Breaking Nova

She also makes me smile twice, and it’s been a long time since someone’s made me smile. When I realize what kind of emotions are emerging inside me, I panic and my thoughts get jumbled. I almost end up asking her to come inside with me, and that’s the last thing I want to do with a girl like her, one that will actually talk to me instead of just fuck me. The ones that have no substance and like to fuck are the ones I’ll never care about, and that’s what I need—deserve. Plus, it’s already been made pretty clear that Tristan has a thing for her, and he’s the last person I’d ever want to steal a girl from.



Luckily Dylan walks outside right as I’m about to ask Nova to come into the house, and I take the opportunity to make a quick exit back inside and make a beeline straight for the fridge to get a beer.



Tristan scrutinizes me from the couch with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, as he works to clean the resin out of a glass pipe with a small pocket knife. “What were you doing out there?”



I grab a beer and slam the fridge door shut. “Just talking.”



“With Nova.” He frowns, obviously not thrilled about the idea.



I pop the cap off the beer and toss it in the trash. “Yeah, but you don’t need to worry.”



He sets the pipe down on the table by his feet. “Who said I was worried?”



I shrug and cross the living room, ready to lock myself up in my room, so I can singe my brain cells away and draw for hours. “I was just under the impression you had a thing for her.”



He doesn’t say anything and the tension between us builds. I duck underneath the curtain, wishing that I wasn’t here, wishing that it was a year ago and that I would have gotten the car pulled over in time.



After I make it into my room and lock the door, I go to the two things that make me feel content. I grab the pipe and bag of weed Tristan lent me from off the dresser and my sketchpad from out of my duffel bag, then I sink down on the bed. I set the sketchpad aside, take the lighter out of my pocket, and pack the pipe before putting the mouthpiece up to my lips. Flicking the lighter, I suck in a deep breath and inhale the numbness in large, welcoming breaths. Once my lungs are charred and the restlessness in my body has stilled, I lean back against the bed, prop the sketchbook on my knees, and start to trace lines on a drawing I’ve been working on for a year but have never been able to complete. Because once I finish it, I’ll finally have to accept that Lexi’s really gone. And that I killed her.



I keep drawing and drawing, smoking bowl after bowl, until I’m so lost in my own head, all that’s left to do is pass out. I toss my sketchpad aside and lay down on the filthy mattress, shutting my eyes, hoping I’m high enough that the nightmares don’t take over my sleep. But usually, I’m not that lucky.



Blood gushes down my forehead, down my cheeks, so thick I can barely see. My chest is aching, the pain more unbearable then when I accidentally smashed my thumb with a hammer and broke all the bones in it. I feel like I can’t move, and I have to work to keep my lungs gasping for air.



I’m upside down, the blood is rushing to my head, and the sky is now the floor of the car. There are rocks and dirt and glass everywhere, and I can see a continuously flashing light out of my peripheral vision.



I cough, and blood streams from my lips. Searching around the dark, I feel around until I find the buckle to the seat belt. I push the button, the buckle slips out, and the strap on my shoulders loosens. I fall down, hitting my head on the mangled roof of the car. I cough up some more blood as I turn on my side and push myself up on my hands and knees, blinking through the pain ringing through my skull, and crawl out of the car. I glance back inside, noting that no one is left in the car. Where did they go? Did they climb out and go to get help? Did they… did they get thrown out? I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who had a seat belt on. Why didn’t I make them put theirs on?



It’s hard to see anything but the headlights flashing through the trees surrounding the lake, and all I can hear is the waves rushing toward me. Sucking in a breath, I stagger to my feet and stumble across the gravel, broken glass and crunched metal, grunting at the pain that erupts through my chest. My shirt is ripped open and so is my chest, and blood pours out of my skin, soaking the fabric. It hurts more than my brain can register, but the pain doesn’t matter. I need to find Lexi.



Hunched over, I stagger up the edge of the road. “Lexi…” I cough, stumbling over my own feet. I fall into the gravel and my palms split open “Lexi…” My voice is weak, nearly soundless, but I push back to my feet and keep walking up the road. But a few steps up the road my knees give out on me and I crumple to the asphalt. God damn it, this is all my fault. I reach for my phone, but it’s not in my back pocket.



My hand shakes as I try to remember what happened. We hit the other car, and then flipped a few times, before settling near the lake. “Shit…” I struggle to breathe, my eyelids growing heavy as I roll onto my back and stare at the sky. I’m about to give into exhaustion when I hear her voice.



“Quinton…” It’s barely audible, but it gives me hope.



