Chapter Twenty-Five
Nico
Alex holds me in the hallway for several minutes, and then he gently turns me around and guides me back to his room. I’m feeling numb. Maybe. And in a way, that’s much better than whatever the fuck just happened out there.
He talks quietly to me, soft words that soothe the uncertainty still buzzing around in my head.
He doesn’t say he’s sorry again, but I can hear the apology and regret in his voice anyway, like a heavy guilt he’s carrying.
Like it’s his fault I stopped at the top of the stairs, bombarded by the sudden thought of how throwing myself down them would be a good way to just be . . . done.
Fuck, I’m more broken than I thought I was.
Once I’m safely back in bed, tucked under the covers, Alex disappears, returning less than a minute later with a glass of water. He helps me drink, then sets the glass down on the nightstand, crawls into bed, and carefully gathers me back up in his arms.
“I wasn’t going to,” I repeat for him, and for me.
I really wasn’t. It really was just a fleeting thought. Brought on by my anxiety or whatever.
With a frown, I close my eyes and rest my head against his chest, my hand flat on his stomach. His hand comes up to cover mine, and I feel him breathe a kiss into my hair. There’s a tiny flicker of warmth that comes with it, but it’s just a fraction of what I felt earlier.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly, though I can hear the pain and guilt in his voice. And I hate that.
“It’s not your fault.” I shake my head. “It’s me. It’s always me. You were just trying to talk. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I’m sorry. A-and I . . .” I’m so tired, and my words fizzle out as I sigh and bury my head in his chest. “I just want to sleep now.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he agrees, and his arm moves to wrap around me, holding me to him. “This is okay, right? I can hold you?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Good, good.” He squeezes me gently and then whispers, “You’re safe here, Nico. You’re safe with me. Always.”
I feel like an ass, because even though I absolutely needed to hear those words, I don’t respond.
Just like how I didn’t respond to him earlier when he was pouring his heart out to me.
All of those words he said—everything about him not wanting to leave me behind, not wanting to go to California without me—they all mean so much, and I can still hear his sincerity, his compassion, his vulnerability.
Yet, in the moment, I just froze up, and every bit of bliss I felt from our playful flirting seeped away with the reminder that he’s leaving soon.
And now . . . Well, now, I’m just too confused to talk. Too confused and numb and tired.
I close my eyes and try to relax against him, letting his embrace surround me with the most gentle warmth.
But my mind won’t stop running itself in circles, racing between here and California. Incomplete thoughts batter me, beating me with reminders of how little I have.
No home.
No real job.
No money.
No family.
And when he’s gone, I’ll also have no friends.
I’m worthless. Broken. A mess.
And pretty soon, I’ll be depressingly alone.
No wonder the stairs seemed like an option for those few seconds there.
I tense up at the thought, a sick nausea making my stomach turn, and he’s there, his hand rubbing my back and his warm breath in my hair.
“Shh. Rest now. I’m here. It’s okay,” he murmurs, but those words just make me feel even less steady.
Because it’s not okay. I’m not okay. And I wish I knew how to fix myself.
I don’t say anything, but I shake my head and push back a little to look up at him.
His gaze is filled with concern, and his eyes flit down to my lips briefly before he dips down and kisses me.
It’s tender and sweet and warm, with a gentleness that makes me feel safe.
I melt into it, glad that ugly numbness is gone so I can feel him again.
He’s tentative, careful, but at the same time, there’s nothing unsure about it.
And when he breaks the kiss a moment later, chasing it with a light press of his lips against my cheek, his hand shifts to my lower back, and he tugs me closer.
He’s right to hold me like this, like he’s scared I’m going to take off.
I do feel myself wanting to pull away. The strong buzz of anxiety tingles beneath my skin, along with a deep stab of irritability that I know will turn into anger all too soon.
And then there’s the exhaustion, too. My body’s so tired and weak, I’m not even sure how I’m still awake.
It’s late, and somehow, I’m going to have to get up in the morning and go to work.
Because I can’t miss a day or be late. I can’t risk screwing this up.
But I can’t risk screwing up what he and I have together, either. He’s so important to me, just like he said I am to him. And if I don’t tell him that . . .
