I put the ChapStick back in my pocket and wrap my arms around myself, tucking my elbows in as a group of guys walk. “So when does the music start? Because I think once it does I’ll be able to handle it better.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Music is noisier.” He reaches up to scratch his forehead. Watching his fingers move reminds me of how he touched my scar—or my pulse—in the car. I haven’t figured out which one yet, and I’m not sure which is better. Either he was touching the scar that clearly gives away what I did that day on the bathroom floor or he was feeling my pulse, which seems intimate and, even though I hate to admit it, beautiful—because, seriously, who does that? Who feels the heartbeat of another person like it’s important?
“Music is settling to me, especially songs that I know,” I tell him, standing on my tiptoes and inclining toward him so I don’t have to yell over the bustle of the crowd. “And it’ll settle me down.” Maybe. As long as I can’t connect the song to Landon.
His forehead creases like he’s deeply contemplating something, but all he says is, “Come on.” Then he swings his arm around my shoulder and draws me close as he winds through the crowd, steering me with him. I wrap my arms around his midsection as smoke snakes around us.
“Oh and by the way,” he says, turning us to the side to get around two trucks parked closely together. “Dylan was superpissed about the purple tent.” He smiles, pleased.
I smile too, matching my footsteps to his, and somewhere along the way I lose track of how many I’ve taken. I don’t realize it until we reach the tent area, which is basically a bunch of tents set up in random places that have chairs and coolers near them, totally disorganized and a complete nightmare for me. I hold on to him tighter, breathing in his scent as we step out into the sea of tents, suddenly aware of how clear my head is and how much I don’t want to let go of him. I’m not sure what to do with the revelation. Run? Embrace it? Cry?
I’m still clinging onto Quinton when Delilah and Dylan duck out from their purple two-person dome tent. Another, slightly larger tent stands to the side, and Tristan is working to get the poles in it correctly so it’ll stand up straight.
The three of them notice us simultaneously. They all look like they want to say a remark about us cuddling together; Delilah’s will probably be sassy, Dylan’s crude—and Tristan, by the look on his face, might snap something ruthless. But somehow, they manage to control themselves. I think about backing away from Quinton, but I can’t seem to get my feet to cooperate.
“So who’s up for a little business?” Dylan asks, slipping his plaid jacket off. He balls it up and chucks it into the tent, while Delilah heads over to a red cooler that’s between the two tents.
“I thought we were going to keep this strictly fun,” Tristan says, squinting as he threads a pole through the fabric of the tent. “Wasn’t that the deal?”
Delilah returns to Dylan and hands a beer to him. “Yeah, you said this was just fun.”
“I said it could be fun for you.” He pinches her ass and unscrews the lid of the bottle. “I have to work.”
I’m not naïve enough not to know what kind of work they’re doing—it’s the same thing I knew they were doing out in the back of the sporting goods store, even though no one said anything to me. It makes me very aware of the environment I’m in, but I don’t seem to care. I used to care about stuff all the time, then I lost the thing I cared about the most, and it seemed like everything left meant nothing or was insignificant.
My cheek is pressed against Quinton’s chest, and his heart is striking rapidly from inside his chest, like he’s uneasy, too. “I think I’m just going to relax,” he says, moving around the chair and heading toward the cooler with his arm still around me. I shuffle my feet with his. “It’s been a long fucking drive.”
“It was four hours,” Tristan grimaces, bowing the pole toward the ground. He’s got his shirt off. His chest glistens with sweat, and his jeans hang low on his hips. “Besides, all your dumb ass had to do was sit in the backseat.” His voice drops to a mutter as he stabs the pole in the ground. “But then again, we know how great it is to put you behind the wheel.”
I feel the volt of panic surge through Quinton’s body, and every single one of his muscles tightens and he quickly jerks his arm away from me. No words are uttered, no looks are exchanged. He just hurries off, his expression blank, and seconds later he vanishes into the crowd.
I’m left standing there with my jaw hanging to my knees and the impulse to chase after him, wondering where he’s running off to. I should go after him. Not let him go. But once again, I just stand there, not doing anything.
I turn to Tristan and without a second thought say, “Why did you say that?”
Tristan avoids eye contact with me, keeping his head down. “If you want to know, then go after Quinton. You two seem to be hitting it off so well.”
I stare at him in disbelief, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Why would Tristan make a comment like that? Was Quinton in an accident or something?
Delilah steps up beside me and loops her arm through mine, jerking on my arm and tugging me away from my staredown with Tristan. She has a white tank top on and the bottom is folded up so her stomach is showing. Her shorts are ripped in the front, and her auburn hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. “How about Nova and I go try and snag some water bottles off someone, since you two jackasses thought it wasn’t necessary to bring any,” she says.
