He nods as I put another nail in. “Yeah, does it make you feel invigorated?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I move the nail gun to put another nail into the siding, but he stops me, grabbing my arm.

“You want to hear the story of the family the house is for?” he asks, taking the nail gun from me.

I dither, almost afraid it’s going to be too much for me to handle. “I guess so.”

He gives my unenthusiastic attitude a disapproving look, but tells me the story anyway. “It’s for a widow and her three daughters.”

Normally I don’t ask about stuff that I know is going to be dark, but for some reason I find myself asking, “How’d her husband die?”

I can tell the moment I ask the question that it’s going to be something bad. Something that he worries I’m going to react to.

“A drunk driver.”

“Oh.” It’s all I can say. While I wasn’t drunk when I crashed the car into another car that night, I was driving too fast. It triggers something inside me and for a brief moment I think about running the hell away from this place and shoving as much crystal up my nose as I possibly can. Maybe even shoot my veins up, although it’s only part of me that wants it. The other never wants to go back to that wandering, pointless place again.

But before I can even take a step, Wilson picks up another chunk of siding and pretty much throws it at me. “Here, let’s switch jobs,” he says as I catch it with a grunt. “You put the nails in and I’ll hold up the siding.” He rolls his shoulder. “My arm’s getting fucking tired.”

I end up staying there until a couple of hours later when all the siding is put up, listening to country music and breathing in the cigarette smoke. With each piece that goes up, I feel a little bit lighter. It’s kind of amazing when I think about it. How at the moment I’m not beating myself down, but holding myself up without feeling guilty. But maybe that’s because I’m doing something good for someone who needs it. Maybe it’s because I’m making up for what I did. Who the hell knows? But I’ll take it for the moment.

After we’re done, the guys start to pack up their tools with pleased looks on their faces, like they feel the same way. Wilson explains to me that three out of the four of them are exchanging their time in order to get help on their own houses.

“Did you get a ride here?” he asks, after we’ve packed all the tools and scraps of siding into the back of an old pickup truck.

“No… I don’t have a car and my dad couldn’t drive me this morning.” I lie about the last part but only because I don’t want to think about the little argument I had with my dad. And I’m hoping that when I get back to the house, he’ll be there to take me to therapy. “So I took the bus.”

He nods at the old pickup parked in the driveway. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, not wanting to be a burden.

“Quinton, quit trying to be nice and get in the fucking truck,” he says in a joking tone. “I have nothing better to do anyway.”

Again, I want to ask him if he has a family, but I don’t dare. “Thanks,” I say, then get into the passenger side of the truck and slip off my gloves.

He climbs into the driver’s side and shuts the door, then starts up the engine. The truck backfires and he laughs as he pats the top of the steering wheel. “Got to love old cars, don’t ya?” He grabs the shifter and puts it into reverse. “I personally love the classics, though.”

“What year is it?” I ask, buckling my seat belt.

“A 1962 Chevy,” he tells me as he backs up into the street. “It was actually my dad’s.” He aligns the truck and drives toward the corner of the road. “He left it to me when he died.”

“My girl… a friend of mine,” I correct myself, “got a Chevy Nova when her dad died.”

He seems really interested as he heads out of the neighborhood and toward the city. “What year?”

“I think it’s a 1969,” I reply, unzipping my coat. “It’s completely restored and everything.”

“I bet it’s a nice ride,” he remarks as he turns out onto the main road, where the lampposts are decorated with Christmas lights along with the houses.

“I guess so.”

“Has she ever let you drive it?”

I shake my head and then shrug. “I never asked her if I could.”

He gapes at me like I’m crazy. “Why the hell not? Do you know how badass those cars are?”

I shrug again. “Things are complicated with Nova.” That would be the understatement of the year.

He arches his brows as he pulls the beanie off his head and tosses it onto the seat between us. “Things are complicated with the car or is the girl’s name Nova?”

“Yeah, her dad named her after the car,” I explain as I put my frozen hands up to the heater vent, wishing we could get off the subject.

