Jessica Sorensen - Saving Quinton

She turns off the heat and reaches for a plate in the cupboard. “I think you should go down to this clinic that helps people who have people in their lives that are struggling with drugs.”

“Where is it?”

She sets the plate down on the counter and begins piling the pancakes on it with the spatula. “Down on the east side of town.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll drive down there tomorrow,” I tell her, figuring it can’t hurt. “Do I need an appointment or something?”

“I’ll give you the information after we eat.” She sets the spatula down on the counter. “Completely off the subject, but do you want me to cook some bacon and eggs with these pancakes?”

I force a grin and just trying to be happy makes it feel almost real. “Bacon sounds good…God, it’s like I have my own little housewife, cooking dinner for me.”

“That means you need to be a good little wife and go bring in the bacon.” She snaps her fingers and points at the fridge. “It’s in there in the bottom drawer.”

I get up from the stool and cook the bacon while she washes up the pan and bowl she used to make the pancakes. Then we sit down and eat at the table and it’s so normal. By the time we’re done I feel a little better and it worries me because feeling better allows me to realize just how down I was. I wonder how far is too far. How far do I allow myself to sink to get to Quinton?

Nova

May 20, day five of summer break

I wake up the next morning and watch Landon’s video while Lea takes a shower, because I don’t want her to know I’m doing it, worried she’ll worry more about me. I hate that I watch it, but I can’t help it. Something about studying it makes me feel like I’m going be able to help Quinton not come to that point. Like if I watch it enough, I’ll see something I didn’t see before. But I still haven’t figured out what that is yet.

After I watch it, I get dressed and go down to the clinic, like I told Lea I would. I really don’t know how helpful it’s going to be to listen to other people talk about what they’re going through trying to help addicts, but at this point I’ll try anything because I feel so helpless.

I pick up a coffee and bagel on my way there, then park my car in the closest parking garage. The building is in an area that looks almost as sketchy as Quinton’s house. But I do my best to ignore that and go inside. There’s a meeting going on for people who have family members and friends who are drug addicts and I take a seat in the back, sipping my coffee and listening, feeling a little out of place because I barely know Quinton and everyone else seems to be related to the person they’re here for.

I listen for a while to people expressing how they’re feeling, how sad, how hurt, upset, heartbroken they are. A lot of them are parents and keep talking about how it feels like they’ve lost a child, like drugs have killed them. One man in particular with brown hair and brownish eyes that sort of remind me of Quinton’s starts talking. Even though I know it’s not Quinton’s dad up there, I could easily picture him being that person. It makes me wonder if Quinton’s dad feels like this—like he’s lost a child. He has to.

But according to Quinton, at least from what he said yesterday, his father blames him for the deaths that happened in the car accident. But I don’t—can’t believe this. It has to be something he created inside his head. I wonder if Quinton ever actually talked to his father about any of this—if his father even knows where he is.

It gives me an idea, but it’s going to be a hard idea to pull off because it’s going to require me getting a phone number for Quinton’s dad. And I doubt he’ll give it to me.

Although I think I might know someone who will, if I can work it right. So after the meeting ends, I drive over to Quinton’s apartment. The sun is blaring down and the temperature has to be pushing 120 degrees. It’s so hot that I don’t even want to get out of the car, but part of that might be me avoiding going inside.

After a few minutes pass by, I force myself to get out and into the heat, keeping my sunglasses on to protect my eyes from the brightness. The apartment area is quiet as usual as I make my way across the vacant parking lot and up the stairway. That guy Bernie, who was passed out the first time I was here, is back at the table outside his door, awake this time and rolling a joint right out in the open, which reveals just how blasé this place is about drugs and makes me wonder what the hell goes on behind all the closed doors.

“Hey, sweetie,” he says to me as he checks me over with his bloodshot eyes. He’s not wearing a shirt and his thin chest is tinted red from the sun. “Where’d you wander over from?”

I have a black tank top on and denim shorts and his appreciating gaze makes me feel very vulnerable and exposed so I hurry, wrapping my arms around myself.

“Hey, if you’re lost I can help you find your way home,” he calls out with a chuckle. “I’m pretty sure the place you’re looking for is my bedroom.”

“Creep pervert,” I mutter, rushing past closed door after closed door, only breathing freely when I’m standing in front of Quinton’s. As I lift my hand to knock, I keep my fingers crossed that Dylan’s not the one who answers it, since he’s about as creepy as that Bernie guy.

Thankfully, after three knocks, Tristan opens the door, barefoot and with a cigarette in his mouth. His blond hair is a little ruffled, like he just woke up, and his gray T-shirt and jeans have holes in them. “Hey,” he says, seeming a little uneasy, glancing over his shoulder at the filthy living room with a nervous look on his face. “Quinton’s not here right now and he’s not supposed to be back until really late.”

“Actually I’m here to talk to you,” I tell him, trying to shrug off the fact that it seems like Tristan’s covering for Quinton and that Quinton might even be here but avoiding me.

His nervousness turns to befuddlement as he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. “Why?”

“Because I need to ask you something.” I nervously peer over at the Bernie guy, who’s watching us as he smokes a joint, and then look back at Tristan. “Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”

He gives me a look that’s sort of harsh for the Tristan I used to know. “Just talk to me here.”

