I don’t know what to say to him, so I keep my lips fastened, watching him as he tucks his head down and wisps of his hair fall into his eyes. His hand starts moving again, tracing the lines of the massive leafless tree in the distance. The uneasiness quickly erases from his expression as he falls into his peace with his art, and I get lost in my thoughts of why he didn’t kiss me and why he looked so sad when he was about to.

I start to dry-heave as the burn of the alcohol forces its way back up my throat. Leaning over the railing, I gag until my stomach is empty, my abdominal muscles are throbbing, and the gravel below is drenched in my vomit. Wiping my mouth off with the back of my hand, I turn around and sink down onto the deck. Hugging my knees to my chest, I recline against the railing and angle my head back, looking up at the stars shining vibrantly against the charcoaled sky. I start counting them, one by one, and my mind and body start to relax.

I remain that way until the front door to the trailer swings open and then slams shut. Tearing my gaze away from the night, I look over at the door, hoping it’ll be Delilah and I can get the hell out of here. But it’s just Nikki.

She looks livid, her face red as she stomps down the stairs toward the gravel driveway. “Fuck you… and fuck your stupid art.”

The door opens again and the guy with honey-brown eyes walks out with an unlit cigarette stuck between his lips. Standing at the top of the stairs, he cups his hands around the end of the cigarette, lighting it while Nikki slips off one of her fluorescent pink stilettos.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she cries and then chucks her shoe at him.

He blows out a breath of smoke as the shoe flies by his head, but he doesn’t even flinch. Nikki stomps her bare foot on the ground as the guy steps back and bends down to collect her shoe. He walks to the top of the stairs and extends the stiletto out to her and she snatches it from him.

“I’ll never hook up with you again,” she spits, wiggling her foot into her shoe as she stumbles to the side in the loose gravel. “You’re ridiculous… you’re like a…” She gets her foot into the stiletto and she stands upright. “Do you even feel anything at all?” She folds her arms and taps her foot as she waits for him to respond.

He takes a long drag, his chest rising and falling as he releases the smoke out in front of his face. “Not really,” he says with a frown, brushing his thumb along the bottom of the cigarette. Ashes scatter all over the ground.

She clenches her fists, lets out a frustrated scream, and then she storms off for her car, her hair whipping across her shoulder as she whirls. He watches her car backs away, then he rests his arms on the railing and stares off into the darkness of the trailer park.

The longer he stands there, the more I wonder if he even realizes I’m sitting here. Should I just get up and leave? Stay put until he goes back in? I’m starting to get nervous, my palms beginning to sweat, because I can’t make a decision.

“So did your parents really name you after the car?” he unexpectedly says without looking at me.

It takes me a moment to answer. “My dad had one when I was born. He loved it and he loved me, so he thought the name was fitting.”

He nods, then turns around and reclines against the railing, slanting his head to look at me. “Does he still have the car?”

I begin to shake my head but then halt, contemplating how to respond. “Well, it’s parked in the garage at my mom’s house, but it’s not his anymore.” I summon a breath as he gives me a confused look and even though I don’t want to, I add, “He died six years ago. He left the car to me, but I don’t know… I’d feel weird driving it.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this. I never talk to people about my father, except for Landon and sometimes the camera.

“I get it,” he states. This look crosses his face; sadness, mixed with anger, tinted with shame. “Sorry about Nikki. She’s just pissed off at me about… well, I honestly can’t fucking remember.” He gazes off, looking lost, and I notice how red and bloodshot his eyes are. He’s probably stoned and by morning he probably won’t remember any of this. Or me. Strangely, that thought makes me a little depressed.

“You don’t need to apologize for her.” I place my feet underneath me and stand up, dusting the dirt off the back of my legs. “It’s not your fault. Nikki is always kind of bitchy, if I’m remembering right.”

A smile starts to form at his lips, but it dissolves by the time I take my next breath. “Well, that’s nice to know. That it’s not just me that unleashes it from her.”

I relax back against the railing and prop my elbows against the wood. There are only the steps between us, but he seems really far away from me. “How do you know her? You don’t live here, right?”

He shakes his head as he puts the cigarette into his mouth and takes a drag. “I’m just here for the summer. Tristan’s my cousin, and I need a place to crash. He stepped up.” Smoke eases from his lips as he shrugs with a miserable look on his face.

“Tristan’s nice,” I say, shuffling my toes back and forth in front of me. “I’ve known him since I was a kid.”

“Yeah, he’s a good guy.” He frowns at the ground, his brow puckered. “He can totally look past stuff, you know.” He lets out a faltering exhale, and when he looks up at me I nearly fall down. It’s too much. He looks so much like him, and I don’t know what to do. My heart feels like it’s rupturing open again. I want to run, hide, and not go through this again, but I also what to take the pain away from him, like I couldn’t do the first time around.

