Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Nico
I’m some weird ball of nervous energy when I pull up outside Alex’s house after work.
My fingers are buzzing, and I can’t seem to stop my jaw from clenching.
The phone conversation I had with Alex has been replaying in my head for the last few hours, and I’ve got myself pretty convinced that my awkward fuckup has probably just ruined the only good thing in my life right now—our friendship.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I turn off my car and pick up my phone from its spot on the passenger seat, flipping it screen up. But it’s the same as it has been since my lunch break was over. No new messages. Not from Alex or from my mom or from anyone else.
The screen is just blank.
And that also scares the hell out of me.
He always texts me in the afternoon. All week long, he’s been texting me random things—pictures or memes or just rows of emojis.
Every day this week, I’ve known what I’m coming “home” to.
What’s going to be on the table for dinner.
Whether his mom’s got chores for us to do.
Whether he wants to do something or has plans.
So his silence this afternoon seems much, much too loud.
With a short breath that barely fills my lungs, I stuff the phone into my pocket and stare up toward the house.
The empty hollowness in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day, which also reminds me that we’re supposed to get ice cream tonight, maybe after dinner.
And that reminds me how I’m really, really lucky to have a place to live.
Fuck it all if I’ve screwed that up by being honest with my best friend for once.
“I can’t wait to see you tonight.”
Fuck me. Why had I let that slip?
I close my eyes and force a longer breath. Then I climb out of my car and head inside.
His mom is in the kitchen, stirring the contents of a large pot over the stove, and she smiles and waves me over.
“Perfect timing! Alex is up in his room, and I need a taste tester. Here,” she says, and she grabs a clean spoon from the drawer next to her and dips it into the pot. “Broccoli cheddar soup. It’s a new recipe, and I’m not sure whether I added enough cheese.”
Even though I’ve been living here for almost a week now and I’ve known Alex’s mom for years, I’m still thrown off by how she just seems to have welcomed me right into the family.
She’s treating me with more kindness and respect than my own mom maybe ever has.
And for a few seconds, I can’t really get my feet to move as the weight of that realization settles on my shoulders.
Then she smiles at me again and holds out the spoon. “I think maybe it needs a little more cheddar. What do you think?”
“Um, yeah, I-I can help,” I stutter, and my feet unstick as I manage to make my way through the living room into the kitchen. I take a deep breath as I approach, pulling my hands from my pockets. “I’m not sure I’ve had broccoli cheddar soup before,” I admit.
“Oh, well, even better.” I stop next to her, and I’m just failing miserably at ignoring the warmth spreading through my chest at her kindness.
She hands me the spoon, then adds, “Let me know if you like it. It’s one of my favorite soups, but Alex isn’t too big a fan.
So I’ll have more reason to make it if you like it too. ”
It’s all too much again, her kindness and generosity, and my hand starts to shake. I quickly try to hide it by forcing the spoon up to my mouth.
I don’t like broccoli. I never have. And my stomach isn’t really in the mood for anything, despite how hungry I am. But the soup tastes so good—thick, creamy, and flavorful with the distinct tang of sharp cheddar—that I just nod. “It’s perfect just how it is. Alex is wrong to not like this.”
That earns me a bright smile, and his mom resumes stirring the soup and then switches off the heat.
“Maybe you can convince him to eat it, then,” she says with a chuckle.
“Dinner is in five minutes. I just need to heat the bread a bit. Can you tell Alex? I’m not sure what he’s doing upstairs. He’s been up there all afternoon.”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” I set the spoon in the sink as she starts to get dishes down from the cupboard.
Usually Alex would be down here to set the table for her, and the fact that he isn’t makes all the nervousness I was feeling earlier come right back as I turn and make my way up the stairs to Alex’s room.
The door’s shut, which isn’t really normal, either. Usually he leaves it cracked open a few inches.
I stop just outside, and the knots in my stomach twist as I lift my hand and knock gently. “Alex?”
There are some muffled noises—a drawer closing, maybe, and his bed squeaks. Then he calls out, “Uh, yeah, hang on, just—just one sec . . .”