I quickly turn over to face away from him. I can’t be looking at him while I say whatever the hell is going to come out of my mouth right now. He lets me shift, but his arm stays firmly around my midsection, and his lips brush against the back of my neck.
I screw my eyes shut, my stomach churning.
“I’m fucking messed up, Alex,” I blurt out, the words escaping on a ragged breath.
“No. No, you’re not, you’re—”
“I am. I’ve been messed up since we were kids. You know that. And what happened just now? It scared the hell out of me. My brain was screaming at me to—”
Fuck, I don’t want to talk about the stairs. Not right now.
I start over. “I do want this—us—to be something. I want it more than anything. But I’m fucking broken as shit.
I can’t even have a normal conversation about this with you right now.
I lose my shit, get anxious and angry. How the fuck can we have a normal relationship when I can’t communicate?
And how can I go to California with you?
How would that possibly work? I’d need a job—one that will work around my inability to just fucking be when there are other people around—and a place to live that doesn’t cost me my entire salary every month. I can’t see that happening.”
I don’t feel any better having said all of that, though I’ve managed to not start shaking again.
But Alex must have heard something totally different from what I actually said, because there’s a quiet huff of a laugh, and I feel him smiling against my skin.
Then he’s kissing my neck, and he props himself up on one elbow so he’s leaning over me, his hand roaming up my chest and back down as his lips work their way along my jawline toward my mouth.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” I grumble.
His body presses up against mine, and his free hand comes up to tilt my chin toward him. Then he’s kissing me again. Another of those tender, slow, sweet kisses.
“You said, and I quote”—he pulls back enough to study my eyes, a soft smile on his face—“‘I do want this—us—to be something. I want it more than anything.’” He dips back down to kiss me. “That’s what I heard.”
Fucking Alex. Fucking optimistic, confident Alex.
I fucking love him.
“I said more than that.”
“Eh, details.”
“Important details.”
He shrugs, but he’s still smiling that soft, kind smile, his eyes caring and bright. I frown at him, about to argue again, even though I know he’s just messing with me, but he stops me by shaking his head.
Then he lowers his mouth to mine for another gentle kiss.
I wake up the next morning well before my alarm is supposed to go off, and even though I try to go back to sleep, I can’t.
Alex lies right behind me, holding me. His embrace is just as warm and comforting as it has been the last few days.
Even in his sleep, he makes me feel safe.
At some point overnight, his hand slipped under my shirt and his top leg wedged between mine, and it’s so intimate and familiar now that it’s helped to chase away most of my anxiety for most of the night.
Because of that, I’ve been able to think a little without the constant barrage of negative thoughts telling me the future Alex seems to want is impossible.
I’ve even been able to hear his words with more clarity and less emotion blowing everything out of proportion.
And I wonder if maybe, just maybe, we really can figure something out.
I’d need a job—one that I could handle, even on a bad day. That’s the biggest problem I see.
But that’s going to be a problem no matter where I am. Here or California or anywhere else. My current job is temporary, and when the summer is up, I’ll have nothing.
I blink my eyes open and just stare across the room at Alex’s neat desk, his laptop sitting there open but with a blank screen. On the wall behind the desk is a corkboard with a bunch of random pinups. His acceptance letter to Stanford is front and center.
I remember the day he told me about it and the simultaneous joy and sadness that overwhelmed me because I was so fucking proud of him and yet devastated at the same time.
I already knew I wasn’t going to college. I’d known for years.
I did try.
Everyone probably thinks I didn’t, but they’re wrong.
I did try. I thought if I could do decently in school, maybe I’d get loans or a scholarship or something need-based.
And Alex helped me as much as he could when I struggled, especially in math and science.
But even with how hard I studied and studied, I can’t take tests for shit, and by the time sophomore year was done, the school counselor basically told me it would be a waste to even apply. No colleges would take me.
I worked my ass off to graduate anyway, though I’m not sure how much that matters now. I’m not really employable. I have few relevant skills and very little experience, and I don’t know how I could possibly change that in just three months.
My stomach knots up, and I take a long, slow, deep breath, trying to steady myself. Alex believes in me. He’s told me as much. Believing in myself, though . . . I guess I’m just not there yet.
Behind me, Alex shifts slightly.