Chapter Eleven
Nico
“Alright, I think that’s about it for today.” Sharon Lenoway, the head librarian at the small public library where I’m working for the summer, stands up from her desk and gives me a tight smile. “Good start. You got a lot done, I think.”
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks,” I say. I try for a smile back, but it’s probably more of a grimace, clouded in exhaustion and the constant ache in my chest I’ve been fighting since this morning.
Sharon doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she picks her cell phone up off the desk, grabs her purse, and then motions toward the front entrance. She starts talking as she walks, and I force myself to try to listen as I follow back a safe distance.
“So tomorrow and Wednesday will be about the same as today, I think.”
She reaches the door and pulls it open, holding it for me, and she keeps talking, saying something about Thursday and the project I’ll be working on with a huge batch of donated books we’re getting in.
But I have to work to keep myself from shrinking away, and her words float right on past me, drowned out by the sound of my heart pounding loudly in my ears.
I slink by her, making myself as small as possible.
Again, she’s oblivious, and she keeps going as she locks the door.
“It shouldn’t take more than a week or two, I think,” she says.
“But there are a lot of books, and you’ll need to check them all for damage and missing pages, clean them, sort them, catalog them, label them.
Oh, you know what? Maybe Caitlin will be able to help you if she’s not too busy with the summer school kids. ”
I clear my throat and manage to force out a few words. “That’s okay. I should be able to handle it.” I fucking hate how my voice sounds all unsure. Raspy, too, like I’m out of breath. But I am out of breath, and I can’t seem to take in enough air.
“Alright, good. You’re a hard worker. I like that,” she says. She turns to face me with a serious nod, looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Uh, yeah. See you tomorrow.” I wave awkwardly, which is weird because she’s standing right next to me, and she gives an equally awkward smile as she goes to step around me.
But then she’s suddenly too close, suddenly coming toward me, suddenly some huge threat according to my stupid fucking brain, and I react before I can stop myself.
With a flinch, I jump backward out of her way, nearly tripping over my own feet.
God, I’m a fucking idiot.
She stops, and her eyebrows arch.
“S-sorry, sorry. Um, yeah, so, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I repeat, and before she has a chance to say anything or to look more confused or annoyed or whatever, I train my eyes to the ground, shove my hands into my pockets, and start moving.
My car is thankfully parked on the opposite side of the parking lot from hers, all the way off in the corner by itself, and I can’t get away fast enough.
Halfway there, my legs start to feel like Jell-O, though the farther I get from the building, the less the ache in my chest hurts.
I pull my car keys out of my pocket as I get closer to my car, and a minute later, I’m collapsing into the driver’s seat, taking long, slow, deep breaths to steady myself.
Dammit, I need this job. It’s probably the only job I could find that I can actually sort of handle. The library is quiet, not busy, and most people who come in are families with young children. I don’t fucking panic and flinch away from young children.
But, hell. Pretending to be okay all day has been awful, and I’m done, barely holding myself together now that I no longer have to.
I let out something that resembles a laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, and it resonates oddly in the interior of my small car. I’m shaking, too, and I’m so ready to go home, I can’t even—
A stabbing pain shoots through my chest, fast and hot, and I close my eyes and hold my breath.
Home.
Right.
I can’t go home. I don’t even fucking have a home anymore, do I?
My hand finds my pocket again, and I wrap my fingers tightly around my cell phone as I try to block out all the terrible memories of that morning—the memories I’ve been desperately pushing away all day. But they surround me, suffocating me, pressing down on me.
I can’t go home. I’m not welcome anymore. Mom doesn’t want me there anymore. It’s all so sudden that it’s making me dizzy.
She texted earlier, just after my shift started.
Said she’ll pack up the rest of my stuff today and leave it in a box at the end of the driveway.
She wants my room empty so she can, I dunno, use it for that asshole’s extra shit or something.
And when the month is over, my car insurance is canceled. And my cell phone plan.
Keep the car and the phone, her text said. But you can pay your own bills now. You’re an adult. Time you act like one.
So fucking generous of her.
Patrick texted, too. He shouldn’t even have my number, the fucking jackass, but he got it anyway, probably from Mom.
He sent three messages, each of them short but threatening—a clear warning that I should stay away.
