Page 95 of Searching for Nova

Back in Nova’s room, we get into the tiny twin bed, which has barely enough room for me.

“I could sleep on the floor,” Nova says, noticing me trying to get comfortable.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor.” I lay on my back and slide my arm under her. “Come here.” I pull her against my side.

“I don’t think friends would sleep like this.”

“We don’t have a choice. The bed’s too small. But if you don’t like it, we can try something else.”

“No.” She nestles against my chest. “I like this.”

I do too, and I don’t want it to end. I want more nights like this, and more time with her. How do I get her to trust me again? How do I get her to see that this—what we’re doing right now and how perfect it feels—is worth the risk of whatever might happen?

24

Easton

“No! Don’t!”Nova screams, her hands flying all over. “Don’t take him!”

“Nova!” I grab her and hold her against me. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Her body relaxes, her arms falling by her sides, her head on my shoulder. She takes a moment to breathe, then pulls away. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“What happened?”

She shakes her head. “Just a nightmare. It happens sometimes.”

“What was it about?”

“Nothing.” She turns on her side, putting her back to me. “Just forget it. Go back to sleep.”

I pull her closer, keeping my arm around her. “It was about me.”

She’s quiet.

“It was about the day my parents took me.”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Nova, it’s okay. You can tell me.”

“I don’t want to,” she whispers.

There’s so much I want to ask her, but I’m worried if I do, she’ll shut down.

“Do you have that dream a lot?” I ask.

“I used to, but then it stopped.”

“And now it’s happening again?”

She nods. “Since you came back.”

That’s not what I wanted. I thought us being friends again would make her happy, not give her nightmares. She hasn’t gotten over me leaving all those years ago. She’s probably not over her dad leaving her either. She didn’t have counseling to help her deal with that stuff, like I did. After I was adopted, my parents sent me to a child psychologist. I met with her once a week for over a year. We talked about me losing my parents, and losing Nova. When I was ten, I went into counseling again. I was acting out at school, getting into fights. The counselor told my parents I was angry at my biological parents for dying and didn’t know how to deal with it, but that wasn’t true. The real reason I was acting out was because I was angry at my adoptive parents for taking me away from Nova.

“I didn’t want to go,” I say. “I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I know. It’s not your fault.”

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