I slam my foot against the pedal, pouring my heart and soul out with the rhythm, putting enough energy into it that I can barely breathe. I drown in the music as the sticks and drums collide. Beats. Notes. Vibrations. It overtakes me. Nothing exists in this moment but the music. Not Tristan. Not Delilah. Not even Quinton. This is just about me.

As the song picks up, so does my energy. I’m sweating, panting, fueling the song with every part of me. My foot slams on the pedal, in sync with my hands. Over and over again. The song ends, but another one picks right back up, “I Miss the Misery” by Halestorm. I keep going, draining all my energy, hoping it’s enough that when I stop, I’ll be too tired to think. Too tired to focus on my problems.

But as soon as we’re done playing the last song, a wave filled with all the pain I’ve ever felt in my entire life rushes over me The pain grows with every song we play, and after our set is done I can’t find Tristan anywhere. I finally take out my phone to call him, telling Lea I’ll be right back before walking out the back door to get some quiet.

“Hey,” I say after he answers. “Where are you?”

I can hear commotion in the background. “At a party.”

“Tristan.” Disappointment laces my voice. “Are you serious?”

“Does it sound like I’m serious?” he asks as someone shouts something profane in the background.

“Maybe, but I’m hoping you’re not.” I turn to the side and plug my finger in my ear as someone walks out the door, talking loudly. “Look, I get that things are a little weird between us, but just come home and I’ll try to fix it. You’ve been doing so well and I’m sure you don’t want to ruin that, right?”

“You can’t fix everything, Nova.” His tone lightens a little. “And besides, this isn’t even about you.”

I inch toward the side of the building, trying to get farther away from the door because people keep walking out and being noisy. “Then what is it about?”

“Life and how shitty it is and how it just loves dealing me the shitty-ass cards.”

“Why is it shitty? Because you’re sober?”

“No, it has nothing to do with that or with you,” he says, and then he sighs. “Look, I get that you want to help me. I get that I’ve been doing good. I get that what I’m planning on doing in the next ten minutes is probably going to fuck up my life, but you know what, I don’t really have a life anymore. Not a good one, anyway.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, and when he doesn’t answer I say, “Tristan, talk to me—” He hangs up on me.

“Shit.” I try to dial his number again, but it goes straight to voice mail. I try to text him, but he still hasn’t responded by the time I get into the car and am heading home.

“What party do you think he’s at?” I ask Lea as we make the short drive home. She was planning on hanging out with Brody, but she said their plans got canceled. I think she’s worried about me, though, and that’s why she decided to come home with me.

It’s after nine, the sky starry and the moon a crescent in the sky, and I can’t help but count the stars repeatedly, every time I have to stop at a red light. “Maybe we can track him down,” I say.

Lea seemed mildly upset when I told her what happened on the phone with Tristan, but she’s not freaking out as much as I am. “Nova, there’s no way you’re going to be able to track him down. It’s Friday night, for God’s sakes.”

“Lea, you didn’t hear him on the phone,” I say, making a right onto the main road, which is glossy with ice so I have to drive slowly. “He’s going to do something to ruin his sobriety. I can feel it.”

She lets out a slow breath, her head turned toward the window as she watches the Christmas lights strung across the trees to the side of the road. “Nova, we’ve been through this before. You can’t just save everyone, especially when they don’t want to be saved.” She looks at me with what seems like pity in her eyes, but I don’t know why she’s feeling that way toward me. “So just let it go. When he comes home you can see where he stands and go from there.”

I shake my head, tears about to pour out. “I can’t take this anymore.”

“What? Tristan? Or are we talking about something else?”

I have to work to keep my eyes open, the tears bubbling their way up as I turn into our apartment complex. “Tristan. Delilah. Quinton. Myself. I’m so sick of just sitting by and watching people fall apart.”

She reaches across the seat and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Well, you have me.”

I know she’s right, but at the moment her touch only feels cold. I park the car and we head inside. She follows me, not saying much until we’re inside the apartment and I’m heading to my room.