A moment later, he’s unlocking the door, which makes even less sense, until I see him. Then . . . fuck.
Heat rushes straight to my groin as he peeks his head out around the edge of the door.
He’s flushed, his cheeks red and his hair messy and ruffled.
And his eyes are some weird combination of deep but unfocused.
He runs a hand through his hair, which doesn’t really straighten it, and he continues hiding partly behind his door as he forces a smile.
“H-hey, Nico. Shoot, sorry, I, um . . . I lost track of time. I was just . . .”
I know what the fuck he was doing. And I’m in trouble if he glances down. My fucking slacks won’t hide a thing. Stupid work clothes. Dammit.
I tilt my head in the general direction of the kitchen and mumble, “Your mom says dinner’s ready in five minutes.”
“Uh, yeah. Cool. Okay.” He runs his hand through his hair again as he blows out a breath. “’Kay, and uh, then we’ll get ice cream?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Fuck, this is awkward.
I shove my hands into my pockets and turn away, heading back toward the stairs so I can go get changed out of my work clothes, but I can’t get the image of his flushed cheeks out of my head.
As I reach the stairs, I glance back over my shoulder, and my stomach swoops.
He’s watching me, his eyes intense and his hand gripping the doorframe as he bites at his lower lip.
What . . . the fuck? Is he staring at my ass? No way.
I clear my throat, and his eyes dart up to meet mine. He forces another smile and then a laugh, but it’s so obviously fake, I can’t even figure out how to react.
“Uh, five minutes, you said?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He gives me another of those tight, forced smiles and holds my gaze for several much-too-long seconds. Then he mumbles something I can’t hear and quickly disappears back into his room, shutting the door behind him.
I’m even more confused than before.
Dinner is another half hour of awkward.
Thankfully, his mom carries the conversation most of the time, chatting with both of us about who’s arriving tomorrow and when.
She’s made up some loose schedule for the weekend as well, and she shares several lists with us—one of all the things she’s going to be cooking, then also a grocery list and another list detailing all the furniture that needs to be rearranged and how she wants the tables set up outside.
Alex barely looks at me the whole time.
I manage to eat a little, and my opinion that the soup is perfect still stands. But I find myself feeling nauseous the first time my eyes meet Alex’s because his cheeks immediately turn pink, and he tears his gaze away.
When dinner is over, he offers to do the dishes, and his mom, who seems to be just distracted enough that she doesn’t notice the weirdness between the two of us, thanks him and disappears upstairs.
And me . . . I just sit there for a few minutes, staring at my hands, wondering how the hell I should be acting right now.
I’m suddenly exhausted, and though we’d agreed to get ice cream, I can’t see this awkwardness going away enough for us to do something that “normal.” Maybe I’m wrong, but even now, he’s not talking to me. He’s just doing the dishes. Quickly and quietly and without looking over at me.
I glance up, letting myself watch him. His shoulders are tense, and he’s scrubbing the soup pot with a bit of extra muscle that it really shouldn’t need.
Guilt hits me then, because for whatever reason—maybe what I said and how I said it earlier on the phone, maybe something else, I don’t really know—my presence here is making him uncomfortable.
He shouldn’t be uncomfortable in his own house, even if I interrupted what I think I interrupted upstairs.
I shrink lower in my seat and look away, down the hall toward the bedroom I’ve been staying in.
“I’m s-sorry,” I say, my voice breaking on the second word.
“What?” The clinking of dishes stops, but I can’t get myself to look at him.
I drop my hands to my lap and rub my palms on my jeans, shaking my head. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t reply right away, but I feel him come back to the table, and then he pulls out the chair next to me and sits. “Why are you sorry?”
I shrug, and my chest feels tight. I keep rubbing my hands on my jeans, back and forth, back and forth. They’re not sweaty or anything, but I can’t seem to stop.
“Nico, hey, what’s going on?” When I don’t answer, his hand settles on top of mine, and I close my eyes as my movement finally stills.
“I should be the one saying sorry,” he continues.
“I’ve been, um . . . well . . .” He lets out a weak laugh and slowly pulls his hand back.
