Chapter Ten #2
I do have several other notifications, and I begrudgingly swipe through them as I walk across the living room and toward the garage.
Jenna messaged me an hour ago, asking whether I wanted to go into Omaha with her tomorrow.
And mom texted me to remind me to pick up dinner at five at The Rancher—her favorite restaurant going on forever now.
Then I’ve got an email from a professor I connected with at Stanford.
That seems pretty important, but since I’m in a hurry, I make a mental note to take a look at it later, when I have time to respond.
The one person I really wanted to hear from, though, he’s been silent all day. Not that that’s unlike him. In fact, it shouldn’t even be surprising, really. It’s just . . . well, I’m worried. More than usual.
I click on his name in my messaging app and reread the last couple of texts I sent him, shortly after he left my house this morning.
Alex (8:07 a.m.): You’re gonna do great today!
Alex (8:09 a.m.): Let me know if you want me to meet you on your lunch break or anything. Otherwise, I’m just stuck doing chores today =P
I half expected him to respond just to ask if I’d been abducted or if someone had stolen my phone. I rarely use proper spelling and punctuation when I text, and Nico’s always making fun of me for it.
But, nope. No teases, no taunts. Not even a quick thumbs-up emoji. Nothing.
And that’s done nothing all day, especially right now, to ease my worry. He does tend to go silent when things are stressful or when he gets anxious, but I hope if things got too bad, he would have let me know.
I stuff my phone back in my pocket, trying to ignore the knot in the pit of my stomach, and I push the door open to the garage.
My mom’s sitting on her stool in front of the huge canvas she’s been working on for weeks now, just staring at it.
She’s got a paintbrush in her hand, and there’s a small splotch of white paint on her cheek.
I’m pretty sure she hasn’t noticed me yet, and with a quiet laugh, I wonder how long I can stand here before she will.
I’m feeling too antsy to test that out, though, and so I shuffle my feet and knock lightly on the doorframe. “Hey, Mom, I’m heading out to grab dinner. Did you need anything else while I’m out?”
For a second, I think maybe she’s not going to respond—that she’s so focused she didn’t even hear me. But then she turns her head with a quiet “hmm?”
I laugh out loud this time as I see her realize I’m standing there. She’s got paint on her forehead, too, and three used paintbrushes tucked into her shirt pocket. I guess she’s been in here painting as long as I was working around the house. That’s my mom. I love her.
“I’m heading out to grab dinner,” I repeat. “Do you need me to pick up anything else?”
“Oh, right, hmm . . .” She turns back to look at her painting again, her eyes scanning the massive four-foot-by-five-foot canvas. “Um, no, I don’t think so. It’s already dinnertime?”
“Almost.”
“’Kay.”
I shake my head and step all the way into the garage, holding the door handle to make sure it closes quietly behind me. “It’s after four. Did you eat lunch?”
“Of course. Or . . .” She twists around toward me, her eyes narrowed like she’s trying to remember. “Maybe?”
I give her a crooked smile. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Yeah, maybe not,” she admits, and she glances at her painting one last time as she stands up and stretches. “I’m actually . . . done, I think. It’s done.”
“Whoa, what? Really?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
She smiles, and I can see the exhaustion in her eyes slowly replaced with the familiar glow of pride and joy she always has when she finishes a piece.
Her eyes wander across the painting, but she doesn’t seem to be scrutinizing it.
She seems to be taking it in—the whole of the canvas and her hours and hours of work.
I follow her gaze, letting my eyes linger on all the details she’s added since the last time I studied the painting—the soft dewdrop sitting just on the edge of the huge leaf, the little bits of sunshine glinting off the leaf’s stem, the darker shades of green along the hint of the leaf’s underside peeking out after the leaf curves.
How she creates such realism, I’m not sure, but the whole painting has a sort of texture to it, a volume, like it’s not just painted on a flat, two-dimensional canvas.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “It’s really, really beautiful, Mom.”
She leans her head against me with a long sigh, and we don’t move for a minute or two. Finally, she straightens up and then turns to me, her nose wrinkled.
