Chapter Ten
Alex
I’m not sure how I manage to get us back to my house. The drive is short, but it’s a blur. When we turn onto my street, Nico’s panicked shaking gives way to his familiar anxiety-induced anger, and he finally lifts his head from his hands, his mouth set in a hard line as he stares ahead.
My hand stays on his back, though I’m not entirely sure whether it’s really welcome. I move it only to shift the car into park once I pull into the driveway. Then I set it on his back again.
He doesn’t say a word, and neither do I. His eyes remain trained forward, unfocused, and his breathing is stilted, every few breaths shuddering.
Have I ever seen him this upset? Probably.
Things were really bad for a while just before Nico’s mom finally kicked that asshole Patrick to the curb.
Nico always had a bit of social anxiety and awkwardness, but then when things started to get worse, when the bruises started to appear, his anxiety turned not-so-gradually into something different—a reactivity to being touched, anger and tension that was sometimes impossible for him to control.
It got worse in the months right after Patrick left, which didn’t quite make sense to me.
But in the last year or so, it’s mostly leveled off, at least from my perspective.
Or maybe it’s just that it’s more predictable to me now.
I mean, he’s still reactive. He still hates being around too many people. Crowds, he’s told me, are terrifying for him. And he still can’t stand anyone touching him—except me. I’m thankful that I’m able to give him whatever it is he needs. Reassurance, at least. Especially when things are bad.
But this feels different. Something about this time is different. I know what it is, I think. And my heart hurts even more.
He was just forced to see his abuser—the man who put him in the hospital years ago.
And his mom, of all people—the one person he should really be able to count on unconditionally—she was the one who forced this upon him.
She was the one who let that bastard back in.
She broke whatever promises she gave him and tossed them out like they were trash.
Hell, she essentially tossed him out, too.
I’m not sure I can even imagine how that feels to him.
I press my hand into his lower back, feeling him tense up. His eyes close, and he pulls in a sharp breath and holds it. And I feel it again—his shaking. Ignoring the pang in my chest, I rub his back gently, hoping it’ll help, hoping it’s somehow enough.
“You should get changed, yeah? Um, I mean, we can talk now if you need to, or—”
“No. I need to go.” He opens his eyes, his gaze still unfocused and pained.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But—”
“I only have a few minutes, and—and I . . .” With a sudden flinch, he squeezes his eyes shut, balls his hand up into a fist, and slams it down onto the dashboard.
Hard. “Fuck! God fucking dammit!” The anger suddenly seeps from him as though he’s too weak to hold onto it anymore, and he collapses forward, burying his head back in between his knees.
His voice becomes small, filled with uncertainty, and he starts talking again, mumbling a stuttering mess of half-formed thoughts and questions into his hands.
“Why . . . why the hell did he . . . ? And why did she . . . Alex, wh-why did she let him come back? Why did she . . . why did she choose him over me? Do I really mean that little to her? Does she really not want me there? I don’t—I don’t—I can’t understand. ”
God, I wish I had all the answers for him.
More than that, I wish I could change it all—fix the whole last hour, the whole last three days .
. . the whole last few years. There’s a lump in my throat, but I swallow past it and open my mouth to speak as he turns his head slightly to look up at me.
He’s not crying, somehow. But his eyes are red rimmed and his cheeks are flushed.
And he looks so sad, so broken. I want to fix that, too. I want to make him feel better and see just how loved he is. I want to gather him up in my arms and hold him.
It hurts that I can’t do that right now.
“I don’t know the answers,” I admit quietly, and my stomach lurches as I watch his frown deepen.
But then I let my hand rub up his back to his shoulders, and he closes his eyes with a sigh.
It sounds like a relieved kind of sigh, almost, like .
. . like my touch is soothing to him. So I repeat the motion, running my hand slowly down to his lower back and then up again.
His sigh is even more distinct this time, and I can actually see some of the tension leave his shoulders.