I suck in a slow breath through my nose, counting down backward in my head, telling myself to stay calm. “I’d rather talk to you somewhere more private.”

He stares at me with this bored expression like I’m annoying the crap out of him, so it surprises me when he says, “Okay.”

He flicks his cigarette over my shoulder and over the railing, and then he goes back into the house. He leaves the door cracked just enough that I can hear him talking to someone and it sounds an awful lot like Quinton. When he opens the door again, he has an old pair of sneakers in his hand and he steps out, shutting the door behind him.

He pauses to put the shoes on, glancing up at me as he ties one of the laces. “You know, despite what he’ll say later on, it’s going to hurt Quinton that you came here to see me,” he tells me, fastening the lace and standing up straight.

“I’m not so sure about that,” I say as we walk across the balcony. “I think he sort of wants me to leave him alone…in fact I think you’re covering for him right now.”

He glances at me with curiosity. “Do you really believe that? That it won’t hurt him that you came here to see me?”

“Yeah,” I tell him with honesty. “It does.”

“Well, it will,” he says as we head down the stairs. “But don’t tell him I told you that.”

I keep quiet until we reach the bottom of the stairway, processing what he just told me. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

Tristan gives a shrug, looking around at the bottom floor like he’s searching for someone or something. “I don’t know. Because it’s the truth and you deserve the truth.”

I’m not sure what to make of what he says and the more I examine him, the more I notice how agitated he is: drumming his fingers on the sides of his legs, his jaw moving all over the place. He’s high and it saddens me, but even though I hate to think it, I wonder if this will make it easier to get some information from him.

We head over to my car, not saying anything. The sun has heated the leather seats up, so when I climb in they burn the backs of my legs as I sit down. I hurry and turn on the engine while Tristan buckles his seat belt.

“So where are we going to?” Tristan rubs his hands together with a playful look in his eyes.

“I don’t know…is there somewhere you had in mind?” I place my hands on the steering wheel, but instantly withdraw them when it burns my hands. “Crap, that’s hot.”

He thinks about it briefly and then points to our left, where the city gets darker, more run-down, and that makes me uneasy. “Yeah, there’s a bar a little ways down the street that we can go hang at,” he says. I’m wary about going to a bar around here and it must show because he adds, “It’s totally low-key and safe. I promise.”

“Okay,” I reply, but I’m not sure I trust him or his massive pupils and spastic jaw. But I want answers about Quinton’s dad so I go with it, hoping I’m not making a big mistake. Hoping whatever lies ahead for me will be worth the risk.

Quinton

I think I made a mistake. Or at least that’s what my overriding brain is telling me. That I need to chase down Nova and tell her to stay with me, not go with Tristan, tell her that I’m really here and that I was just upset about the roof thing and had Tristan lie for me. The problem is, they’re already gone, because I hesitated. Torn between what’s right and what the drugs tell me I want.

I’m pacing the floor of the living room like a madman, wondering how things went this way. One minute I told Tristan to cover for me and tell Nova I wasn’t here because I didn’t feel like talking to her after the whole roof incident. In fact, I planned on never seeing her again.

And that’s what I told Tristan.

The next thing I knew, they were leaving together. I’m fucking pissed but a lot of that anger is directed at myself for caring so much that I can’t just let her go, that I want her this bad. Knowing she’s out with Tristan has painfully made me aware of this and so I did the only thing I could think of to try to turn it off.

I do line after line, trying to kill the emotion out of me and the crushing guilt attached to the emotion. But for some reason today crystal is adding fuel to the fire—adding to my emotions. I’m not sure what to do with all the pain and the anger. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way and all I want to do is ram my fist through a wall. I stop pacing, pick up a hollowed-out ballpoint pen, and do another line off the cracked coffee table. After the sensation of it hits my body and slams into my heart and mind, I head toward the wall to punch a hole in it like I wanted to, but the front door suddenly swings opens. I do a U-turn and find Dylan shoving Delilah into the room.

“You stupid fucking whore,” he says, shoving Delilah into the apartment, and she lands on her back, her head just missing the corner of the coffee table. “I told you not to mess shit up but you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

“I’m sorry.” Tears stream from her eyes as she sits up and struggles to get her feet under her. She only has one shoe on and it causes her to roll her ankle but she manages to get up by supporting her weight against the sofa.

“Fuck you and your sorry.” Dylan slams the door hard enough that shit falls down in the kitchen and I hear glass break. “You’re always sorry, yet you keep messing up.”

I’ve seen them fight before—actually a lot. But they’ve been getting worse lately. A lot of yelling. A lot of shoving each other around. I really think Dylan might be losing it, his inner demons, whatever they are, slipping through the cracks. This seems even worse than what I’ve seen before, but that might be because I’m beyond tweaked out. My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute so that I can’t even keep up with them and everything’s just one big fucking pileup.

Delilah’s sobbing and her cheek is inflamed like he hit her and Dylan is hyped up, eyes bulging, veins defiant under his skin. He looks like he’s tripping on acid and maybe he is. Whatever it is, when he storms toward her with his hand up, something snaps inside me. Here I am freaking out because I want a girl that I can’t have—don’t deserve—because I killed my girlfriend—lost her—and he has his girlfriend right here that he can have whenever he wants and he’s choosing to hit her.