Me: Sure it is. U just have to do it.

Quinton: I don’t even know what to draw anymore. All my sketches and paintings over the last couple of years have been trippy. I want to draw things that mean something. I want to draw things that I can put passion into. Like life. Happiness. Sadness. Pain. I want to draw stuff that’s important to me… I want to draw you, too. And not from how I see you in my head. I want to draw you in front of me. Every line. Every inch of you.

Before I have time to react to the text, another one comes in.

Me: I’m sorry if that last text made u uncomfortable. I’m blaming it on the fact that Greg made me share way too much today and broke me down I think.

I take a deep breath, thinking about what it would be like for him to draw me like he described. I remember when Landon first sketched me: halfway through it, he kissed me for the first time. It was magical at the time and it’s heartbreaking to remember it now, but I wouldn’t want to forget how it felt for anything.

Me: I want u to draw me like that. In fact, I’m going to hold u to it and make u do it the next time I see u.

Jesus Christ. Did I seriously just text that? Wow. I can’t even breathe.

Quinton: I wish I could do it right now… see you right now… touch u right now.

My heart pitter-patters inside my chest and I have to suck in a huge breath when I realize I’ve been holding it. My initial response is to skirt around the conversation because of where it’s heading. But then I realize that it’s been a long time coming so I just go for it.

Me: I wish I could see you and touch you, too… I wish you were touching me. In fact, I think about it all the time.

My hands shake as I hit send.

Quinton: Nova you’re killing me right now. I swear to God. Now I’ve got pictures inside my head of us touching each other.

I shut my eyes and bite my lip as images appear inside my mind as well. How it felt when he ran his hands across my body. How his tongue tasted. How his tongue felt. How his fingers felt when they were in me. God, it’s been a long time.

Me: Good, because I do, too… do u remember that kiss we shared right after we got off the roller coaster last summer? It was our last kiss.

It takes him a moment to answer and I grow worried that maybe it was the wrong question to ask.

Quinton: I do. I should have never kissed u when I was like that.

Me: And I probably shouldn’t have kissed u when I knew u were like that, but at the same time, I’m glad u did. It made me realize a lot of stuff… how I feel about you. And how much I want to kiss u, over and over again.

Another pause and I start to feel stupid for being so forward. But then a message comes through.

Quinton: Nova, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but I don’t think I can take much more of this kind of talk with u. It makes me want to do things I’m not ready for. I’m seriously one step away from getting on a plane and flying over there so I can kiss u again—do a hell of a lot more than kiss. But I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet.

I restrain a grin. He said yet. Which means he’s thinking about us in the future sense. That has to be good, right? Part of me believes so, but the other part has to wonder how long is too long. What if the waiting goes on for years?

I shake the thought from my head, not ready to go there just yet. Not ready to give up hope yet.

Me: Okay, we can talk about something else. Anything u want.

Quinton: How about something to cool me off and settle me the fuck down. You’ve got me all riled up.

Me: Popsicles. Snowflakes. Icicles. Does that help?

Quinton: Lol, you are so crazy and I love it.

Me: Good. I’m glad because not a lot of people get me.

Quinton: I doubt that at all. Everyone loves u. I’m sure of it.

I want to ask him if he loves me, too, but I’m not even sure I’m ready for the answer, let alone if he’s ready to give me one. Even though I’ve let go of Landon for the most part, it still feels strange to think about loving someone again, but alarmingly exciting.

Quinton: I actually have a problem I’m trying to figure out. And since you’re a problem solver I thought u could maybe help.

Me: Of course. What’s up?

Quinton: Well, my dad’s moving to Virginia.

Me: What? Why?

Quinton: It’s for work. And he wants me to go but I don’t want to go.

Me: I think if u don’t want to go with him then don’t go. You’ve been through enough already and I think u should be focusing on getting better.

Quinton: But I worry about living by myself. Too much freedom for one thing.

Me: U could get a roommate. It’s hard to get into trouble when u have people watching u all the time. Like Lea. She’d kick my ass if I did anything.

Quinton: Yeah, but how would I know I was getting a good one? One that would help me stay out of trouble instead of get into trouble, because sometimes it’s hard to tell with people.

Me: I could come screen them for u. Break them down and discover all their secrets.

Quinton: I don’t think u would have to break them down. Knowing u, u would just start talking to them and they’d open up to u. U have that way about u.

Me: Everyone keeps saying that, but I don’t get why.

Quinton: U need to give yourself more credit. I’ve said more to u about the accident than I’ve told most people.

Me: U didn’t tell me much. In fact, u were furious when I told u the stuff I knew about the accident that I read on the Internet.

Quinton: I know.

There’s a long pause and the longer it goes on the more I think I might have lost him.

Me: R u there?

Quinton: Yeah… I was just trying to remember what I said to u… some of the stuff that went on in Vegas is a little hazy.

