Nancy sighs and then zips her backpack up before getting to her feet. “Where the hell are we supposed to go?” she asks with irritation as she glances up and down the alley.

I rub my hand down my face as I start pacing again. It’s been too long since my last hit. I can feel emotions surfacing, sharper than the needle, more potent than heroin. I need to silence them. Now. Before I melt into the ground. I need somewhere quiet and away from all these people.

I lower my hand to my side, getting an idea. “I think I know a place.”

She nods as she puts her backpack on and doesn’t even ask questions. She just follows me, hoping that I’ll lead her to a place where she can pump her veins full of drugs in the hopes that she can escape whatever she’s running away from. Just like everyone else. Just like me.

Escape.

It takes us a while to travel across the city and toward the less populated side of town. Hours or maybe even an entire day. It’s hard to tell. I know it’s daylight when we leave and the sun has set when we arrive, but sometimes I lose track of time because I become so focused on getting to that one place where I can fly and soar through my past without having to feel it—without having to feel the guilt of everything that’s happened in my life. The guilt of death. The guilt of love. The guilt of existing.

When we step inside, I’m blasted with memories of the last time I was here, with Nova, and I almost turn around. But then Nancy nudges me in the back.

“Hurry up,” she says, heading for the stairs. “I’m dying here.”

I move forward, stepping over the rubble and debris, trying not to think of Nova, but it’s hard. The only thing that keeps me stable is the fact that when I get to the roof, it’ll only be minutes before everything filling my head right now vanishes. So I keep moving, going through the motions of walking, and when we reach the roof I feel like I can breathe again.

Nancy eagerly drops her backpack to the ground beside one of the massive signs and starts taking the spoon and syringe out. I don’t help her. I can’t. Despite how many times I’ve shot up, I still can’t inject myself. The memory of needles and injections bringing me back to the life I didn’t want to live is still too strong. But I always get over the phobia the moment she shoots me up. So I lie down on the ground and stare up at the stars like I did with Nova—like I did that night I died. I keep my eyes on them, waiting with zero patience until the needle enters my vein and slowly makes its way through my body, erasing everything inside me. My guilt briefly goes away and thoughts of Nova leave my mind. It feels like everyone in the world has forgiven me. I feel so much lighter as I float up to the sky, feeling closer and closer to Lexi. And I swear to God that if I could reach my hand out, I could touch her.

Almost there. Almost within reach.

Chapter 16

August 1, day seventy-eight of summer break

Nova

I’ve been working really hard to keep busy, keep moving forward, keep going. I’ve been doing as much as I can to distract myself and have been spending a lot of time making video clips. I even got a real camera, or, well, my mom got it for me, I think because she feels sorry for me.

“It’s amazing how fast the last couple of months moved by,” I say to the camera that’s positioned on the kitchen table, aimed at me while I talk and work on the photo album I’m putting together of Landon. “I’m not even sure how it happened. I blame it on my mom and not in a bad way. She’s been working really hard to keep me busy, having me help her organize the house, she’s even helped me create a photo album of Landon, just like I was planning on doing but never was able to start…” I glance down at Landon’s photos and sketches all over the table in front of me and at the photo album pages I’m supposed to be putting them on. “I even went and visited Landon’s grave the other day…it was hard, but bearable, and for some reason it seemed to help with the obsessive need I’d been feeling to watch his video over and over again,” I say as I put a piece of tape on the back of a photo of Landon and me. He’s kissing my cheek and I’m laughing and just glancing at it, it looks so perfect. If I stared at it long enough I’d see the flaws, but I’m not going to—I’m only going to remember the good.

“I still sometimes feel like crying for Quinton …not knowing where he is…the not knowing sometimes feels harder than knowing he’s dead…” I unfold one of Landon’s drawings of a tree and smooth out the wrinkles. “My mom somehow got Quinton’s dad to go down to Vegas and look for him…although I’m a little skeptical about how hard he’s searching for him, since he even flat-out said he didn’t want to. But I heard my mom give him this big huge lecture where she almost completely lost it and yelled at him to be a”—I make air quotes—“‘Fucking father’…I’ve never heard her curse like that before or get that intense.” I tape the photo to the page. “When we first got home, she tried to call Tristan’s parents to get them looking for him, but apparently they were already down there getting Tristan, which would have been good, except Tristan’s parents are assholes…I don’t want to be unsympathetic or anything because I know how hard it is to lose someone you love, but the stuff Tristan’s parents said to my mom about Quinton being responsible for Ryder’s death—it’s completely messed up. To put the blame on someone like that is terrible. I don’t care if they’re mourning. Purposefully going out of their way to tell Quinton he’s responsible for everything that happened is messed up…and it painfully helps me sort of understand Quinton a little bit more…although it doesn’t do me any good now…” I start to choke up and quickly clear my throat a few times, telling myself to keep it together. This happens a lot, whenever I think of Quinton.

I exhale, then add another photo to the page, then turn to a clean page. “I’ve also learned some stuff about Quinton from Tristan, who’s back here in Maple Grove as of a week ago. To make a long story short, I guess around the same time I lost track of Quinton, Tristan almost OD’d. Quinton called the ambulance and then Tristan was taken to the hospital. Then I guess Quinton called Tristan’s parents, who showed up at the hospital and got him to go to rehab. I’m not even sure how they got him to agree to go, but I wish I did—I wish I could find the magic thing to bring Quinton to his senses and realize how good a person he is, despite what he thinks. That the bad stuff that happened to him was out of his control, something I’ve been working on telling myself, too…although it’s still hard. That I could never get through to him enough to help him.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “I failed. I don’t give a shit what my mom says. I failed him, just like I failed Landon, and now all I can do is live with it.”

