen. “I’m sorry… I have no idea why I just did that.”
I brush my finger up her cheek to wipe away the tears, but her skin is sensitive and she winces, so I lean forward and softly place a kiss to each of her cheeks instead. Shutting my eyes, I allow myself one second to enjoy the moment. Then I move back and look her in the eye. “Are you okay?”
She nods and opens her mouth, but her stomach decides to rumble really loud and it makes me smile and her laugh. “I think maybe I should eat, though.”
She starts to unroll her silverware, her mouth turned downward. “Quinton?”
I pick up my fork, ready to devour the food. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she says quietly in a hoarse voice.
It’s amazing how to two words can mean so much. I nod with my eyes on my food, and we dig into our eggs, pancakes, and toast, keeping the conversation light. By the time we head back to the car, we’ve got full bellies and are feeling content with one another. When we climb into the car, I put my seat belt on without her asking, even though I don’t want to—I do it for her. She doesn’t say anything, but it makes her smile, and for a brief moment I smile, too.
Nova
I feel bad for crying in front of him, but at the same time I don’t think I could have helped it. I was too overwhelmed and, honestly, I’m just exhausted. Of being who I am. Of not knowing who I am. And of always being confused. I’m starting to wonder what it would be like to move on past the numbers and finally start to breathe again. Although it doesn’t seem entirely possible, the idea of doing it seems less tiring. Perhaps I could stop, but then what? What would become of me? Would the past crush me?
Later that evening we’re sitting in front of a fire, and the night sky looks like a blanket sprinkled with stars above us. Dylan surrounded a small area with rocks so we could cook dinner on a fire, even though he never ate dinner himself. Then we all sat around the fire, drinking beers, laughing, and drinking. One of my favorite bands is playing, and I’m sitting on Quinton’s lap singing along with the lyrics.
“Hey, I have an idea,” Delilah announces as she picks at the overly cooked marshmallow on the end of her stick. “Let’s play truth or dare.”
Dylan shoots her a dirty look as he stirs the fire, the logs inside it hissing and smoldering. “I already made it pretty clear that I fucking hate games.”
She rolls her eyes as she puts a blob of marshmallow into her mouth, and then wipes her sticky fingers on the side of her shorts. “Then you can watch.”
Shaking his head, Dylan returns back to his chair by the cooler. “Do whatever the hell you want as long as I’m not a part of it.”
“I’ll play,” I tell her, sticking the hot dog fork into the fire. I have three marshmallows on it and they instantly start to bubble against the flame. “I like games.”
Quinton smiles up at me, squeezing my hips. “I know you do,” he says with honesty, and it’s strange because he does know that part of me, which means he’s getting to know me. He looks over at Delilah, who’s sitting on a log beside Tristan. “I’m game.”
The three of us stare at Tristan and he looks hesitant, but shrugs. “Whatever.”
Delilah slaps her hand against her knee and shoves the rest of her burned marshmallow into her mouth. “Okay, who wants to go first?” When no one offers, she adds. “Okay, I will then.” She balances the stick on the rocks in front of her feet and then swallows the mouth full of marshmallows. “Okay, mine’s for Nova, and if you turn down the question or the dare you have to take a shot.”
Nodding, I gulp down the rest of my beer. “All right, I choose truth.”
She sticks out her tongue at me. “I so knew you would.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, offended.
“It means you’re predictable,” she says, kind of being a bitch.
I’d say more to her, but everyone is watching, so all I say is, “What’s your question?”
She wavers, staring up at the sky thoughtfully. “Have you ever made out with a guy just because you were drunk?”
“You know I have,” I answer in a tight voice, glaring at her, wondering what the hell her problem is. Is she just being a bitch because she’s mad at me for something, or is she on something? Out of the corner of my eye I catch Tristan looking at me, and it makes me extremely uncomfortable. “So I don’t know why you’re asking it.”
“Because truth or dare is all about causing drama, and I thought that one would,” Delilah replies, then waits for a soap opera scene to unfold. But it never happens. Yes, there’s awkwardness between Tristan and me, and Quinton seems to be a little uncomfortable, too, but thankfully no one says anything. Looking disappointed, Delilah leans back on the log, resting her weight on her palms. “Quinton, truth or dare?”