“Wow, I’m glad you have so much faith in me,” he says, his tone as sharp as the icicles dangling from the rain gutters on the houses around us.

“I do have faith in you,” I try to assure him. “It’s just that that Jazz guy and you seemed to be… I don’t know… talking in code.”

“That’s just how he is.” Tristan steps to the side, moving away from me. “Jesus, Nova, I can’t believe you’re accusing me of anything. I’ve been good, you know, despite how fucking boring as shit this normal stuff is.”

That right there is what makes me nervous. The fact that he thinks normal life is boring—that he’s bored.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling bad, but also really concerned. “I just worry about you—about everyone, really. And I’ve been really stressed out over this Delilah thing.”

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “Why are you worried about Delilah?”

“I told you already, because she’s missing,” I reply, hopping over a patch of snow blocking the entry to the apartment complex. “And because of how things were the last time I saw her.”

“But you weren’t friends with her anymore, really. I mean, not since she moved to Vegas and you barely talked to her.”

“We were once, though, and I still care about her.” I try to explain how I feel, but I can tell he doesn’t get it.

“I’m sure she’ll be okay,” he says unconvincingly. “Disappearing is just part of the life of a crackhead, mainly because we’ll do anything and go anywhere to get our next bump.” He gazes off into the distance as if he’s remembering his time spent in that world. “It’s all that matters to us.”

“Don’t say us.” I loop my arm through his to bring his attention back to reality. “You’re not part of that group anymore.”

He nods, but there’s something in his eyes I don’t like. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you’re going to stay away from that group, right?” I ask as we hike across the parking lot and to the sidewalk.

“Of course, Mother.” He flashes me a grin, breaking the tension between us. “So, Mom, can you give me a ride to the doctor’s later today?”

“Why yes, Son,” I joke back, and then stick out my tongue. “You know, I should take it offensively that you call me Mom all the time when you don’t like your mom very much.”

“It’s not that I don’t like her,” he says, stopping as we reach the doorway to the stair entrance of our apartment. “It’s that my parents don’t like me.”

“How do you figure?” I ask as he opens the door and I step inside, slipping my arm out of his.

He shrugs, the door slamming shut behind us. “Basic observation.” We start up the stairs side by side. “Like for instance how they completely and utterly ignored me after Ryder died.”

“I’m sure they didn’t ignore you,” I tell him. “They were probably just distracted by their own pain, like my mom was right after my dad died.”

“Well, distracted or ignored, it was still hard, you know. I mean, it was like I was a ghost, and trust me, I tried to do everything to get their attention. Rebelled. Let my grades drop.” He pauses as we approach the second floor. “Did drugs.”

“Is that why you started?” I open the door and enter the hallway lined with numbered doors.

He shakes his head, following me down the hall. “Nah. I started getting high when I was fourteen. I just started doing more drugs after Ryder died and was a little more obvious about using.” He fidgets uncomfortably, tucking his hands up into his sleeves. “I guess you could say I pretty much stopped caring about stuff, just like they did.”

“Tristan, that’s so sad, but I guess I sort of get it—how easy it is to stop caring.”

“Yeah, it really, really is.”

We pause in the middle of the hallway. I don’t know about him, but my thoughts drift off to my past and how I stopped caring about everything at one point. Finally, after we stand there long enough that it starts to get weird, I blink myself out of my daze.

“Well, don’t stop caring ever again,” I say, waving my finger at him sternly. “Or else you’ll be grounded.”

“Got it,” he says with a smile and then shocks the bejesus out of me when he leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I have no idea what I’d do without you,” he says, heading for the door to our apartment, leaving me standing there with my jaw hanging to my knees. “You can always get me to smile when I feel shitty.”

I let out a nervous laugh as he unlocks the door and then pushes it open, stepping aside to let me enter first. I don’t really say much to him after that, telling him I’m going to go call my mom before I have to take him to the doctor. He easily lets me go, sitting down on the sofa to watch some television.

