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.”
Something’s up and the longer no one says anything, the more awkward things get. Finally Dylan and Tristan sit down in the opposite seat and start chatting about the concert. Delilah keeps saying we’re going to go, even though I said no earlier. I’m too distracted to argue, though. I can’t stop thinking about how similar Landon and Quinton are, and the longer I compare them, the more I realize I should have chased Quinton down, just like I should have done with Landon, and I make a silent vow to do better this time, no matter what it takes.
Chapter 6
Quinton
I’m not sure if I’m running away from my feelings, the past, or Nova. Probably the combination of all three.
I was sitting there in a place that looks like it’s straight out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, actually talking to Nova about fucking ice cream, and I have this tone in my voice, the one I used to use on Lexi, when I was trying to charm her. And Nova is smiling at me and I can tell she doesn’t smile that often by how hard it is for her. It’s like she wants to be sad, which makes me want to make her happy, maybe then I could make up for some of the sadness I put in the world.
Then her friend Delilah comes up to the booth and starts asking me about Seattle. Unlike Nova, she seems determined to get my past out of me. In fact, I think she already knows about it, but she wants to actually hear me say it. Even though I’m pretty much ripped out of my mind, the panic and the guilt gets to me as I think of Lexi and the promise I made to her. The need to escape gets to me, and I’m up and out the door, running away from my problems.
I walk all the way back to the trailer park, which is about three miles, and I’m freaking thirsty as hell and tired. After I drink a beer and smoke a bowl, I pass out on the bed and pretty much stay that way for the next few weeks, drifting in and out of reality. Somehow, in the midst of my dazedness, Nikki and I end up in my room, screwing multiple times, even though I barely remember her coming into the room. Then she lays in my bed and starts yammering about what color she should dye her hair. I keep blinking at her, wishing she’d disappear, and finally, Tristan comes in, kicks her out, and then steals his pipe back. Somewhere along the line, I start to lose my buzz, finally diving to rock bottom. I’m exhausted, and even thinking feels like a huge fucking project, but I need to find a job because I’m running out of money and weed and I need to start paying rent.