“Nova, please, just stop fighting to save everyone,” she says. “You need to learn to just let some things go.”

I step into my room, turning to face her as I make to shut the door. “Do you know what happens when you let things go?” I ask, and she just stares at me. “People fall apart and die. And even though it might be a lost cause and you might think I’m crazy, I’m still going to do it, because no one else seems to be.” And with that I shut the door.

I think about calling Quinton and talking to him about everything, but I’m tired of talking to him on the phone. I just want to see him—want to hold him and know that through this entire mess at least he’s doing okay. I know it’s crazy. Selfish. Impulsive. I know that I have work and other things—life—and I can only go for a day. But I need that day more than I need anything at the moment. So before I can chicken out, I quickly start packing my bags, hoping that when I get there, he won’t send me away.

Chapter 11

December 24, day fifty-six in the real world


Quinton

I wake up in the middle of the night with the strangest feeling. I was dreaming about Nova and seeing her again. How she’d feel… the scent of her… how she’d taste. I flip on the lamp and lie in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how not, too long ago, I was staring at a different ceiling, one that was cracked and warped, but the one above me now is flawless. All because of Nova. She got me here because she never gave up on me and she talked me out of going back to a life of getting high all the time.

Nova… my thoughts are flooded with her… what she thinks… I’m struggling with my emotions all centered around her… how much I want her. I’m afraid, though. So afraid that I haven’t even opened the letter that she wrote me while I was in rehab.

Before I can chicken out, I roll over to my side and reach underneath my mattress and take out the envelope. My fingers are tremulous as I carefully tear it open and pull out the letter inside. Then, taking a preparing breath, I unfold it and start to read.


Dear Quinton,

I’m writing to you mainly because you don’t seem to want to talk to me. And I can understand that. You’re working on healing right now and probably have to focus on yourself a lot. But we never did really get to say good-bye the last time I saw you and I hate not having the chance to do that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that saying good-bye is important.

But as I’m writing this letter, I realize that that’s not what I want this to be about. I don’t want to say good-bye to you yet. Actually, I don’t want to say good-bye to you ever. I know that’s probably freaking you out right now, but it’s the truth. The idea of losing you is too much to handle. I want you in my life always, either as a friend or more. And I know you probably think I’m crazy. That we barely know each other and in a way you’re right. We do barely know each other, but at the same time I think we’ve been through more than the average person, which makes us able to understand each other more than a lot of people could. And I honestly can picture us one day down the road, super old and just hanging out, again as friends or more—your choice.

And if you’ve learned anything about me over the last year or so, it’s that I’m stubborn. When I want something, I sort of latch on to it. In fact, that habit can be a huge issue for me—the inability to let go. But that’s the thing. Everyone keeps telling me that I need to work on that and I know I do, but I don’t necessarily believe that I need to let go of everything. I can hold on to the things that are important to me. And one of those things is you. So even though you might not want to hear this, I’m not letting you go. I’m always going to be here for you no matter what.

Your friend forever,

Nova (like the car)

I stop reading it. She’s right. No matter what happens, I want Nova in my life. I never want to stop talking to her. Listening to her. I want her with me. I just need to make sure I create the sort of life that’s worthy of her being a part of. Can I do that for her? Let go and move forward toward a future with her? I glance around the room. Can I let all of this go for her?

Swallowing my nerves, I get up and circle around my room, taking in each sketch and drawing and feeling the powerful memories connected to them. How much time I spent drawing them or the moments captured within the photos. Then there’s my mom. I don’t want to say good-bye to any of this and maybe I don’t have to completely, but I can let go a little.

One step at a time.

Sucking up the full amount of strength I have in me, I start to take the photos and drawings down. One by one, holding them in my hands as if they were the most delicate things in the world. With each one that comes down, I feel different, as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s body, the body of someone I don’t know. Someone stronger, new. Reborn.