Chapter Twelve
Alex
The flimsy cardboard box sitting in the passenger seat of my mom’s truck is pitifully empty.
I glanced in it when I picked it up a few minutes ago, and another quick look after I park back in the driveway at home shows that, yeah, there isn’t much there.
Some clothes, a few books, and a phone charger or something. That’s it.
I wonder what his mom just threw out or didn’t bother packing for him.
I shut off the truck’s engine, but I don’t get out right away. Instead, my eyes drift up to the second-story window. Soft light peeks out from behind the shutters, and I wonder if Nico’s asleep yet.
Part of me hopes he is, because he looked so exhausted earlier. But then the selfish part of me hopes he’s just lying in bed, waiting for me to get back so we can, I dunno, talk or something.
The way he hugged me after dinner . . . God, I can still feel it—his sadness and desperation, his pain, his need. He clung to me for several minutes, needing me to just hold him. Needing me to be there for him. And I did. Gladly.
But I feel like we should talk. I think there’s more he hasn’t told me, and there are definitely things I need to tell him, too.
I need to be sure he really believes everything my mom said earlier, about how he’s welcome here, no strings attached.
And then there’s the other stuff. We need to talk about California again. Especially now.
It’s almost too heavy for me to even think about, the fact that he just got kicked out of his home.
His mom kicked him out of his home. Right out on the street.
If he hadn’t come here . . . if my mom hadn’t been so welcoming and open .
. . what the hell would he have done? Would he be sleeping in his car right now?
My chest hurts, and I close my eyes for the briefest of moments. Then I take a deep breath, knowing the best thing I can do is to be there for him, and I open the door, grab the box from the passenger seat, and lock the truck before jogging along the walkway and up the porch steps.
It’s still early—maybe only about seven thirty—and I can hear my mom humming to herself from the garage as I step inside the house.
The rest of the house is quiet and dark.
I slip my shoes off by the front door, poke my head into the garage briefly to tell my mom I’m back, and then head upstairs, tiptoeing quietly when I get to the hallway just in case Nico is already asleep.
The door’s closed, and for the first time since Nico started staying here Friday night, I hesitate before entering.
It’s technically my room, yeah, but what if he needs or wants privacy?
After a day like today, I’m not sure whether he’ll want me to be close by or whether he might want to spend some time alone.
I glance back down the stairs. There’s an extra bedroom now. The bed even has fresh sheets and pillows so it’s ready for my cousins, who are coming in on Friday night and staying the weekend. I could let Nico have my room if he wants, and I could sleep in the extra room. Or vice versa.
Another thing we should talk about.
Not that I mind sleeping on the floor. I really actually don’t. But every night now, I’ve had to argue with him about it.
Quietly, I shift the box under one arm and knock on the door.
There’s no response, so I slowly turn the knob and push the door open.
The light’s on overhead, the ceiling fan humming as it does on the lowest setting, and Nico’s curled up in the bed, his back to me and the blanket pulled up all the way to his shoulders.
I watch him for a few seconds, seeing the blanket shift slightly with each long, relaxed breath he takes. Even though he’s facing away, I can see that the tension is gone from his shoulders, and I hope that means he’s getting the rest he needs.
When I’m sure he’s actually sleeping, I step inside the room, careful not to make any noise, and I set the box down by my desk, then go back to shut the door behind me.
I’m not tired—well, I mean, not really anyway—and so I sit in my chair at my desk and, as quietly as I can, open up my laptop. While it’s turning on, I take my cell phone out of my pocket, not surprised to see a message from Jenna.
Jenna (7:31 p.m.): Soooooooo tomorrow? Bowling and lunch with Leela and Shane. I’ll drive. Pick u up at 10???
I frown as I stare at the screen for a minute.
Jenna’s . . . nice. She’s sweet and pretty and smart, and although I know she wants a relationship—she’s made that abundantly clear, especially after she had a few drinks on Thursday night at the pre-graduation party at Leela’s parents’ house—she’s also been understanding when I’ve been wishy-washy about it.
It’s been bothering me for a while now, though, because I hate the feeling that I’m leading her on.
She’s a good person, and even though she’s only been in town for a few months now, I appreciate her friendship.
I type out a short text in response.
Alex (7:39 p.m.): srry i cant, i have to help my mom tomorrow. raincheck for thurs?
Jenna (7:39 p.m.): Okay :)
Jenna (7:40 p.m.): Might just be u and me on Thursday, I think Leela has a thing
I’m glad she’s not here to see my grimace, because if I agree to go knowing it will just be me and her, alone . . .
Ah, hell, I have no idea what I’m doing. Would that be suggesting to her that yes, I’m ready for and want more than to just hang out as friends?
I almost jump up and head downstairs to ask my mom, but I hesitate, stare at the phone for another few seconds, and then make a decision.
Alex (7:42 p.m.): sounds good, looking forward to it
Thursday, it is. Thursday, I’ll tell her I like her as a friend. Nothing more. And I hope she’ll be okay with that because I really do like having her as a friend.
