Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alex
The view from the top of the stairs down frightens me tonight. The lights are on this time, and I can see Nico sitting on the couch in the living room, even from my vantage point. But something about it rattles me.
He’s got his back to me, his shoulders hunched, and he’s tense—I can tell that even from here. Still, that shouldn’t be enough to have my heart racing unevenly, my stomach in knots.
I grip my laptop in my hand, pressing it against my side, and I let my other hand slide along the railing as I start down the stairs one at a time. The third step from the top creaks, even though I’m trying to walk silently, and my eyes dart back to Nico as he twists around toward me.
He’s scared too. I can see it in the tightness in his jaw and the stiffness of his movement.
I force a smile and try to loosen myself up a bit, releasing my hold on the railing so I can jog down the rest of the steps.
“Ready to do this?” I say, as upbeat and positive as I can.
But his gaze darkens, and he frowns. “No.” He turns so he’s facing forward, away from me, and my fake smile fades.
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing.
He pulls his feet up from the floor to sit cross-legged as I come around the side of the couch to join him, and he seems to scoot away a few inches to give me more room, which doesn’t help the knots in my stomach much.
I settle into my spot with a sigh and set the laptop on my lap, but I don’t open it.
He’s fidgeting next to me, his hands tucked under his arms and his body rocking ever so slightly forward and back. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it.
When I glance sideways at him, he’s staring down at the coffee table in front of him, his teeth clenched and his eyes unfocused.
We’re both nervous, and I wish I could just ease that anxiety of his and tell him it’ll all work out.
I reach over and set my hand on his knee, and he stops his rocking and turns his head to look at me. His eyes are almost pleading, and it makes my heart ache.
I force that small smile back on my face. “We can make this happen. Okay?”
“You’re not exactly screaming confidence here, Alex.” He drags his gaze away and closes his eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Don’t apologize. Please.”
“Right, um . . .” With a sharp exhale, I open up my computer and click a few buttons.
The numbers I’d worked so hard on earlier pop up on the screen, and I scan them quickly.
It’s a bit of a mess. Not the spreadsheet, I mean; the spreadsheet is clearly organized and easy to follow, I think.
But the numbers. They’re tight, and everything hinges on him finding a good enough job and a place to live that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.
I take a deep breath and then shove the computer over to him. “Here.”
I should probably explain. Go through line by line. Tell him how I came to the numbers I did. But I’m not sure whether he’ll appreciate knowing how much my mom was involved or my thought process to get the numbers to “work.”
He untucks his hands and adjusts the laptop, and I watch nervously as his eyes scan down the lines. His jaw is still tight, and he seems to be trying to hide the fact that he’s shaking as he scrolls down the page. He blinks in confusion but doesn’t say anything, and he keeps scrolling.
“What’s . . . what’s minimum wage there? It’s not that much, is it . . . ?” The hopelessness in his tone pierces right through my heart, and I drop my eyes back to my lap as I shake my head.
“No, it, um, just went up to eighteen twenty an hour at the beginning of the year in Palo Alto. But twenty-five isn’t that much higher. And if you can find a job that pays that much, and we get lucky with finding a place for you to rent, then—”
“A place to rent that’s less than two thousand a month, including all utilities,” he cuts in. “And, that’s assuming they’ll even rent to me, since I don’t have an employment history. And that’s assuming I can put down a deposit. And—”
“I can help with the deposit.”
He’s scowling at me when I look up at him, and I hesitate, feeling myself almost wanting to shrink away. It’s an odd feeling for me, and I don’t like it much. But I hold his gaze and watch as his scowl turns into pain and hurt and sadness.
“Even if—even if you did . . .” He shakes his head and looks back at the computer. “Twenty-five an hour? What if I can’t get a job? What if I can’t keep a job? And the—” He sucks in a breath and motions to the computer, though he doesn’t say anything more.
His desperation is so clear and palpable, and I just want to take it all away.
But this is the reality of the challenge we’re facing if we want what we want—or at least, it’s certainly what I want.
With a deep breath, I scoot over closer, and I reach over and scroll back up to the top of the spreadsheet.
The first few lines are in bold, and I point to the top one.
“Barring any crazy shit, you’ll have about this much saved by the end of the summer, yeah?” I say, doing my best to keep the uncertainty out of my voice.