“You should shower before you go get dinner. You stink.”
Laughing, I roll my eyes. “You smell like paint.”
“Well, you smell like sweat and dirt. Did you mow the lawns?” She turns away from me and starts gathering up her paintbrushes and supplies.
“Yeah, I finished the downstairs bedroom and then did the mowing—”
“Nico’s staying longer?” she asks, turning toward me abruptly. There’s a question in her eyes, and I almost hear it before she says it. “Did you talk to him about . . . you know . . . things?”
My chest tightens as I stare at her. Things. Did I talk to him about things? No, Mom, because I was busy trying to keep him from panicking too much about—
“What happened? What is it?” She steps closer, her whole expression changing to concern. How the hell can she read me so well?
I shake my head and drop my eyes, not really wanting to get into everything. This morning, all I told her was that we went to get his clothes for work. I didn’t mention Patrick or the sort of falling out with his mom or the fact that I basically offered for him to stay here indefinitely.
Guess I should have talked to her earlier.
“We didn’t talk about California yet, if that’s what you mean,” I start.
I know that’s not all she means, but I keep going so she doesn’t jump into a long speech about how it’s better to be honest about things right away and talk about things sooner rather than later—a speech I’ve heard lots and lots of times.
“There’s stuff going on. At his house, I mean.
And he needs to stay here for a while longer. I told him that was cool.”
When I risk a look up, the concern in her eyes seems to bore right into me. I frown.
“Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner, but I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s pretty . . . bad. He can’t really . . . go home.”
“Alex, what’s going on?”
I shake my head and drop my eyes. She should know, though, because—
A wave of nausea rolls through me as I picture the scene from that morning.
Patrick storming out onto the porch with his sneering face and god-awful mustache and beady brown eyes.
He hasn’t changed from the last time I saw him years ago.
But this morning, the anger and hate in his expression were downright scary.
And Nico’s mom—she didn’t look much more welcoming, either.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her like that before.
Pursing my lips, I shake my head again and look back up. “Nico’s stepfather is back. Patrick. The man who—”
“What?!”
God, I’m glad she interrupted me this time so I didn’t have to finish that sentence. I just nod. “Apparently since Friday night, and his mom . . . Yeah, um, so he needs a place to stay. I told him he could stay here. I should have asked you first, but—”
“Of course he can stay here. As long as he needs to. I can’t believe Cindy would . . .” She trails off, shaking her head. “You did the right thing, sweetie. He can stay for as long as he needs.”
Relief hits me, even though I didn’t really doubt she would say yes. I expect a much longer lecture on being upfront and honest and communicating better, but hopefully she’ll let that wait until later, because I really should get going.
Her hand settles on my arm, and she gives me a light squeeze. When I lift my eyes, she’s watching me with a kind, quiet smile.
“Thanks, Mom. I should . . .” I hike a thumb up, pointing back to the door, and she raises her eyebrows with a half smile.
“Shower first. You really do stink,” she repeats, and she pats my arm this time and then steps away from me, heading back over to continue gathering her painting supplies.
To my surprise, she doesn’t mention needing to talk or that we should discuss honesty and communication or anything else that I know is on her mind.
Instead, she just says, “I didn’t order anything for Nico for dinner.
I’ll call Jack and update our order. He likes their burgers, right?
Cheese and lettuce and pickles but no tomato or burger sauce? ”
There’s another lump in my throat, and maybe it’s because my mom cares enough to know what Nico’s order would be from her favorite restaurant. Or maybe it’s because I appreciate her not grilling me right now. “Uh, yeah. And he likes the fries extra crispy.”
“Right, yeah. Okay, I’ll call and update the order.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, and I know my voice breaks, but I can’t help it. I turn before she can see the stupid tears forming in my eyes. “I’ll shower and then . . . yeah.”
I expect her to stop me, call me out, ask what’s wrong. Because that’s her—that’s what she does. But above the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, all I hear is a quiet “okay, sweetie” filled with kindness and love and understanding.
I blink as a tear slips out, but I manage to get through the door and close it behind me before I wipe my cheek.