Dylan sits down on the cooler and crosses his legs out in front of him as he drinks his beer. “That’s what the beer is for.”
“And that’s what causes dehydration,” Delilah snaps with a shake of her head. “Fucking idiots,” she mutters, pulling me with her as she stomps toward the crowd.
But I don’t want to go with her. I want to go find Quinton and find out what’s wrong. That’s what I want—need—to do, like I didn’t do multiple times with Landon. My thoughts are racing a million miles a minute as we approach the edge of where the crowd thickens, and I veer toward having a panic attack. Because I can’t see Quinton anywhere. I can’t see anything at the moment, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.
I slip my arm out of Delilah’s and take off after Quinton. “I’ll catch up with you later,” I call out, waving.
“Hey, where the hell are you going!” The sound of Delilah’s voice hits my back and I sprint off before my mind decides to turn back.
I push people out of my way as I hurry through the mob, knowing that the probability of finding Quinton is very low. But I have to try, otherwise I might end up regretting it.
Forever.
Quinton
I take off through the crowd, my mind racing a million miles a minute as I’m painfully reminded of who I am and what I did. I need to get away from here—from Nova. From everyone. I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve anything.
It’s like one moment everything is fine, and then a few honest words are muttered and suddenly I remember who I am. Tristan had every right to say what he said. I killed his sister—it’s my fault that he can’t see her anymore. It all my fault. But it pisses me off a little that he said it only because I had my arm around Nova. He has a thing for her, and I know I should take a step back and let him have her—she’d be better off with him. Kind of, anyway. Honestly she’d be better off with the old version of me, the one who was going to go to college, open his own art studio, and paint and take pictures, and start a family eventually. It was a boring plan, but it was what I wanted, but everything got erased that day and now I’m here, roaming around in the world without any direction, waiting for it to come to an end again.
I wander around the crowd for what seems like an eternity, engrossed in my thoughts, on the verge of crying as the past stabs at my insides and makes me feel like I’m bleeding out, just like I did on the side of the road after the accident. If it’d gone on just a little bit longer, if the ambulance would have driven just a little bit slower, then maybe they wouldn’t have been able to revive me. Then I wouldn’t have to be here in this world, living a fucking life I don’t want. I’d made peace that night as I lay beside Lexi, but then my peace was taken away from me when they brought me back to life. And now I’m left with the guilt of their the deaths rotting away at the side of me, like I’m buried in the ground with them, but I’m not. Maybe that’s what I deserve, though.
As tears start to spill out, I take a deep drag of the cigarette that has a flake of weed shoved into the tip, trying to stop crying. It’s a discreet way to smoke in front of people, although I’m pretty sure that no one around here gives a shit who’s smoking what. Then I run into Delilah and Dylan, and Delilah proceeds to chew me out, saying that I need to be careful around Nova, because she’s breakable.
“Don’t hurt her,” she says, jabbing a finger into my chest so hard it hurts. “I mean it. She’s been through a lot, you know. I mean her boyfriend killed himself, for Christ’s sake.”
Her eyes are bulging, and I’m fairly certain she might be spun out of her mind. I haven’t seen it actually go on with her, but there have been a few times where I’ve noticed Dylan up about as high as someone can go and then suddenly he’s at the bottom, furious at the world. I actually knew a guy once that did meth a lot, and that was pretty much how he was all the time. But he also lived in a shed out in the backyard of his parents home and he had no job and no teeth, and he liked to talk about conspiracies a lot. I don’t get why a girl like Delilah would do it. She’s beautiful and seems mildly intelligent. What’s she hiding from? Or is it just Dylan’s influence?
But I don’t ask and tell her what she needs to hear. “I’ll take care of her. I promise.” Promise. Promise. Promise me. Tears form in my eyes again. I’m making promises about Nova and breaking my promise to Lexi, and half of me wants to break that promise.
Dylan gives me a hug, because he’s spun out of his mind and probably has no idea what he’s doing or where he even is, and I refrain from the urge to punch him in the face. Then they leave me, holding hands, and talking about a million miles a minute. And I stand there in the middle of the crowd, with my thoughts and my guilt, surrounded by people, but somehow feeling utterly alone.
Nova
I can’t find him anywhere and it’s pushing me toward a panic attack. I keep thinking about how upset he looked when he took off—how upset he always looked. I keep running and running deeper into the crowd, even when a voice flows through the speakers and is echoed by a strum of guitars. Then the opening band begins playing, and music and sweat and enthusiasm deluge the field, along with the enthralling scent of smoke. I stop in the middle with my hand on my head, trying to hold on to reality and figure a way out, searching the ground and the sky for something to count, but I can’t find anything.
