Chapter Seven
Nico
“Bro, your mom’s calling me. Should I—”
“Don’t answer,” I cut in, and I sigh and unlock my phone. “She’s been texting me all night, and I just . . .”
I shake my head, not wanting to elaborate, and I open up my text messaging app as Alex settles back on the couch opposite me with another bowl of popcorn. It’s our third so far today.
Nico (9:45 p.m.): I’m at Alex’s. Staying here tonight.
Maybe I should also tell her I’m not sure when I’m coming home because the walls of the house are much too thin and I can’t really sleep while I can hear her fucking her abusive ex-husband in the room next to mine.
Maybe she should know that I know. Maybe that would make her think twice about the choice she made to let him back into her life.
But I don’t have the energy for it, and I’ve barely been holding myself together all day. And really, I don’t want to think about it anymore.
So instead, I hit send on the text, power down my phone so I don’t get any more notifications, and then shove the phone back into my pocket.
I know I can’t stay away forever, of course.
I start work at the library on Monday, which is terrifying enough, and I don’t have any clothes or my wallet or my car keys.
Alex let me borrow a toothbrush this morning, but I’m still wearing my pajamas from the night before and I’ll definitely need to shave by Monday morning.
Alex has been great, which isn’t surprising—he’s always great.
But he’s been even more considerate than usual today, like he knows there’s more to the story of why I’m here than I told him this morning.
It sort of makes me feel like the fucking asshole that I am, knowing that I’m not being totally honest with him.
Yet I can’t bring myself to start up a conversation about it.
It’s not that I haven’t had time, either.
We did a whole lot of nothing all day. We watched movies, ordered a pizza for lunch, played video games and watched more movies, did a little yard work, which he apparently promised his mom he’d get done.
We talked about stupid shit, like the next Hollow Knight game that’s supposed to be coming out later in the year and the way the neighbor’s dog barking sounds like it’s an old man with a sore throat.
He also told me about the place they had dinner the night before with his grandparents and attempted to describe how awful the shrimp he ate was.
And when his mom got home and started to ask me how I was doing, he cut in and turned the conversation to her and her day, like he knew that I didn’t want to have to lie.
Because I’m still not doing very fucking well.
And I still haven’t even told him the real reason I came over last night or why I’m still here or why I need to stay again. But he obviously knows something’s up, and he knows I don’t want to talk about it.
Alex sets the bowl of popcorn between us and starts scrolling through the movie listings on his mom’s Netflix account.
We both nope right over a few that look too intense, and even Alex doesn’t seem in the mood for some new mainstream horror flick, which surprises me.
Instead, he stops on a documentary of all things.
“Oh, I wanted to watch this!” he blurts out, sitting up and motioning enthusiastically at the TV. He glances at me and then laughs when he sees my face. “Uh, I mean, what do you think? Too boring?”
It’s a documentary on the James Webb Space Telescope, which launched a few years back.
I only know that because Alex talked about it nonstop for weeks before the launch and made me sit with him to watch all the news coverage of the actual launch.
Every time NASA publishes new images sent from the telescope, he’s like a little kid again—bouncing up and down and talking about it for days.
It’s fucking adorable, though I’ve never told him that, of course.
“Looks interesting. I’m game,” I say, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
It won’t be too boring, especially because I know it’s something he’s very interested in, although I’d probably normally tease him for it. Maybe that’s where his surprise is coming from.
“Okay, sweet. Thanks,” he says, and he clicks a button on the remote to start the documentary.
He’s literally sitting on the edge of his seat for at least the first ten minutes, his eyes still wide and his hands perched on either side of him on the couch.
Each time I glance over at him, his mouth is open slightly in awe, the wonder on his face clear and beautiful.
I find myself watching him more than the TV.
About halfway through the documentary, after he’s finally settled back against the couch, he turns to me and says, “You good still?”
I only nod, and then he grins broadly, brightening up the room as only he can.
“Great!” His smile doesn’t fade as he looks back at the TV, and instead, he scoots closer to me, moving the now-empty popcorn bowl to the coffee table, and rests his arm along the back of the couch.
It would be weird, right? To move over and settle in that spot I was in earlier on his bed, with his arm around my shoulders? My chest tightens in an uncomfortable way, sort of. Maybe it’s not so much uncomfortable as yearningly.
It felt good—to be held like that. Good, safe, protected. And I want that feeling again.
It’s sort of dumb of me, I know. Friends don’t cuddle. He only held me earlier because I needed the comfort. Now isn’t the same. Yet I start to move anyway, telling myself it’s okay to seek comfort in my friend. It’s not anything related to my feelings for him, after all. Totally not.
I shift over a few inches, then a few more, until he tenses up with a sharp inhale. A harsh, rough wave of unease courses through me, and I freeze.
Yeah, this was an awful idea. Of course he’s uncomfortable with it. Leave it to me to fuck up such a decent day.
