Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Nico
I screw my eyes shut as I hold the phone up to my ear, listening to it ring once, twice, three times. Just when I think she’s not going to answer, the next ring cuts short, and her voice attacks me through the phone’s speaker.
“I hope you’re calling to tell me you have my money,” she spats, and my stomach drops.
I push my head back against the headrest and open my eyes, staring out the front windshield of my car across the now-empty parking lot of the library.
“Not until next Friday, like I told you.”
“Well, what do you want, then? You’re not getting another extension. I need the money.”
“And you think I fucking don’t?!” I can’t hold it back.
I meant to. I tried. I fully intended to stay levelheaded and calm.
But it’s impossible. “I’m hanging on by a thread here, Mom.
I have forty dollars to my name, and I’m wearing the same fucking set of clothes to work every day because I can’t afford anything else right now.
And next Friday, I’ll get my first paycheck, and it probably won’t even be enough, and you’re expecting me to hand it all over like I don’t need the money to live. What the fuck, Mom?”
She doesn’t respond, which is probably a good thing. I take a breath to try to steady myself, and then I continue. “I was just calling because I’d really like to keep my cell number if possible. But that requires you to call T-Mobile and authorize it since you’re the current—”
“No.”
My hand balls up into a fist, and I press it down into my thigh hard. “But—”
“You asked, I answered. My answer is no.”
“Wh-why?” I stutter, and my jaw clenches tight.
I should probably just hang up now. It’s not worth it, is it?
To try to convince her of this? I should just hang up and make sure I’ve copied all of my contacts and everything before my line is canceled and I’ve lost my number.
But I can’t understand her hostility, and it’s tearing me up.
“Why are you being like this, Mom? I-I don’t understand. ”
She sighs audibly—a sharp, frustrated sound, and then she grumbles, “I’m busy. I don’t have time for this. Figure the phone stuff out for yourself. And get me my money by next Friday.”
And then the line goes silent.
I pull the phone away from my ear and glare at it, gripping the plastic case so tight my fingers go white.
The anger sizzling in my chest feels hot and uncontrolled, and I don’t like that.
I force myself to move, to set the phone down gently on the passenger seat, fasten my seat belt, and start the car.
Then I force myself to make the drive back to Alex’s house, following every speed limit sign and stopping completely at each stop sign.
The anger doesn’t really fade, though maybe part of it does, because by the time I turn onto his street and see multiple cars parked outside along the curb—his cousins, I’m sure—I’m overcome by a new sort of numbness. It spreads through my chest and down into my toes. And it’s cold.
I shiver, despite the heat of the late May afternoon, and I park my car behind an expensive-looking newer Jeep with a vanity plate that reads OMYDOG. I should get out and go inside, but instead, I just sit there and let my eyes wander up to Alex’s window on the second story.
He texted me earlier, around lunch time, when I was on the phone with T-Mobile, trying to get things sorted out for my cell phone.
He’d been sending texts all morning long.
Emojis and memes and pictures of all the food his mom was cooking.
Then, at just about 12:30 p.m., he sent a text that said I can’t wait to see you tonight.
And I’m fucking confused as hell.
Last night after dinner was awful enough. I don’t think I slept much. Periodically getting texts from him all night long hadn’t helped, especially the one he sent at four in the morning or whatever god-awful time that was.
I can’t wait to see you in the morning.
Why was he up at four in the morning? And . . . why was he thinking about me?
Now this text, too.
It feels like he’s trying to tell me something—because why else would he use that exact wording?—but that can’t be true. Can it?
I’m too tired, though. I’m too tired to think about it more or worry about it or try to make sense of it.
And now I’ve got the shit from my mom swirling around in my head. Plus, if I’m going to not be an awful guest, I’m going to have to sit and eat dinner with a table full of people I don’t know and smile and talk and pretend that everything is okay. Which it’s not.
I’m usually good at pretending. But I’m also just fucking exhausted.
This might be a really, really horrible night.
With a deep breath, I try to push everything down, somewhere that no one, not even Alex, will see. Then I stuff my phone and keys in my pocket, climb out of the car, and head inside.
As soon as I open the door, all my resolve drains away.
They’re loud. Whoever they are. There’s laughing and chatter and too many unknown voices.
