I’m about to pull away, because emotions are prickling inside me, when she swings her leg over me so she’s straddling my lap, then she grips the sides of my neck and pulls me closer. She kisses me fiercely, to the point where it feels like my lips are going to bruise, then she’s crushing her chest against mine as she gently rocks her hips. I dig my fingers into her waist, bringing her even closer, before I push her back, breaking the connection.

She’s panting, wild-eyed, her hair falling out of the braid. She glances at Tristan’s empty chair and then looks back at me.

“We should stop,” I say, but it sounds like a lame attempt, my voice drifting off at the end.

“W-why?” She stutters a protest and I have to admit that it’s nice there are no tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to.”

I brush her hair back from her eyes, and let my fingers linger on the bruise on her cheek. “You don’t even know me, Nova. I’m no good for you… you deserve so much better.” Please run away. Because I can’t seem to do it myself.

Her jaw tenses, like I struck a nerve. “I think I should get to decide that.”

“Whether I’m good enough for you?” I ask.

“Yeah, which I can only decide if I get to know you,” she says.

I motion my hand in front of myself, pressing the point. “This is pretty much it. What you see is what you get.”

“That’s never the case,” she disagrees, flattening her palms onto my bare chest right over the scar and my body goes rigid. “In fact, most of the time people hide who they really are.” Her throat bobs up and down as she swallows hard. “Most of the time you think you know someone, but you really have no clue.”

I think about her boyfriend and how he took his own life, and I can’t even begin to imagine what that did to her. I wrap my fingers around her scarred wrist, still concealed by bands, and graze my palm along it as the truth pours out of me. “But sometimes people are exactly who they are. And what you see is what you get.” I press my fingertips down, feeling the beat of her erratic pulse. “I’m exactly who I am. I have no job, I get high and drunk all the time, I have no purpose. Even my fucking art doesn’t have any meaning anymore.”

“But it did once.” She glides her free hand over my shoulder and grips my shoulder blade, her skin searing hot against mine. “And all those things are what you do, not who you are.” Her hand is trembling, and her pulse throbs with the beat of the bass coming from the stage. “Please, let me get to know you, Quinton.” Begging laces her voice and her big blue-green eyes, and I wonder if this is about me anymore, or someone else, and I should get up and walk away because she’s too good for me to be kissing, but she’s so also sad and the little tiny piece of my old self—the one who loved to help everyone—wants to make her happy, make her smile, make her laugh—help her. Even if it’s completely unrealistic.

Then she’s kissing me again and lightly tugging on my shoulder and I still have my fingers on her pulse and my hand is gripping at her waist. Passion and heat consume our bodies as she traces her finger up the back of my neck. I gently pull on her wrist, drawing her even closer, until there’s no more room left between our bodies, then I slip my hand around to her back and underneath her shirt so I can feel the heat exuding from her skin.

She lets out a gasp as I move my mouth back, gently biting at her bottom lip. Then I descend lower, down to her jawline, sucking soft kisses on her neck, and she arches it back. When I approach the top of her chest, I can tell she gets nervous by the acceleration in her pulse. She moans as I start to slip the straps of her shirt down, and the sound nearly drives me crazy, my body responding in ways it hasn’t in a long time, as my mouth reaches the curve of her breast. I picture myself standing up, taking her to the tent, and peeling her clothes off, knowing that if I slipped inside her it would feel different than it did with the other women I’ve been with over the last year. I’m trying to decide if I want it—the connection—when someone in the crowd shouts something profane at us and it’s followed by whistling, and the moment scorches into ash and separates into pieces.

We break away from each other, and I’m relieved to find that she’s not crying this time around and neither am I. But this time is different, and maybe it’s because it’s not the first kiss. Or maybe it’s because I understand her a little bit better, and that she’s not just some girl that giggles and laughs and doesn’t get what it means to hurt inside. She’s been through stuff, and for some reason, I’m drawn to her. Why she’s not crying, though, is a mystery.

Her lips are a little bit swollen and her chest is heaving. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this out in the open,” she breathes, tracing circles on the back of my neck, as she eyes the tents behind us.

“Do you want to try and get close to the front?” I ask, trying to avoid going into the tent with her, because I know what will happen if I do. “I think that band you said you love is about ready to start playing.”

She cranes her neck and looks over her shoulder at the stage with uncertainty in her eyes. “I’m not sure if it’s worth it.”

The people surrounding the stage are rowdy, and a lot of girls have given into the singer’s demands and are walking around topless. It’s a really bad scene, and a year and a half ago I’d never have dreamed of coming to a place like this. But sometimes stuff happens and we find ourselves lost, and suddenly we’re standing in a place we don’t recognize and can’t remember walking—or falling—there, and we’re unsure how to get back or if we even want to.