Screwing my eyes shut, I immediately push myself up off the couch and stand.
“I’m gonna go now,” I mumble. I try to say more—at least something to thank him for letting me stay over—but there’s a nausea rolling through my stomach, and I think I might vomit if I stick around much longer.
And anyway, the buzz of anger is starting to tingle under my skin, which is exactly what I don’t want to happen right now.
“What? Why?” he asks.
I hear the TV click off, the documentary going silent, and there’s only the quiet hum of some classical music from his mom’s art studio in the garage.
I feel him stand up behind me, and my chest tightens.
I want to lean back into him, ask him to wrap his arms around me.
It’s fucking frustrating, because I can’t let myself do it.
But then his hand sets gently on my upper back, and the negative energy that had been building up seeps out of me.
God, I’m so fucking tired.
“Nico . . . um, I thought you were staying over again? It’s late. You shouldn’t go home now . . . ?”
The end of his sentence stalls out, like there was a question to it he couldn’t quite finish. His hand feels heavy on my back now. Heavy but protective. Just like I wanted.
He’ll let me lean on him again, won’t he?
If I turn around now, he’ll hold me. He’ll hug me.
He’ll let me cry against his chest. He’ll listen if I tell him who was really over at my mom’s house last night.
He’ll make up a bed on the floor again, and maybe this time, he’ll even let me sleep there instead of insisting I take his bed.
Fuck. What I really want is for him to hold me while I sleep.
But I know that’s not going to happen.
His hand rubs back and forth along my shoulders, and with a shudder, I let out a long, slow breath, my chin dropping down to my chest.
“Stay,” Alex says, his voice soft now, like he knows I’m seriously considering it. “I’ve got pajamas you can borrow, and you can take the bed again. My mom doesn’t mind you being here, really. And tomorrow’s Sunday. She makes blueberry pancakes on Sundays.”
I know this already. He knows I know. So I laugh and shake my head. “Bribing me with food? You really want me to stay that much?”
His hand settles, no longer moving, and he says quietly, “I just want you to be comfortable. You, uh, slept so well last night. I want whatever’s best for you.”
“And you think it’s not best for me to go home?” I hear the edge in my own voice, as though I’m daring him to argue. I can’t help it.
He doesn’t back off, though. If anything, his hand presses into me just a little more, and it chases away some of the hurt rising up in me.
“I don’t really know,” he admits slowly. And how could he? I didn’t tell him the truth. He takes a deep breath and continues. “But I got the impression you didn’t want to go home. You’re more than welcome to stay here. Anytime.”
The tightness in my chest loosens, and even though I don’t know what to say or do, that’s suddenly okay. I let myself lean back a tiny bit, and he’s there, his hand strong and solid, supporting me.
He moves closer.
Anyone else, and I’d be in a panic right now. Anyone other than him, I’d be shaking, dizzy, out of here. Anyone else.
But he’s so close now that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he sighs. And I want him even closer. I lean back a tiny bit more, and I close my eyes.
“You take the bed tonight and I’ll stay.” My suggestion—my negotiation—seems weak, but it’s the best I can do. It’s true that I absolutely do not want to go home right now, and I really should tell him exactly why. Maybe I will. Later.
His hand drops away from my back, sending a chill through me, but then there’s a soft huff, like he’s laughing. “Deal,” he says, amusement in his voice.
I love the sound.
Then he’s moving, gathering up the popcorn bowl from the coffee table and our half-empty glasses of watery orange juice, the ice having melted long ago.
“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “Help me with the dishes, then we’ll head upstairs. My mom’ll be happy if she doesn’t have to clean up the kitchen when she’s done painting for the night.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He gives me a smile, and his eyes linger on mine. His gaze is warm, as it always is, and I wonder what the hell I’ve done to deserve him as my best friend. He puts up with so much from me.
And now he’s putting up with this, too—me staying here, uninvited. He seems to want me here. Like he’s happy to have me.
I look away first and clear my throat, and he laughs lightly, though it almost sounds forced. He starts toward the kitchen, and I follow.
It’s not until we’re at the sink, starting to wash the dishes, that he finally breaks the silence with another laugh.
Then he starts talking. “Bro, so, listen to this. I meant to tell you last week, and then with graduation and everything, I just spaced out. The painting my mom’s doing right now, you won’t believe it, it’s for this client she has in California.
He’s some famous baseball player or something.
Anyway, he’s paying her, I dunno, thousands of dollars or something to paint a leaf! ”
“A . . . leaf?”
“Yeah. Maybe we can peek in there later so you can see. Seriously, though, it’s just a leaf! I mean, it’s a freaking neat leaf with all this insane amount of detail, but still . . .”
He washes, I dry and put away, and all the while, he talks, describing this painting his mom is doing. And when he’s exhausted that topic, he talks about something else for a while. It’s comfortable, and it feels good.
And I’m so grateful for him that I might not even argue if he tries to make me take the bed after all when we finally go up to his room for the night.