“What’s your name?” I ask, taking a tentative step toward him, knowing that by asking I’m pushing the door open a little.

“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes, extending his hand. His palm is covered with smudged charcoal. “It’s Quinton.”

I half-expected him to say Landon. My fingers tremble as I place my hand into his, but once I come into contact with him, I find myself feeling calm for the first time in a year. “It’s nice to meet you, Quinton.”

“And it’s nice to meet you, Nova-like-the-car.” A small trace of a smile appears at his lips again as he wraps his long fingers around mine and his skin is warm. I don’t like that it is because the last time I touched Landon’s skin it was ice-cold, and it painfully reminds me that Quinton’s not him, that he’s just someone who looks like him, and not even that. He’s just someone who carries anguish and torture inside, like Landon did.

“So you’re going to be here for the whole summer?” I ask, unable to let go of his hand, aware that the calm will leave me the moment I let go—let go of Landon again.

He nods, adjusting his hand, and I think he’s going to pull away. But he continues to hold on to mine. “Yeah, at least until I can figure out a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yeah, a life plan, or whatever the hell people call it.”

“I don’t call it anything,” I say with honesty. “I don’t really have one.”

He assesses me closely with a confounded expression. “Yeah, me either.” His forehead creases and he bites at his lip, fleetingly glancing at mine. “Do you want to—”

The screen door swings open and bangs against the side of the house. We swiftly pull our hands away as Delilah and Dylan stroll out with smiles on their faces and contentment in their eyes. Delilah notices Quinton and me pulling away from each other and she shoots me a discreet, quizzical look, but I’m too distracted by the calmness evaporating from my body to return an answer.

“Well, I see you two skipped right past the introductions,” Dylan comments like he has some sort of insight into what was going on. But nothing was going on, at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his unbuttoned plaid shirt and starts tapping it on his wrist while Delilah pops the tab of the beer she’s holding and smoothes down her ruffled auburn hair.

Quinton flicks his cigarette over the railing. “I’m going inside,” he mutters, then hurries for the door.

My fingers long to grab on to the back of his shirt so I can drag him back and beg him to tell me why he looks so depressed, but all I do is watch him walk away. When the door slams shut behind him, I feel guiltier than I ever have in my entire life.

“I’m ready to go,” I tell Delilah, wrapping my arm around my stomach as nausea sets in.

Usually Delilah argues when I want to bail out early, but she takes one look at me and nods. “Okay, meet me at the truck.”

I nod and walk quickly toward the gate, taking even but swift strides, reminding myself to count and breathe. I climb in the car and tap the lock, while I mentally bottle up my feelings. Delilah kisses Dylan good-bye on the top of the stairs. By the time she climbs in the truck, I’m somewhat settled down.

“Jesus, Nova, are you okay?” she asks as she slides into the driver’s seat and slams the car door. “You looked like you were about to throw up or something.”

“I had a shot.” I slouch down in the seat and overlap my arms on top of my stomach. “It made me a little sick.”

She puts the keys in the ignition and the engine roars to life. “I’ve seen you slam down like five shots in a row before. Tell me what’s really up. Was it… did something happen with that Quinton guy? Because Dylan says he has major issues, and I think that’s probably the last thing you need.” She pauses, considering something as she fiddles with the radio station. “Although it’d be nice to see you date someone. All I’ve ever seen you do is kiss a few random guys when you occasionally get really drunk.”

I stare at the trailer’s front door as she backs up. “Because that’s all I want to do,” I say. “And nothing happened between Quinton and me.” The sentence feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told, because something did happen.

I felt something for the first time in over a year, but what it was I’m not sure.

Quinton

I only came outside to make sure Nikki didn’t say any more shit to Nova, and now I’m holding her goddamn hand. I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I can’t seem to let go of her hand and I need to let go of it and walk away. Now. Leave the poor girl alone. You avoid girls like this for a reason. You don’t need to ruin more lives or get attached. No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t seem to convince myself to do the right thing and walk away. Nova looks so lonely, sad, and alarmingly unsettled, and I just want to make her feel better. Somehow.

It’s not like we’re talking about anything important, but I don’t like how I’m noticing how beautiful she is or how I start to wonder what it would be like to sketch her. She has these amazingly striking eyes that probably look blue to a lot of people, but when I study them more closely, I notice little specks of green hiding in them. Her lips look soft as hell and there are freckles on her nose, and I can picture myself taking hours sketching each one. I love how her hair falls down on her bare shoulders and the slight crookedness of her nose. It’s the little imperfections on her that make her ideal for drawing, and I want to take her back in my room and stare at her for hours.