Chapter Nine
Nico
Please.
Please let them be sleeping.
Please let us get in and out without waking anyone.
Please, for fuck’s sake, don’t make me face him.
I pause in front of the door, Alex right behind me. I don’t even know what I’m feeling or how to deal with any of it. I’m shaking and sick and angry and terrified. Mostly terrified. And I want to turn and run. Get as far away as I can.
But I can’t do that. At least not yet.
Alex moves up even closer, his body nearly touching mine, and I feel his warmth. How he gives me so much strength and courage, how just his presence makes me feel safer, I’m not even sure. But I can’t deny that I’m secretly glad he insisted on coming, despite the dark pit of shame in my stomach.
“I’m not going to let anything hurt you,” he says quietly, as though he knows I need to hear it. Then, because he’s just the best person ever, he adds, “Fuck him.”
I almost laugh at the curse; I could probably count on one hand how many times I’ve heard Alex say the f-word. But the situation definitely calls for it. I turn my head and glance over my shoulder at him, and he shrugs with a half smile. Then he gets serious again.
“Ready?”
I nod, even though the answer’s a definite no, and I reach out and turn the doorknob. My mom never locks up at night—small town, secluded house well off the main road, and all that—and I’m thankful for that right now as the door opens with only its usual squeak.
All the lights are off, and it’s silent—two more points in our favor. I step inside ahead of Alex, and he follows right behind me, shutting the door quietly.
I’ve lived here my whole life, and yet, right now, the house feels completely unfamiliar.
It’s not. Not really, anyway. Nothing has really changed, except that the kitchen table is a mess, the sink is full of unwashed dishes, and there are empty beer bottles on the counter and coffee table.
There’s also a staleness in the air, a thick heaviness that stops me from moving.
“Come on, let’s go,” Alex whispers, and then—god—his hand sets low on my back. My heart skips a beat or maybe two, and when he presses into me with a gentle encouragement, heat rushes through me, fast and strong. It’s a good distraction. A very good distraction.
I nod and blink back the feeling that I shouldn’t be here, in my own home, and I get my feet to move.
My room is right at the beginning of the hallway—another point for us, since we don’t have to walk past Mom’s room to get to mine.
The door’s open, even though I know I left it closed on Friday night, but I suppose that’s better for us now.
I walk in ahead of Alex, and he closes the door behind us, again.
I head straight to the bed, stepping over the dirty laundry I left on the floor, and I grab my backpack, dump out all my notes and school folders and other things I don’t need anymore, and turn back to Alex.
My heart’s racing as our eyes meet, and before I can even ask the question that’s on the tip of my tongue, he nods.
“Grab as much as you can now,” Alex says, keeping his voice low. “Whatever you need for today, at least. We’ll come back for more later in the week, when he’s not here.”
It hurts and doesn’t at the same time, and I blink and look down at my shoes. “Your mom won’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
I know this. Laina Hayes has never been anything but extra nice to me and has always seemed to be happy to have me over. But I needed him to say it anyway. I look back up at him, and he gives me this knowing nod that’s warm and caring.
“Really,” he says, his tone taking on a softness I’m not sure I’ve ever heard before, even from him.
He steps closer to me, and with a half smile that I can also see in his eyes, he adds, “I’ll talk to her today, but I’m sure it won’t be a problem.
You shouldn’t be here anymore if he’s going to be here. ”
I just nod. He’s right, after all. I swallow tightly and then step over to my dresser and start stuffing clothes into my backpack.
“Anything else you need that I can grab?” he asks in a low whisper, and I frown and glance over my shoulder at him as I shove a few pairs of briefs into my backpack.
“Uh, no. I—I’ll get everything,” I say, stumbling over the answer. It would feel weird to have him digging in my dirty jeans on the floor to get my keys and wallet. And the only other thing I want to make sure I have is buried in the back of my middle dresser drawer anyway.
I close the top drawer and open the middle one, and then I pull out a shopping bag that contains a set of new clothes—a pair of slacks, a belt, and a polo shirt—that I bought with what little money I managed to save up over the last few months.
I stuff the bag in my backpack and frown, my shoulders tensing.
Alex’s eyes are still on me, I can feel them.
Hopefully he’s not really paying attention, though, because even he doesn’t know my sketchbook exists.
I shift a little to block his view and then reach into the back left corner of the drawer, under a few neatly folded pairs of pants that I never wear because they don’t fit me anymore, and grab my sketchbook and pencil bag. The pencils rattle around in the bag, and I flinch at the distinct noise.
Fuck. Please don’t ask. Please don’t ask.
Without turning around to look at him, I slide the sketchbook into the backmost compartment of my backpack, along with the pencil bag, which makes another of those traitorous rattling sounds.
Then I zip up the compartment and spin around to finish packing.
Alex backs up as I bend over to pick up my dirty jeans, and I fish around for a few seconds in the pockets to get my wallet and keys.
The jeans get tossed right back on the floor when I’m done. They’re not my favorite pair anyway.
Straightening up, I avoid Alex’s gaze and let my eyes drift around the room.
I don’t need anything else. At least not today.
And the clothes I grabbed should be enough for a few days.
But it feels strange, like this is the last time I’ll be here in this room.
Like I’m getting kicked out. Like I really, really don’t belong here anymore. And that feeling is almost painful.
Is it a coincidence that the day I graduated high school was the day my mom let that asshole back in her life?
I swallow hard and push the thought away as I sling the backpack over my shoulder.
“I think that’s it. We can—”
A noise from the other room cuts me off, and I freeze as my heart seems to stop.
There’s low mumbling in a distinctly male voice, and I can’t make out the words, but it doesn’t even matter.