I add a photo of Landon to the page, his sad honey-brown eyes reminding me of Quinton, which is a little weird because usually it’s Quinton reminding me of Landon. Landon was so beautiful and when he left, the world lost a piece of its beauty. “Tristan wrote me a few times while he was in rehab, apologizing for anything he’s done that might have hurt me and for bringing me into the whole Trace mess. I never wrote him back, because I didn’t know what to say, or if I even could write him back, but he called yesterday…we talked a little bit about stuff—life. We even talked about Quinton. He says he has no idea where he could be—there are just too many places—but that he heard the building they were living in burned down. No one died, at least in the fire, because no bodies were found. But the fire was started on purpose and it makes me wonder what the hell happened. If Quinton was there when it happened. If Delilah was there when it happened. It hurts my heart to know that all of them could be living on the streets doing God knows what. And that there’s a chance no one may find them. And poor Delilah. I’m guessing her mother isn’t looking for her, considering how bad their relationship is.” I sigh, feeling the hopelessness arise again. “I think maybe Tristan might know a little more than he’s letting on about all this stuff—about everything that happened—but I didn’t want to push him, since he’s like a newborn baby deer learning how to walk again and a lot of things could make him fall, at least from what people tell me.” I pull a piece of tape off the dispenser. “I’ve been going to these group meetings, kind of like the one I went to in Vegas…it’s sort of scary…listening to people’s stories, but at the same time it’s good to hear the good parts, where someone survives and conquers their addiction. It gives me a little hope that it’s not over for Quinton yet.” I press the piece of tape to the page so it’s securing a corner of a picture. “Plus, the meetings gave me some insight into what I’m in for, since Tristan is supposed to be heading over here today. It gives me hope that his visit will go well.” I glance at the camera. “Although the pessimist side of me thinks it’s going to be really awkward.”

I glance over at the clock on the microwave and realize he’ll be here soon and I’m still wearing my pajamas. I return my attention to the lens. “I’ll let you know how that one goes.” I give the camera a little wave. “Until next time.” Then I click the camera off and put it and the photo album stuff away in my room, on my desk, beside where I keep the few sketches of Quinton’s that I took from his apartment the last time I was there. Just looking at them makes me miss him, makes me long to hold him. If I could do one thing at this very moment, that’s what I’d do—hold him and never let him go.

Sighing, I turn away from the drawings and go over to my dresser. I change into a pair of shorts and a black tank top and comb my hair, leaving it down. I don’t put any bracelets on the wrist with the tattoo. I never do anymore, so that I can never forget any of it: my dad, Landon, Quinton, where I went, how I rose, how easy it is to fall. How easily my life can swirl out of control. It’s kind of what the scratch on my car is becoming—a reminder to never forget. I never did fix it after that guy hit it with a tire iron. My mom offered to pay for it, but I told her no. I know it sounds crazy but it reminds me of the last time I saw Quinton and even though it’s a horrible, terrifying memory, it’s all I have to hang on to.

When I’m finished changing, the doorbell rings. My stomach rolls with nerves and I head to the door. My mom and my stepfather Daniel are out on their daily hike and they won’t be home until late, which means that it’s just going to be Tristan and me. I can almost feel the awkwardness rising in the air.

When I open the front door, he’s standing on the edge of the porch like he was about to leave or something. The sun is blinding behind him, making it hard for my eyes to focus. The more he steps forward into the shade, getting closer, the more of his features I can see, but the glare still makes it seem like I’m looking through a camera lens. At first he looks blurry, then I can make out his blond hair, his facial features, then finally his blue eyes. He’s wearing a clean plaid shirt, nice jeans, and a pair of sneakers. He looks good. Healthy. And those track marks that were on his arms have faded, but there are a few tiny white specks that I think are scars.

“Hey,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

I just stare at him, my arm holding the screen door, my body drifting toward shock or something. He’s almost unrecognizable and it makes me happy and hurts at the same time because it reminds me of just how unhealthy he used to look and how Quinton’s still in that place.

“Hey,” I reply, forcing myself to stop staring. I step back and gesture at him to come in. “You can come inside.”

He hesitates, nervous, but ultimately walks past me and through the doorway and I get a whiff of cologne mixed with cigarettes, which is a lot better than the I-haven’t-showered-in-weeks smell he had the last time I was around him.

I shut the door behind me and turn around, studying him as he looks around at the living room, the family pictures on the wall, the floral sofas, and the television.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually been in your house,” he states, turning in a circle before his eyes land on me. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” I say, fidgety. God, I have no idea what to say or do, where to put my hands, where to look. He has this scar on his cheek, like he had a gash there once and it healed, but the scar didn’t used to be there. I want to ask him about it, yet I don’t think I should.

But he must notice me staring because he touches it and says, “Trace cut me there with a knife that day when…well, you know, everything went to shit.”

My lips form an o. “Oh my God, are you okay?”

He nods and waves it off. “Yeah, it’s pretty much healed now.”

Memories. Potent. Tearing my heart in half. Vegas. Quinton. Knife. Cuts. Drugs. I take a slow breath and let it out, telling myself to calm down.

“I’m sorry,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets and crossing his arms.

“For what?”

“For bringing up Vegas.”

“You don’t have to worry about bringing it up,” I insist, sitting down on the sofa, and he sits beside me. “We can talk about it…” What am I doing? “If you want?”

He eyes me skeptically, like he doesn’t quite believe I’m being serious. “Maybe in a bit,” he says. “How about we just chill for a while and see where things go.”

I nod and we spend the next hour talking about nothing important. High school. What we used to do for fun. He does tell me a little bit about when he got into drugs, but never does explain why. He got high for the first time quite a while before his sister died. His using never had to do with her death, although being high made that easier to deal with. I wonder what the cause was but don’t dare ask, afraid I might upset him.