“I had a weird day today, and I’ve just been in my head a lot this afternoon.
I, um . . . I finally told Jenna that I just want to be friends . . .”
He trails off in some way that seems to suggest he’s got more to say, but he stops there, and when I look up at him, he’s just staring at the table, his jaw tight and one hand absently rubbing the back of his neck.
He swallows and glances sideways at me. Again, I get the sense he has more to say, but he stays quiet.
I blink and lower my eyes back to my hands. I want to ask more about Jenna, but it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. So instead, I just say, “I had a weird day too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Work?”
“N-no, kinda. Work was okay. But I . . .” I pause and clench my teeth. I’m so fucking scared to say something wrong and mess things up more that I can’t even get myself to say anything at all. He’s obviously weirded out by what I told him on the phone, or he wouldn’t be acting like this.
My hands ball up into fists, and I screw my eyes shut. I can’t fuck this up more. I can’t. I have to be okay. I have to stop making him uncomfortable. I can’t slip up like that again.
Without warning, his flushed cheeks pop back into my mind.
Flushed cheeks tinged pink, and with a thin sheen of sweat.
And . . . breathless. He was breathless, his lips slightly parted as he tried to hide how fast he was breathing.
Then his eyes, dark and intense, staring at me as I walked away.
The . . . damn, the arousal in them. Shit. Shit. Shit.
What the fuck does it even mean?
“My mom’s going to make me pay her for the car, or she’ll report it stolen,” I blurt out, because my jeans are suddenly too tight and I need to think of something—anything—else. “I have until June 6 to come up with five hundred dollars.”
“What?! What the . . . No. Nico, that’s . . .”
“Fucked up, right?” I push my chair back and pick up my bowl to move it to the sink, needing to put a little distance between us. But he follows me. Of course he follows me.
“How much do you . . . Five hundred dollars?”
I nod as I rinse out the bowl and put it in the dishwasher. “I get my first paycheck that day, but it won’t be enough.”
“Yeah, um . . . Shit.”
“Yeah.”
He’s standing close, right next to me, leaning back against the counter.
And I wish he’d just hold me. I wish he’d wrap an arm around my waist and pull me up against him and whisper that everything’s going to be okay.
Tell me I haven’t fucked up and that he’ll be here and that I’ve got a home here.
I wish. But even though he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, he doesn’t move, and whatever this awkward shit is between us just seems to grow.
I dry my hands on a dish towel and then stuff them into my pockets. “I don’t know what to do,” I mumble. Then, against my better judgment, I pull out my phone, open it to my mom’s text from earlier in the day, and hand it to him.
His fingers brush mine, sending a rush of heat through me, but he seems to pull away quickly. Or maybe that’s me imagining it. In any case, I shove my hands back into my pockets and stare down at the floor as he silently reads the texts from my mom.
I only know he’s done when he blows out a long breath, sets my phone on the counter, and then hesitates for a second before stepping closer.
Please.
“Nico, I . . . God, that’s so messed up,” he says, his voice low and rough.
Please.
I close my eyes as my chest tightens.
Please help me.
He’s going to. I can feel it. He’s moving closer, and he’ll hug me and make everything that much better, despite how fucked up it all is and despite how much I fucked up.
Just when I’m sure he’s about to touch me, about to hold me and make me feel protected and safe, he scuffs his foot into the floor and backs away several steps. “I, um, have some money from graduation and helping out my mom,” he says. “Would that help you? How much do you need?”
I can’t answer because I can’t really breathe. I just shake my head. Then I turn and grab my phone, stuff it back into my pocket, and push away from the counter, too confused and too tired to deal with life anymore today.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell him, and I start walking toward my bedroom, shrinking in on myself more with every step.
There’s part of me that’s still expecting him to follow—to come after me and stop me and remind me that we’re supposed to go get ice cream. Harley’s. Because mint chip.
But there’s another part of me that knows that’s not going to happen.
I make it all the way to the bedroom, and it’s not until I shut the door behind me and collapse onto the bed that the little bit of hope I had disappears.