I place a hand on her cheek and she quickly looks back at me, holding my gaze. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” I promise. I promise. I’m so sorry, Lexi.

She nods, like she completely trusts me. I stand up, clutching the backs of her thighs. She starts to climb off me, but I delve my fingers into her bare skin and lift her back up. She gasps in shock as I press her up against me and firmly hold on to her legs.

“So you don’t panic and sit down in the dirt,” I say and hike into the crowd, carrying her with me.

At first she seems reluctant, but then she locks her ankles behind my back and clings to my shoulders. She angles her face forward and brushes her nose against mine, closing her eyes. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” she whispers, as I maneuver my way through the crowd toward the stage.

“Oh yeah.” I turn us to the side and squeeze through two guys with their topless girlfriends on their shoulders, which seems to be a growing theme at this concert. “Who?”

Her eyes flutter open and the light from the stage reflects in them. “Just someone.”

“Care to share who that someone is?” I trip over my untied shoelaces but quickly recover my balance. The air smells rank, like stale beer, salt, smoke, and pretty much every other foul scent.

She shakes her head. “Not yet.”

“But you will someday?” Is there ever going to be a someday with us?

“Maybe… one day… when I can.”

We remain quiet during the rest of our journey toward the stage. It’s dark, the stars are shimmering, and the vibrant stage lights illuminate the faces in the crowd. The air is still hot, but there’s a gentle breeze, and goose bumps start to dot Nova’s arms.

I get us as close as I can, then set her on the ground. She faces the stage, wrapping her arms around herself, and I keep my hands at my sides. Then the band comes out on stage and starts playing a song that’s depressing and genuinely honest in a way that gets under my skin. It talks about life and death and how we’re all connected to both. That even after someone’s gone, life moves on, no matter what we do.

Halfway through it, Nova shuts her eyes and starts swaying her hips to the beat, her lips matching the singer’s. “I love this song,” she says with her eyes shut and her hands are on the back of her neck.

My eyes trace the curves of her body and the enthralling way she moves. “I love watching you,” I whisper so softly I know she can’t hear. I dig my fingertips into my palms, trying to resist the compulsion to place my hands on her hips and move with her.

As the song keeps playing, though, I become more and more hypnotized by her, and the way she lets herself go, when usually she’s so contained. For the briefest second I’m glad I’m there with her, which makes me feel confused and guilty, because I should want to be with Lexi. Thoughts are drifting through my head, in long sequences that don’t match, yet they do when they’re put together in a different order, and suddenly, for a fleeting, guilty, irreversible moment, I’m glad my heart decided to beat again.

I step forward, not sure what’s driving me, but I give in to it regardless. I wrap my arms around her and pull her nearer, closing my eyes as the sound of her voice caresses my ears. She leans back against me, and we sway together as the music encases us. I wish I could keep my eyes shut forever, because then I’d never have to go back to reality. I don’t try to kiss her or feel her up. I just hold her and let our bodies stay linked, wanting to know her and understand her more than I have with anyone since Lexi. For an instant, I have something to hold on to again, a reason to keep breathing, to live.

Chapter 14

Nova

Somehow the night gets abruptly lighter as I lose track of time and direction and the need to count everything that exists around me. I’m not sure how it happens. Maybe it’s because we’re both a little buzzed and the substances are making us act like two completely different people at the moment and later it will catch up with us. Or maybe it’s the simple fact that we’re getting caught up in the music and each other, and the fact that the night feels unreal, like it belongs in the pages of a book where everyone gets their magical night without having to face consequences later.

After we dance and sing for hours, sweat drips from our bodies, and my arms and legs get tired, Quinton guides me back through the crowd, his fingers entangled with mine. I keep getting bumped into by people as one of the more energetic bands violently play their instruments onstage and everyone starts to go crazy, screaming, shouting, and thrashing their heads around. Finally, Quinton steers me in front of him and then spans his arms out to the side, creating a wider route, bumping anyone who gets in his way. It makes a lot people angry, and by the time we reach the tent area we’ve been yelled at a lot. I find it funny for some reason and so does he, and by the time we stumble into the tent, we’re laughing our asses off.

“I’m surprised you didn’t get punched,” I say, collapsing onto the sleeping bags as he zips up the tent. Tristan’s not here, and I haven’t seen him since Quinton kissed me on the camping chair. I don’t really wonder where he ran off to, though, because I can barely focus on where I’m headed to. Where am I going? What am I doing? Do I want this?

Quinton turns around, stooped over to avoid hitting his head on the tent’s low ceiling. He still has his shirt off, and a trickle of moonlight shines through the thin fabric of the tent, highlighting his scar and making his eyes look like charcoal.