I hear him. And the feeling of dread is even worse than it was the other night.
Fear inches up my back and wraps itself around my throat, and I screw my eyes shut in some lame attempt to keep my panic down.
Spoiler: it doesn’t work.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Alex hisses, and I agree with him, but my feet won’t move. I’m trapped. Trapped with some vise gripping me, holding me in place, refusing to let go.
More words come from the other room, and this time I can make out my mom’s voice mixed with his. The bed creaks. Heavy footsteps echo. A door slams.
“Nico!” Alex whisper-yells. “Come on!”
His hand grasps mine, and he gives a light squeeze that seems both comforting and like he’s saying “pull yourself the fuck together.” And when I still don’t move, he forgoes the light encouragement and opts for dragging me out of the room.
Everything after that is a blur—a loud, messy blur.
We manage to get out of the house and down the stairs to my car, Alex pulling me along behind him the whole way, before my mom catches up with us.
Alex opens the passenger door for me and tells me to get in, that he’ll drive, and he grabs my backpack and tosses it into the back seat as Mom throws open the front door.
I turn to look up at her, holding onto the car’s doorframe for support. There’s anger in her eyes and something else. Why the fuck is she mad at me? And when did that happen? I stare at her, scowling, and she stares right back, shaking her head.
“Get in,” Alex urges, his hand once again settling on my back. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He’s right. But I’m sick, and I’m stuck, wishing she could read my mind. She has to know why I’m leaving. Does she really not care that much?
“You fucking promised me!” I yell, because I can’t help it. I can’t hold it back. It’s stupid, I know. But I need her to hear it. “You promised me he’d never be back!”
Her expression falters for a second, only for a second, and then she’s frowning again, shaking her head at me in disapproval.
She opens her mouth to speak, stepping outside of the house and onto the porch, but Alex moves in front of me so I can’t see her, and his hands come up to my shoulders with another of those light squeezes.
“Hey, Nico,” he says quietly, and I look up and meet his eyes. They’re filled with concern and a soft understanding. “Let’s go, okay? Let’s go now.”
“I . . .”
“I know,” he says, his voice still gentle.
My jaw trembles, and I look down at the ground.
“You have every right to be mad. This is inexcusable. But now’s not the time to talk to her about it, okay?
Some other time, when, uh, when he’s not here.
Then you can talk to her. Okay? For now, right now, let’s get back to my house.
There’s time. You can get changed, and—”
There’s a noise behind him, more voices, and my eyes close as the air leaves my lungs again.
They’re arguing. About me. And I hear Patrick’s voice clear and loud and angry, a harshness to it.
“What’s that little fucker doing here?”
“Pat, not right now.”
“Fuck that, the kid needs to be reminded whose house this is and that he can’t just—”
Whatever else that asshole says, I don’t hear it, because Alex squeezes my shoulders and starts talking again, louder this time, so his voice drowns out the other sounds around me.
“Nico, look at me,” he says, and I do. I lift my chin and open my eyes.
Fucking tears are sliding down my cheeks. Alex shakes his head slowly, and the muscles in his jaw twitch.
“We need to get going, okay? You’re going to look at me, listen to my voice. Nothing else, okay?”
I nod.
“Get in the car now, here.” And he guides me, his hands careful and light and gentle.
I’m not even sure how it happens, but I’m suddenly sitting in the passenger seat of my car, handing him the keys.
He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“Keep your eyes down. You don’t even need to see that bastard, okay? ”
I nod again. The door shuts, and not more than a few seconds later, Alex is climbing into the driver’s seat. I still hear yelling, and the voices seem closer, louder, angrier. But Alex immediately starts talking again as though to keep my focus on him.
“I’m not sure when the last time I drove your car was,” he says.
He laughs a small, humorless laugh and starts up the car.
“And remember last summer when I borrowed it because I needed to get groceries, but I got that flat tire right as I turned into the parking lot at the supermarket? Hah, just my luck, eh? Let’s see if I can remember . . . it tends to stick a little . . .”
The car jerks into reverse, and I make the awful fucking mistake of lifting my eyes. I shouldn’t have, though. I shouldn’t have looked up, because the first thing I see is that jackass Patrick, standing at the bottom of the porch steps, his face red and his brown eyes flashing with rage.
Why the hell is he so mad at me? He’s the one who punched me in the face.
I never did anything to him except exist. In my own home.
But the sight—his eyes, his anger, his fists balled up, flexing tightly like he’s ready to take another swing at me—makes me fucking nauseous all over again, and I lower my head between my knees, trying desperately to force air into my lungs.
It’s not really working, though, and it’s not until after Alex has shifted the car into drive and is flooring it down the driveway toward the road that I finally manage to suck in a breath.
The air feels hot and sticky and stale, and I blow it out and take another deep breath and then another.
Alex’s hand settles on my back, rubbing gently as I wheeze. It’s maybe the only good thing so far this morning, knowing that he’s here for me.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Yeah, of course. You okay?”
His hand stops on my back. Please don’t pull away. Please. I screw my eyes shut as the thought repeats in my head over and over. Please. Please.
Fuck all of this.
“No. Yes. I mean, I-I will be?”
His hand disappears, and I almost groan in protest, but the warmth returns a few seconds later, after the car turns from the driveway onto the main road.
“You will be,” he repeats, and there’s a softness to his voice as his palm presses into me, the touch both gentle and firm.
God, it’s helping. It’s helping so much. I wish I could just tell him that. I should just tell him that. But I’m not quite there yet, and I’m not really sure why.
I manage another deep breath, and this time, the air doesn’t feel quite as thick.