Me: I could tell u if u want me to, but honestly I figure what’s in the past is in the past.

Quinton: I wish it were that easy. That the things that happened in the past would just sort of fade away, but they don’t. I’m realizing that everything that happened… it’s going to stay with me forever.

Me: Although the memories won’t ever fade completely, they will eventually fade. I promise. And one day you’ll even be able to talk about what happened.

Quinton: I hope so. I want to be able to talk about it. Explain to u everything so that maybe you’ll understand how I ended up in that place. I don’t want u to always think of me like how I was in Vegas. Or even during that summer in Maple Grove. I want u to know the person that I sort of gave u a glimpse of while we were dancing in the gas station parking lot.

Me: U remember that???

Quinton: Yeah, that’s actually one of the clearer memories I have.

Me: Good. It was a good memory.

Quinton: Yeah but I was high. I feel like I should do a redo for u.

Me: U always could.

Quinton: Maybe one day.

Me: Yay :)

Me: And just so u know, I never thought of u as anything other than a person who had something really crappy happen to them that was completely out of their hands and you were just trying to find a way to survive through it. You’re not a bad person. U just made some mistakes but only because u were hurting.

Quinton: I don’t completely agree with u. Some of the stuff I did was because I was selfish. I didn’t want to stay in this world and live with the consequences of what I did.

Me: I wish I could hug u right now.

Quinton: God, I wish that too.

My phone grows silent as I try to figure out what to type next. What I want to do is put in all caps THAT’S IT. I HAVE TO COME SEE U. But he texts me before I get a chance.

Quinton: Can I say one more thing and then we can change the subject, because I’m seriously one step away from falling apart again.

Me: Sure.

But I’m kind of bummed out, because things were just getting really good.

Quinton: I think if every person had a Nova Reed in this world, then life would be a little sunnier. Now change the subject quickly before I can’t handle this anymore.

Not knowing what else to type, I send out a panic text.

Me: I think Lea might be having an affair with a professor.

Quinton: Nice subject change… why a professor?

Me: She’s too secretive, which makes me think she’s doing something forbidden.

Quinton: U should follow her one day and see where she goes ;)

Me: Sounds like a great idea. I could put on my detective coat and my vintage glasses and shadow her every move **taps fingers together**

Quinton: You’re a genius. She’ll never suspect anything.

I’m smiling as the front door to the house opens. I glance up from the phone as Tristan walks through the front door with bags of groceries in his hands. He’s hacking so hard, I swear a hairball is going to fly out of his mouth.

“A little help please,” he coughs, dropping the bags in the foyer as he struggles to breathe.

Me: Gotta go. Tristan needs help carrying groceries in.

Quinton: Tell him that’s the man’s job.

Me: I would but he’s been sick.

Quinton: Okay, call ya tonight?

Me: Aren’t u sick of me yet?

Quinton: No way. Never.

Me: Okay, talk to ya later :)

I set my phone down and get up from the sofa to go over to the foyer and help Tristan pick up the spilled groceries. “I still think you should get that cough checked out,” I tell him as I bend over to pick up a can of soup that rolled out of one of the bags.

He leans against the wall, covering his mouth with his hand, and hacks into it. “It’s just a cough,” he says, but he looks pallid.

“Yeah, but you’ve had it for over a month now.” I put the soup can down on the counter and then start carrying the bags into the kitchen. “Coughs don’t normally stick around for a month.”

“I’m fine,” he insists after his coughing settles. He rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and bends over to pick up the remaining bag, but then quickly puts his hand against the wall to brace himself, like he’s dizzy and about to fall over.

“Jesus, are you okay?” I ask, rushing over to him.

He nods, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, and suddenly I notice how damp his skin is. “Yeah, I think I just need to get some rest. It’s been nothing but school and work nonstop for the last couple of weeks and I’m feeling drained.”

“Go lay down and I’ll make you some soup,” I tell him, and he gladly obliges, letting go of the wall and trudging toward his room.

I go into the kitchen with the bags of groceries. There are cupboards on both sides and enough room between them for one person, barely, and I end up banging some of the bags on the edges of the counter. One snags on the handle of a drawer and rips open. Items fall out and scatter all over the floor. A two-liter of soda ends up exploding. Cursing, I pick up the spraying bottle and put it into the sink, then grab some paper towels and start cleaning up the floor. After I wipe it up, then mop away the stickiness, I’ve started to unpack the groceries when my phone rings. I hurry over to the coffee table and pick it up, confused by the unknown number on the screen. I reluctantly answer it as I make my way back over to the kitchen.

“Hello,” I say, taking cans of soup from a bag.

“Hey.” A woman’s voice comes through from the other end that sounds familiar, yet I can’t place it. “Is this Nova… um… Reed?”