Breaking Nova

I can tell we’re about to head down that path, paved of weed, smoke, and senseless nonsense that can only be found when the mind hits an idyllic state of stupidity, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to get to know her, because it’ll mean too much and I don’t want meaning in anything in my life. It’s the point of existing in the state I’m in; the one where nothing matters except getting high and feeling numb, because once things start to mean something, it becomes harder to follow the wrong path.



“I think we should find a way to get you home,” I say, lowering my feet to the floor. I mean it. I really want her to leave, not just so she’ll quit messing with my emotions, but because she doesn’t belong here in this house—in this lifestyle.



She frowns, seeming hurt. “Why?”



I glance at Tristan, hoping he’ll chime in and help, but he has his head tipped back against the sofa and his eyes locked on the ceiling. “Because… I don’t think you should be in a place like this.”



She looks as if she’s struggling to get mad, her cheeks tinting pink, like she wants to be angry with me. “Delilah’s still back there with Dylan, and I can’t leave her here. Plus, she’s my ride home.”



“We can find you another ride,” I say. Tristan lifts his head up and looks at me inquisitively. “Maybe we can ask Frankie.”



“Who’s Frankie?” she asks, her head falling back as she tries to look me in the eyes. My arm is still on the back of the couch, and her head is resting in the crook of it. Her neck is curved back and her chest is sticking out a little from her top, giving me the slightest view of the curves of her breasts. Under normal circumstances, with a different girl, I’d just take her back to my room and fuck her, then tell her to leave. But she keeps blinking up at me, looking helpless, and all it does is make me want to hold her. It’s driving my goddamn body and mind crazy. It’s definitely time for her to go.



“He’s the neighbor.” Tristan stands up, collecting the bag of chips off the table. “And Nova can stay here if she wants.”



“I want to,” Nova says, slowly picking her head back up. She blinks and gathers fallen strands of her hair behind her ears.



“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I object, despite my body’s opposing reaction. I’m about to add a list of reasons why someone like her should not be sitting here with us, when the front door opens and two guys come strolling in like they own the place. One of them has a backpack on and the other has what looks like a closed pocket knife in his hand. He’s probably carrying in case Dylan or Tristan tries to screw them over with whatever they’re dealing. It’s only a threat, warning everyone not to mess with them, but when you’ve got a room full of illegal substances and a bunch of paranoid people high out of their minds, things can get ugly fast.



“What’s up?” Tristan says to the shorter of the two as he winds around the sofa, yawning. They slap hands and bump fists, and then the taller one’s eyes land on Nova as she sits up in the sofa. He’s got sores all over his face, his teeth are yellow, and his gaze drinks Nova in like she’s a dose of heroin as one of her straps fall off her shoulder. She shifts uncomfortably, leaning into me as her shoulders slump in.



I position the strap back up over her shoulder, then slip her fingers through mine as I stand up, pulling her with me, despite my initial reaction to go over there and see what they’re dealing—see if I want it. “Have fun, man,” I say to Tristan, leading Nova toward the curtain.



Tristan waves at me, totally distracted by the idea of getting drugs, and I’m not surprised. Yeah, he may have a little bit of a thing for Nova, but when you’ve tasted the addiction of drugs, it’s pretty much all that matters when it’s in front of you.



Nova more than willingly follows me toward the hall, grasping my hand, and one of the drug-dealing crackheads says something about having a ride with her when I’m finished. He thinks I’m going to screw her, but there’s no way I’d try to, especially when she’s this far out of her mind. She’s too sad and lost, and the last thing I want to do is ruin her more. But the good-guy thought process is the old Quinton seeping through, and by the time we reach my room, I’m panicking, trying to decide whether to run out of the room and leave her here alone, or scoop her up, lay her down on the bed, and rip her clothes off.



Nova instantly makes herself at home, strolling up to the iPod dock and picking up my iPod. She bites on her bottom lip as she scrolls through the songs, her head swaying from side to side as she contemplates the song list.



“You have good taste in music,” she observes, peeking up at me through her eyelashes.



I run my fingers through my hair as I linger near the doorway, with my hand on the doorknob, ready to bolt. “Yeah, I guess.”



She taps the screen, puts the iPod in the dock, and seconds later lyrics fill up the room. She sinks down on the edge of my bed, tucking one of her feet underneath her ass, and then her eyes lock on me. “Quinton, why did you move here?”



Every single one of my muscles wind into overly tight knots. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”



“Okay,” she says simply, and then looks around at the drawings that are tacked on the wall. When she spots the one of Lexi, she stares it for a very long time, and her eyes start to fill with water. “I used to have a boyfriend that sketched like you.” She angles her head to the side and a tear slips out and falls down her cheek. “But he’s dead, so he doesn’t anymore.” Blinking franticly, she forces her eyes from the drawing, and looks desperately at me, like she wants me to say something to make her stop talking.