His last message had some awful implication in it that what happened years ago was my fault.
That him hitting me and my mom kicking him out were my fault.
I’m fucking lucky I didn’t just lose it right then. I screenshotted the messages and then deleted them and blocked his number. Maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to do, I don’t really know, but I didn’t feel like I had any other choice.
As it is, I’m not sure how I actually made it through the day.
Well, maybe that’s not entirely true. Maybe I do know how.
You’ve got this today!
God, Alex has no idea how much I needed that message earlier.
He has no idea that I had to steal a few minutes every couple of hours today at work, go hide in the back office, take my phone out and open up my message app and read it over and over.
He has no idea how much those few simple words helped remind me that even though I feel more alone than ever, he’s still here. For me.
If not for him . . .
I let out a long, shuddering breath, and my stomach’s in knots as I pull my phone out of my pocket, my eyes still screwed shut. The phone vibrates with a notification, sending an unwelcome chill down my spine.
Please. Please be Alex. Please.
The thought repeats in my head as I force my eyes open and glance down at the screen. A warmth floods through my chest and all the way down into my toes when I see his name pop up. I have two texts, and both are from him. Nothing else.
No angry, vitriolic messages from my mom and no unannounced, threatening texts from her asshole ex-husband.
Just two simple messages from my best friend.
With fingers that are much too stiff and shaky, I enter in my passcode to unlock my phone, and then I tap on his name. And for the first time probably all day, I smile.
Alex (5:11 p.m.): dinner! when will u be home?
His eyes smile back at me—gorgeous blue eyes that somehow dance in the sunlight. He sent a picture, a selfie. He’s standing outside his mom’s truck, that wide, carefree grin on his face as he holds up a take-out bag from the local steakhouse.
And he’s adorable. Fuck, I can barely stand it. His bright-blue hair is sticking up every which way, almost looking like he just woke up. The short strands are messy and out of place, and there’s one curl that’s dipping down over his forehead.
I can almost imagine running my fingers through his hair, straightening it out for him.
It would be soft. Soft and smooth. And since he’s a bit taller than me, I’d have to stretch up to reach.
He’d steady me with his hands on my waist, and his cheek would brush against mine, his breath hot on my neck.
That’s probably not how it would really happen. He’d probably swat me away and tell me to fix my own hair.
But I can pretend.
I purse my lips, ignoring the rush of heat low in my groin, and I send him a short text back.
Nico (5:13 p.m.): On my way
Alex (5:14 p.m.): rad! mom and i r setting up to eat outside. we’ll wait for u
It shouldn’t hit so hard, his last sentence. we’ll wait for u. It shouldn’t, but it does. It hits me right in the chest. That, coupled with the question in his earlier text—when will u be home?—and I’m shaking again.
Home.
They’re waiting for me at home. Him and his mom. It’s not my home; it’s his. But hell if I can’t pretend with this, too, right? I can pretend he’s inviting me home, welcoming me home. With him.
I’d better start driving before I’m too much of a mess.
Alex’s mom talks a lot. She’s always analyzing things, giving advice, making sure Alex has everything he needs to succeed.
And it’s not that she micromanages. Just that she’s, I dunno, there.
She wants to make sure he’s thought of all the options, that he’s got all the opportunity, that he understands the ins and outs of everything.
Maybe that’s why he’s a freaking genius valedictorian who got a full-ride to Stanford.
So I shouldn’t be surprised when she sits us both down for a “talk” after we’ve done the dishes. Alex returns my look with a shoulder shrug, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes that suggests he’s maybe a little uneasy. But he motions to the kitchen table, and we both sit.
His mom takes a seat across from us and gives me a gentle smile that should put me at ease.
But it doesn’t, and my chest is suddenly tight as I hear echoes of words from that morning.
What’s that little fucker doing here? I see a flash of dark, angry eyes.
A sneer. And my mom’s texts, telling me I’m not welcome at home anymore.
Fuck. What if Alex’s mom is about to tell me I’m not welcome here, either?
“I-I’m sorry, Ms. Hayes, I—” My hands wring together in my lap as I stop talking, unsure what I was going to say or what I was even apologizing for. My heart’s racing, and I close my eyes as my stomach churns.