My racing heart backfires, and it’s annoying and painful, the pounding in my chest. I almost can’t move for a moment, and I just stand there in the doorway as the voices continue.
Then I hear my name. It’s Alex’s mom, but I can’t look up. Why can’t I look up?
“Oh, good, Nico, you’re home. Come on over here and say hello! These are my cousins, Jerry and—”
Alex’s voice cuts in, a clear reprimand in his tone. “Mom, not now.”
I swallow hard and force myself to lift my eyes. Alex is on his way over to me, his eyes full of concern. He mouths a quick “sorry” and then stops right in front of me, blocking my view of everyone else, and offers me a small smile.
“Sorry, my mom’s just excited to have everyone here. Are you . . .” His smile falters as he studies me, and I lower my eyes back to the floor. I feel him turn away, and then he says, “Mom, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Nico and I are heading upstairs for a bit. Okay?”
There’s no verbal response, but his hand settles low on my back, warm and solid, and he guides me forward, to the stairs. A moment later, we’re in his room, and he shuts the door behind us.
“Sorry about that. My mom, uh, well, she’s had a few glasses of wine this afternoon. She gets kinda forgetful when she’s tipsy.”
“Yeah, um . . . it’s okay.”
He mumbles something that’s a little too quiet for me to hear, but then his hand is there again, on my lower back.
“You look tired. Here, sit,” he says softly, and he presses his hand into me, helping me move toward the bed.
“Do you, um, want to talk? What . . . what happened? Did something happen?”
My stomach churns as I lower myself to sit on the edge of the bed. He sits next to me, and I close my eyes, wishing, just like I had last night. Wishing he’d touch me again, hold me, comfort me.
And this time, he doesn’t back away. He scoots closer until his shoulder is touching mine, and then his hand settles carefully on my upper back.
“Nico?”
He rubs gently along my back, the motion slow and light, and I let out a shuddering breath and lean into him as a wave of relief saps the last of my energy.
“I’m just so tired.” My head drops onto his shoulder, and I close my eyes. His hand continues to stroke along my back and up around my shoulders until he’s holding me. And it feels so good, just like I knew it would. I sigh and relax into him. “This is good, though.”
There’s a quiet chuckle. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” My voice is muffled as I bury my head in his shoulder, and for half a second, he seems to tense a little. But then his arm tightens around me, and he chuckles again.
“Good. I’m glad,” he says. I’m probably imagining how soft and low his voice has gotten. And how he gently lays his head on top of mine. And his tenderness as his hand caresses up and down my arm.
But if I’m not imagining it, this has to be the best way to spend time after work.
I sigh into him and pull my feet up onto the bed as I kick off my shoes.
And he keeps holding me as I start talking quietly.
I tell him how exhausting work was and how awful my mom was on the phone.
I tell him how I’m worried I might lose my phone number and how everything feels so hopeless sometimes, like I don’t even know which way is up or how to move forward from here.
He just listens and keeps holding me, and when I’m done, he takes a long breath.
His voice is filled with that same softness I might have been imagining earlier as he promises me I’m not alone and that he’s here for me.
Then he quietly suggests that if I’m not feeling like I can or want to socialize tonight, he can bring some dinner up.
But I’m too tired to eat, even. I feel him frown when I tell him that, and I quickly walk it back. Maybe I can manage, I say. And when he asks if I’m sure, I nod and say “yeah.”
I can try, anyway. I can try and pretend for a little bit longer. For him.
Dinner is fucking horrible. I mean, not the food, although I’m really not hungry enough to enjoy it, and I only eat most of what’s on my plate because I know Alex is watching.
But the conversation is hard to be around.
Alex’s cousins seem nice enough, but they’re all drinking, and it’s kinda noisy and high-energy. It’s not bad, really.
It’s just me.
I can’t handle things, like loud, lively conversation with people I don’t know. Especially tonight. I’m on edge the whole time. Pretending hard. Pretending not to flinch every time someone laughs too loudly. Pretending to be engaged. Pretending not to be sick to my stomach.
It’s fucking awful.
As soon as I finish, I thank Alex’s mom and excuse myself. Then I retreat upstairs to shower and get ready for bed, even more exhausted now than I was earlier.
It’s nearly midnight by the time Alex comes upstairs and the house starts to quiet down. I’m lying on the bed, as I have been for the last few hours, just scrolling on my phone.