Tristan told me her boyfriend died, although he never explained how. Death is a sensitive subject for the both of us and we always try to dodge around it, even though it’s always there, existing, an invisible wall between us.



“Nova, we don’t have to talk,” I say, finally daring a step away from the door. “We can just go to bed or something.”



She glances at the bed behind her and then her cheeks turn a little red. “Like have sex?”



The depressing atmosphere lightens a little, and I rub my hand across my face, trying not to laugh at her. “No, like lie down, shut our eyes, and go to sleep.”



“But I’m not tired.”



“Really?”



“Yes, really.” Contradicting herself, she yawns and stretches her arms above her head. “Well, maybe we could lie down for a bit, I guess.”



I nod and she instantly collapses onto the bed. Her brown hair is sprawled across the pillow and her eyes look lost, like she’s floating away from reality. My fingers long to grab a pencil and paper from the dresser and capture the perfection in her face, her eyes, and her body, but I promised never again and I need to stick with it. Drawing someone, in these circumstances, is way too personal.



Breaking the moment, she turns onto her side and faces the wall with her back to me. He dress barely covers her ass, and one of the shoulder straps is falling down again. Some guys would have completely and utterly taken advantage of her at this point, but as much as I’ve slept around, taking advantage is something I can’t do. Even with as far as I am in the fucking dark, the good Quinton still has a vague amount of control over certain things.



I lay down on the bed beside her, careful not to touch her, keeping one arm under my head and one on my side, as I scoot back so I’m barely on the bed.



She rolls over, facing me, and then stares at me for so long, it almost drives me crazy. “Did you love her?” she finally asks.



“Who?”



“The girl on the wall.”



My heart pounds inside my chest, nearly cracking my lungs. “Yeah… but I don’t want to talk about her.”



She looks perplexed, drifting off into her thoughts. “Okay… I understand.” She releases an uneven breath before shaking her head. “What’s your favorite color?”



I arch my eyebrows, wondering where the abrupt subject change came from. “Huh?”



“What’s your favorite color?” she repeats without an explanation.



I search her eyes for a reason why she’s asking, but I don’t know her at all, so I can’t figure her out. “I don’t know… black onyx.”



Her lips curve upward. “That’s such an artist answer. Most people would say like purple or blue, but you… black onyx.” She laughs under her breath, and it seems a little more natural than the other couple of times I’ve heard her laugh. But she’s high, which means it’s not real. None of this is, which makes it easier.



“What about you?” I ask. “What’s yours?”



She mulls it over, pressing a smile back. “Indigo.”



“Is that really your favorite color?” I inch forward slightly on the bed to keep from falling off the edge. “Or are you just trying to impress me?”



She shrugs, rolling her tongue in her mouth, amused. “What’s your favorite food?”



“Chicken teriyaki,” I reply, wondering if we’re entering a game of twenty questions or something. “Nova, where are you going with this?”



She shrugs again. “I’m just trying to get to know you.”



“You don’t want to do that.” I roll to my side and straighten my arm out so I can reach my cigarettes on the dresser. I pull one out, grab my lighter, and then turn back over. “In fact, I should have never brought you back here.”



“Then why did you?” she asks, watching me intently, as I light up the cigarette and toss the lighter onto the foot of the bed.



I slant my head to the side to avoid blowing smoke in her face. “To get you away from those guys.”



She assesses me closely, like she’s trying to unravel what I’m thinking. “What’s your—”



I cover her mouth with my hand and shake my head. “No way. I get to ask one now.”



Her lips curve upward against my hand. “Okay.”



I lower my hand to my side. “First car.”



“Never had one,” she answers, her voice shaking and off pitch. “Well, besides the one my dad gave me.”



I want to ask her how he died, but that’d be bringing up the subject of death. “Favorite band?”



She rolls her eyes. “You can’t have a favorite band. It’s not possible.”



“Bullshit,” I argue, reaching behind me to ash the cigarette on the floor. “There’s always one that outweighs the others just a little bit.”



She points a finger at me. “Then you are not a true music lover, my friend.”



“I am, too,” I say, slightly offended but entertained at the same time. “I promise. But I do have a favorite band.”



“Who?”



“Pink Floyd.”



“Total guy copout answer.” She smiles and I love the sight of it. It makes me want to continue on in this little flirty state we’ve arrived at and keep going, move forward, at least until I sober up and life and reality return to me.