After I get into my room and shut the door, I let out a breath of relief. “I’m getting in over my head,” I mutter to myself, pressing my hand to my forehead. “I really am and I have no idea how to fix it.”

I slide to the ground and stare at the wall, wishing I could just walk out there and tell Tristan we should just be friends and to stop the flirting. And that he’d understand. Then I’d get a phone call from Delilah’s mother and she’d tell me she found her and that Delilah was okay.

“I just want everything to be okay,” I whisper, taking a deep breath and then another, wishing I had someone to talk to about my problems. I briefly consider calling Quinton and just letting it all out, like I’ve been wanting to, but I know I can’t overwhelm him like that, so all I can do is tell myself that everything’s going to be okay.

It has to be.

Chapter 8

December 22, day fifty-four in the real world


Nova

Things have been getting really unbalanced in my life. My mom informed me that Delilah’s mother needs help looking for her daughter and that she’s going to help her. I’m not even sure why my mother is helping, but she said it was because Delilah’s mom asked, after the two of them ran into each other at the store. They aren’t really friends or anything but I guess Miss Pierce hasn’t been doing that well lately and kind of broke down about Delilah and also revealed that she’s been having health problems. Maybe that’s why she suddenly decided to start searching for her daughter after all this time.

I told my mom what Quinton told me about the fire, the gun, and the gunshot. She said for me not to worry about it. That she had a feeling everything was going to turn out okay, but she always says that, mostly because she worries I’m going to break apart anytime life gets hard. But I’ve never really given her much of a reason to think otherwise.

Then there’s Tristan. Heavy sigh. Tristan is a huge complication at the moment. He’s been acting really weird, although his health has been improving. He actually had some sort of infection and had to be put on antibiotics. The doctor said he has a really weak immune system and I got the impression that he suspected something more serious, but I’m not sure what exactly. I have some guesses that involve him doing drugs again, but he doesn’t show signs of it, at least when it comes to track marks and red rings around his nostrils. He’s been really nice lately, too, and if I’ve learned anything it’s that Tristan is an ass when he’s high.

Still, overly nice Tristan is making things slightly complicated. I’m actually starting to loathe being at my apartment, worried he’s going to finally actually try to kiss me, and I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do. I’ve been spending extra time at work and at the hotline center because of this, but I can’t stay away from my home forever.

It’s late when I get home and as I head up the stairway to my apartment, I find myself dreading going inside. I have a few sacks of Christmas presents in my hands. I’ve always been a last-minute shopper, which probably seems a little strange to some people since I have OCD and like order. It’s mostly because I hate the busyness of the stores. I shopped online for most stuff, but Lea dropped a hint the other day that she wanted a vintage Pink Floyd record, so I had to run to the music store downtown and try to find one. Lucky one of my band members works there and was able to track one down.

When I get to my apartment, I stick my head in, instantly catching a scent of cigarettes. “Lea?” I call out. “Tristan?”

“Lea’s not here,” Tristan replies and I hear something banging around.

I push the door open and walk in, slipping off my coat as I enter the living room. Then I stop dead in my tracks at the sight of Tristan hurrying to turn the television on while Jazz quickly stuffs something into the pocket of his yellow coat, a faint trail of smoke lingering in the air. I know what pot smells like and that’s definitely not the scent of pot. Still, the situation seems a little bit sketchy to me with how nervous they’re acting.

“Hey, Nova,” Tristan says casually as he sits back in the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table with the remote in his hand.

“Hey,” I reply, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “What’s up?”

Tristan shrugs as he aims the remote at the television. “Nothing much. Jazz and I were just hanging out. Being bored and shit.”

Jazz looks at Tristan, then smiles at me as he puts on a beanie. “Yeah, just fighting the boredom of the potato state.” He gets to his feet, running his hands across the front of his coat like he’s smoothing the wrinkles out of it. “I’ll check you later, man,” he says to Tristan and brushes past me and out the door without so much as an introduction.

As soon as the door shuts, I target my attention on Tristan. “So what was that about?”