He appears impressed by this. “A girl named Nova,” he muses. “I’d really like to meet her.”

“You can’t,” I say hastily. “She lives in Idaho.”

“Okay, then I’ll visit her when she comes here next time.”

“She never comes here.” I’m being vague because the last thing I want to do is talk about my issues with seeing Nova. How I desperately want to, but at the same time I’m afraid to.

“Are you going to tell me the story behind why she doesn’t?” he asks. He shifts the truck and the engine groans in protest.

“There’s no story,” I tell him. Not one I want to share, anyway.

He looks me over with doubt as he presses the brake and stops at a red light. “Yeah, I’m not buying it.”

I drum my fingers on my knee, getting agitated. “Fine, there is a story behind it, but it’s a really long, fucked-up story and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have about a twenty-minute drive to your house,” he says. “You could at least start explaining why just the mention of her has gotten you all worked up.”

“Why are you being so pushy?” I ask. “You barely even know me.”

“But I do know you,” he insists, looking back at the road as the light turns green and he starts driving again. “You blame yourself for the accident and think self-punishment is a way to make up for the lives lost. You don’t have any friends or a girlfriend because you don’t think you deserve them. You did drugs because it helped you forget and because it was easier to deal with life when you were high. And maybe even because it was a way to slowly kill yourself.”

“Those aren’t the only reasons I did drugs.” I feel this compulsion to prove him wrong—to prove that he doesn’t know as much about me as he seems to. “And how do you even know all that? Did Greg tell you?”

He shakes his head. “Greg can’t tell me. Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?”

What the hell? “Then how do you know?”

He presses his lips together as he watches the road, his jaw taut, his eyes hued with pain and penitence, and I swear for a moment I’m looking into a mirror. “Because I wasn’t describing you. I was describing myself about seven years ago.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what else to say and I end up saying the first thing that pops into my head, which seems stupid after I say it. “Sorry.” Jesus, that was probably the stupidest thing I could have said. I know, because I hate when people say that to me. Sorry for what? That I made a huge, irreversible mistake and now I have to live with it forever?

“For what?”

“For flipping out.”

“You’re allowed to get pissed off sometimes. In fact, it’s good for you.” He pauses, pondering something as he slows down for the speed limit change as we get closer to a section of the city where stores line the streets instead of homes. “However, you could always tell me what’s up with the girl and that might make up for the bad attitude.” He grins at me.

I shake my head, but calm down inside. “Nova’s just…” God, how do I begin to explain what Nova is to me? “I’m not even sure what Nova is.”

“How did you meet her?” he asks interestedly.

I shrug uneasily. “She was going through a rough time in her life and sort of wandered into the house I was staying at… in the beginning we spent a lot of time getting high, but then she got better.”

“So that’s why you don’t see each other anymore?” he inquires. “Because she got better and you’re still working on stuff?”

“No, that’s not it.” I rake my hand through my hair, struggling to put my thoughts into words. “It has to do with the fact that she saved me and I…” I trail off as I almost start talking about my feelings for Nova, ones I’m still trying to figure out how to deal with now that I’m sober. “It’s really fucking complicated.” And it is. Because I’m in love with her, something I realized in Vegas. But I can’t admit it aloud because then it’d mean I was accepting it—accepting that my feelings for Lexi have changed. That I’ve broken my promise to her. Let go. Replaced her.

He considers what I said as he flips the blinker on to change lanes. “What do you mean when you say saved you?”

My pulse is hammering as I recollect everything that Nova did for me to bring me fully alive again when I was walking the line between life and death. “When I was going drugs and stuff she came down to Vegas and tried to get me to stop,” I tell him. “She never gave up on me and she was there when I decided to leave the streets and get myself cleaned up—she never gave up on me.”

He takes in what I said with great interest. “She sounds like a good person.”

“She is,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Too good, probably, at least to be with me.”

“Ah, and there it is.” He points his finger at me with accusation in his eyes.

“There what is?” I ask, puzzled.

He glances at me and I see something in his eyes I don’t like. Understanding. “The reason why she doesn’t visit.”