“Um, I don’t . . .” He closes his eyes for a minute, and his mouth moves silently, as though he’s doing some mental math. “I think so?” he says after a few more seconds. “Each of my paychecks will be about four hundred fifty bucks, maybe. I get paid weekly. So, um, does that math work?”
“Yeah, for three months. That’s a pretty decent chunk, yeah?
I mean, you’ll have some expenses here and there over the summer, but we can keep those down as much as possible, with you living here and everything.
So you’ll have enough for a deposit and at least a month or more of expenses, and I’ve got—”
“Alex.” He shakes his head again, and he opens his mouth to argue, but I reach over and close the laptop, cutting him off.
“I’ve got about that much money saved too.”
“That’s your money.”
I move the laptop to the coffee table and then turn so I’m facing him on the couch. “Nico,” I start, my voice breaking on the single word. When he turns his head to look at me, his eyes are dark, sunken almost, and an urgency bubbles up in my chest.
I want to see him smile.
I need to see him smile.
I hate this hurt and pain. The stress and uncertainty. The anxiety.
Softly, I lift my hand to his cheek, holding his gaze as my fingers brush along his jaw. “Nico,” I say gently, “I care about you.”
“I care about you too,” he counters. “But that doesn’t mean you should waste your savings on me. You’ll need that money. If not right away, then you’ll need it eventually. I can’t take it.”
For a moment, all I hear is his first few words.
My brain stutters to a halt on his “I care about you too,” and I just stare at him, the tension in my shoulders fading into hope.
My hand is still on his cheek, and I slowly draw him toward me, relieved when he comes willingly.
Our lips meet, and a burst of warmth and love and joy rushes through me.
It’s a short kiss, because he pulls back after just a second or so, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face now, and I let my thumb brush along his lips as I revel in it. It’s small but beautiful. I love it.
He rolls his eyes at me and sighs. “Did you hear any of my words after I said I care about you too?” he teases.
I laugh, which feels pretty good, and then I nod and tug him back in for another brief kiss before straightening up again. “Actually, I did.”
“So . . . ?”
I let my hand drop back down to my lap, but I hold his gaze. “So, didn’t you hear what I said too? I care about you. A lot. And I want to help you. We can do this together. You don’t have to do it alone, Nico. That’s what I want you to hear.”
He doesn’t respond this time, but his whole body tenses, and he shrinks in on himself, his arms gripping his stomach like it hurts, as he shakes his head.
I want to gather him up in my arms and hold him. And I want to kiss him and cuddle with him. Whisper all the wonderful things he is to me as I hug him close. I want him to really know what he means to me. And I want him to believe that he’s worthy of that love.
Is that the problem? He doesn’t think he’s worth it?
Or is it something else? Like maybe he doesn’t believe how much I care?
My heart breaks at the thought as I watch him curl in on himself more and screw his eyes shut.
It would make sense. After all, the one person in the whole world who was supposed to love him unconditionally, no matter what, with all her heart—his mom—she abandoned him.
Worse than that, actually. She betrayed him, kicked him out, sided with his abuser. Lied to him and manipulated him.
She hurt him so deeply, it’s no wonder he’s having a hard time trusting that this is real.
“Why, um, why don’t you . . . want me to help you?” I ask, though I’m not sure what type of answer I expect.
And he doesn’t answer right away anyway.
His arms tighten around his stomach again, and he shakes his head.
“I-I don’t know,” he says, his voice small and uncertain.
But then he inhales a slow breath and looks up at me, a battle raging in his eyes.
I see it. I see him. He’s fighting for it.
For us. Even just being here is hard for him.
Not running away, retreating. Not letting his anxiety take over.
“I . . . do want what you do,” he mumbles, every quiet word a struggle.
“But I . . . don’t feel comfortable knowing I might have to rely on your money. ”
I nod slowly, and I scoot closer. “It would just be a safety net,” I say softly, reaching out to touch his back. His body shudders as I rub my hand up and down lightly. “Just in case, while you work out your budget and stuff. And we have three months to find you a job. Three months is a long time.”
“I’m not qualified for—”
“You are, though. You’re smart and resourceful and organized. And you’re a hard worker, too, and a fast learner. And you’re motivated.”