I don’t know how, but I somehow I manage to get to my feet and run toward the sound of her voice, even as I lose more blood and I grow more light-headed. None of it matters, though. The pain. The injuries. How I feel inside and out. I just need to get to her. As I stumble around one of the trees and trip through the grass, I hear her voice again. I follow the sound, slowing down as the outline of her body comes into view, and suddenly all I want to do is lie down and die beside her.



Chapter 4



Nova



“So how long do I have to lay here like this?” I ask Landon for the thousandth time. I’m lying on his bed with my hands slack to my side and my head tipped back. The dress I’m wearing has ridden up to the tops of my legs and I’m pretty much flashing him. I went to rearrange it, but he told me not to move, that I was perfect the way that I was. I’m actually kind of uncomfortable, but I gave into him, because it’s really hard to say no when he looks at me with his puppy-dog eyes. He wins me over every time with them, no matter what. But then again, I’d pretty much do anything for him.



“You are seriously the most impatient person I know.” His hand sweeps across the paper, and there’s a trace of a smile on his lips. He’s not wearing a shirt and I have no idea why—he was bare chested when I showed up early today. He has jeans on, and his hair hangs down on his forehead in traditional Landon style. The room smells like pot, probably because he was smoking some before I came over. He hates smoking it around me and says I’m too good to be doing it myself. But it makes no sense to me, because if I’m too good for it, then why isn’t he?



“And you’re seriously the slowest person I know,” I retort, grinning as I stare up at the ceiling. His walls are painted black, which makes his room always seem dark even when it’s midday. There are sketches all over his wall of images and people that mean something to him or that have inspired him in one way or another. But there’s not one of me. The one he’s drawing right now is the first one he’s ever done of me. Why, I have no idea. I’ve known him for a few years, but he’s never asked to draw me before. Until this morning.



“Why are you drawing me again?” I ask, wiggling my nose, trying to get the itch to go away.



He shrugs. “It just seemed like it was time.”



Music is playing in the background and I start to sing along, giving up on trying to figure out what he’s really thinking.



“You know how you get a song stuck in your head?” he says, letting out a quiet breath. “And no matter how hard you try, it just keeps playing over and over again until finally you just have to start singing it aloud.”



I smile as I finish the set of lyrics. “Yeah.”



“Well, that’s why I’m drawing you.”



“Because I was stuck in your head?”



“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he says, and I pretty much stop breathing. “It’s actually been that way for a while now.”



I’m wary to ask, but I have to know. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Because sometimes when a song gets stuck in my head it can get kind of annoying.”



He pauses and I wait for him to start teasing me and make a joke about me being a pain in his ass. But he doesn’t say anything, and the sound of the pencil scratching against the paper stops. I want to tip my chin down so I can see what he’s doing, but I’m too nervous, so I lie there, singing under my breath.



Seconds later, he’s climbing over me with a small, but diffident smile on his face. “It’s not annoying at all.” He props an arm on each side of my head and positions his body over me. I don’t move, don’t breathe, and I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating. “You’re like my favorite song, Nova. The one that I never want to forget. That I want to play over and over again.”



I try not to grin because it sounds like a line. But Landon’s never been the kind of guy to feed girls cheesy pickup lines. In fact, he hardly talks to girls except me, and the fact that he’s using a music analogy says how much he knows me. “Would you put me on repeat?” I ask like a dork, because he’s too close and it’s making me nervous and stupid, apparently.



He bites at his bottom lip, confining a smile. “I do… you’re always in my head…” He leans toward me, and I wonder if this is the moment when he’s finally going to kiss me, instead of almost kiss me. “Always.…” Right before our lips touch, I detect a flash of sadness in his eyes, heavier than what’s normally there, but it vanishes the instant our lips come into contact.



I suck in a slow, shaky breath as warmth spreads throughout my body and his tongue slips over mine. He tastes like spices I’ve never dared taste before. I know it’s not his first kiss, but he knows it’s mine. I wonder what he thinks about me. Why he’s kissing me. I’m thinking a lot of things.



“Nova,” he whispers, and I realize his lips are no longer touching but hovering over mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks.



My chest is heaving and every time it rises up, it brushes against his. “No.”



He wets his lips with his tongue, and then runs his eyes over me, shifting his weight to the side so he can brush my hair out of my eyes. “Relax,” he says, and when I nod, he reconnects his mouth to mine.



I try to do what he says and relax, but when his tongue enters my mouth again, I start to panic, wondering if I’m doing everything right. But the longer his tongue massages mine, the more my muscles start to unravel. I become a little daring and bite his lip, which he seems to like, because he shudders. My hands are still lying motionlessly at the side of me, but his are all over me, feeling my sides, my waist, my hips. His fingers start to sneak underneath the bottom of my dress and I tense, deliberating whether I should tell him to stop. But as I search for a reason why, I realize there’s not one and that I want him to touch me.