She sends me back a smiley face emoji, which is better than a row of hearts or something, and I set my phone down and turn to my computer to take care of the other important thing I need to—emailing Dr. Ellis back.
I don’t know why I’m nervous about it. Maybe it’s just that this is another thing that’s making California feel more real.
I’m really moving to Palo Alto in just a few months.
I’m really going to be living less than an hour from the beach and studying at one of the top universities in the world.
And, if all goes well and I can make myself sound as smart as I’ve been told I am, I’m really going to be doing research with someone like Dr. John Ellis—acclaimed Nobel laureate, professor of particle physics and astrophysics, and Director of the W.W.
Hansen Experimental Physics Laboratory at Stanford University.
I can’t even believe he’s given me the time he has, responding to each of my emails with what sounds like enthusiasm and encouragement. It seems unreal, and every time I email him, I feel even more unworthy.
Trying to be as quiet as I can so I don’t wake Nico, I open up my email and reread his message from earlier today.
Alex -
Hmm, interesting. I love that you integrated the theory on how dark matter affects space-time with the concepts of gravity and the formation of black holes. This is actually an evolving field, and while it’s not the focus of my current research, I’m quite interested in chatting more about it.
Tell me, how would you expect dark matter to behave as it approaches the event horizon of a supermassive black hole, given this theory of yours?
We should chat more about this in person when you’re on campus. Were you planning to visit any earlier in the summer, or should I put a meeting on my calendar for mid-September?
- John
My brain immediately switches gears, and I take his question about dark matter and black holes and run with it.
I do have the awareness to type quietly, and more than once, I glance back behind me to make sure I haven’t woken up Nico.
But it feels good to let myself get lost for a bit in the theoretical—concepts that have me straining to really perceive them, even as I try to formulate a coherent response to Dr. Ellis’s question.
I take my time, too, since I want to at least try to sound smart, and by the time I’ve finished what I hope is a thorough explanation of what I think dark matter might do as it nears the edges of a supermassive black hole, I’ve spent nearly three hours, read four new research articles published in top-ranked astrophysics journals, and rewritten and rethought my response multiple times.
I sit back, looking at the email one final time and grinning. I love this stuff, and I hope that even if I sound like an uneducated idiot to Dr. Ellis, he can hear the enthusiasm I have for it.
There don’t appear to be any stupid typos in the email, and everything seems clear to me on my final read through, so I finish the email with a note that no, I do not have any plans to visit sooner than mid-September but that I’m really looking forward to talking in person then.
My stomach does a little anxious swoop when I hit the send button, but I’m smiling, and there’s a part of my brain that’s still racing with excitement for all the ideas I’d written down.
I start to lean back in my chair when there’s a low laugh behind me, and I startle and nearly fall backward, barely managing to catch myself by grabbing onto my desk.
Nico laughs again, though it sounds weak. “Did you write a whole novel or something?”
His voice is slow and deep with sleep, and when I turn around to face him, he’s sitting up in the bed, his eyes half open and his hair falling in messy black curls over his forehead.
He’s got one of my T-shirts on, and it’s a size too big on his small frame, but it looks perfect.
He looks perfect. Right there in my bed, wearing my shirt, just as he is.
I don’t realize I’m staring until he quirks an eyebrow at me, and then I cough and tear my eyes away. “No, uh, no. Just . . . writing back to Dr. Ellis—that professor at Stanford.”
“Oh.”
I reach up and rub the back of my neck. “I might have gotten a little carried away, but I’ve got this theory on dark matter and black holes and gravity, and, well, he said he wanted to hear about it, so, uh . . . yeah.”
My eyes meet Nico’s again, and I’m not surprised to see him smirking at me. He blinks and then rubs his eyes and collapses back onto the bed, curling up and tugging the blanket around his shoulders.
I turn back to my computer, close the lid, and then stand up and face him, expecting to see him already asleep again. But he’s not. He’s staring at the box next to my desk, his jaw clenched.
“That’s the stuff from my mom?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Yeah. There’s clothes and some books. Not . . . too much.”
I instantly regret saying that, though it’s the truth, and I watch, my heart aching for him, as he pushes himself back up, climbs out of the bed, and shuffles across the room.
Then, he lowers himself to the ground to sit cross-legged next to the box.
I want to warn him, although I’m not sure what I want to warn him of, but I end up staying quiet as he reaches out and lifts the flaps open.
He blinks and looks down into the box, and his expression flickers with pain and then hardens.
I’m really not thinking too clearly now, but whatever.
I push my chair back and quickly join him on the floor, slipping my arm around his shoulders.
He’s stiff, his body rigid with tension, and he doesn’t immediately relax into me or seem to take comfort in my closeness like he had earlier in the day.
Maybe that’s because he’s probably thinking the same thing I am.
Everything in this box.
That’s it.
That’s all he has.
I close my eyes and squeeze his shoulders gently, and I feel him shudder as I whisper, “It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay, I promise. We’ll figure everything out.”
But he doesn’t react or relax, and as I lean my head against his, feeling his whole body trembling, I realize I’m not really sure whether he even heard me.