Gently, I clear my throat and say in a low voice, “I do know that you don’t deserve to be treated like that.
I’m not sure why your mom made that decision.
I can’t understand it, either. But you’re welcome to stay here.
Anytime and for as long as you need. My mom has said as much.
So, you know, you don’t have to, uh, worry about . . . that.”
There’s a moment where I think he’s going to pull away or tense up again or something, but thankfully, he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just lets out another of those sighs and gives the tiniest nod. Then he straightens up and rakes a hand through his hair.
“I need to get changed and go so I’m not late.”
“Yeah.”
He swallows, takes a deep breath as though to reset himself, and then grabs his bag from the back seat, pushes open the door, and climbs out. I turn off the car, pocket his keys, and follow, trying to push away my unease.
He’s still hurting. He’s still in pain. And I wish I couldn’t see it, since he’s obviously trying to hide it. But I do see it. It’s there. Maybe it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else. Maybe that’s a good thing, since he has to go to work.
What I really want, though, is to be able to comfort him. To be able to hold him and hug him and kiss him. To help him navigate this. And to make sure he knows, always, that I’m here for him in whatever way he needs.
As I follow him into the house, two thoughts hit me, one after the other.
The first sends a warm shiver through me.
I’m going to tell him. Tonight. Tonight, I’m going to tell him all the things that I’ve been keeping to myself the last few years.
That he’s more than just my best friend.
That he’s the most important person in the world to me.
That I love him. That I’m in love with him.
And that I’ll be here for him, always.
The second thought, however, turns that warm shiver into a cold shot of ice. My feet nearly miss the single step up onto the porch, and I grab the railing to hide my almost-stumble as Nico glances back at me over his shoulder, his green eyes narrowing slightly with curiosity.
I fake a grin and shrug my shoulders, and he frowns but turns forward as he opens up the front door.
I follow slowly, heaviness weighing down each of my steps.
My second thought, the one I had right after the hopeful, beautiful thought of finally coming out and coming clean to my best friend, is that no, I absolutely can’t tell him.
Not right now. Because if me revealing my feelings to him makes anything any sort of awkward at all .
. . if it would make him uncomfortable knowing how I feel . . . he’d have nowhere else to go.
And I can’t do that to him. Especially not right now.
Mom wastes no time putting me to work after Nico gets changed and leaves. I suppose that’s a good thing; otherwise, I’d just spend all day worrying about him. As it is, I can barely stay focused to get all the chores done, and it takes probably twice as long as it should.
We’re having a big family thing next weekend.
Relatives I’ve never met are coming in from all over the country.
I’m not entirely sure what the occasion is, or if there even is an occasion, but Mom’s excited.
She says there’ll be at least forty or fifty people here.
Cousins, cousins of cousins, and cousins of other cousins, as well as my aunts and uncles and both sets of grandparents.
My dad isn’t in the picture. He never really has been, actually.
I guess he cheated on my mom when she was pregnant with me and then took off and never came back.
His parents, however—Grandpa Joe and Grandma Kay—they’ve always been around.
I see them at least once or twice a month, and the only reason they weren’t at my graduation last week was because their motor home broke down on their way back to Omaha from their annual spring trip to Jackson Hole.
The big get-together means a lot of cleaning and organizing, especially since a few of the out-of-town guests will be staying here for a couple of days.
So I keep myself busy most of the day. By the time afternoon rolls around, I’ve cleared out the downstairs bedroom, which we were using as storage for my mom’s artwork and art supplies and prints; deep cleaned the downstairs bathroom and kitchen; and mowed the lawns in both the front yard and the backyard.
There’ll be more to do tomorrow and the rest of the week, but what I did manage to get done seems like a good enough start. So I put the lawn mower away in the shed in the back and then head inside, pulling my phone out of my pocket as I go. My stomach sinks as I turn on the screen.
Nothing.
Still.
I mean, nothing from Nico. No texts or calls. The same as it’s been all day.