Chapter Thirty-Two
Alex
“So, here’s what I need.” My mom hefts a large box up onto the desk in the garage. She takes the top off and pulls out a folder. “Each of these is a client file. I want the basic data for each client input into a spreadsheet so I have a digital record to go with my physical records.”
“I can do that,” I say, reaching into the box and grabbing one of the folders. I open it up and start scanning the invoice—this one for a landscape painting my mom created for a man in New York last year.
I make the mistake of glancing up, and my mom’s watching me with the same expression she’s had since I came back downstairs about an hour ago. I quickly look away as I slip into the office chair and adjust the keyboard. “How much information do you need? Name, date of sale . . .”
“Yeah, and transaction amount and date. Invoice number. A description of the piece, and . . . Alex . . .”
Her hand settles on my shoulder, and I shake my head. “I can, um, include a link to the digital images you have of each of the paintings, too, if you want.”
“Sure. But, Alex—”
I shake my head again, cutting her off. I know what she wants.
She wants to talk . . . because “everything can be fixed by talking it out.” That’s what she believes, and I guess I usually believe that too. But right now, I just don’t think that’ll be enough. After all, how can I fix things if Nico won’t talk to me and is actively pushing me away?
I still don’t know what happened. And the fact that he doesn’t want me to be there with him right now hurts a lot, especially when I think about how much he must be hurting, emotionally and physically.
Too many horrible scenarios are running through my head and have been since earlier this morning. I can still see his back—the ugly purple-and-black bruises forming right along his spine. I can still see the shame in his eyes and the grimace he tried to hide when he turned over.
He said he was fine. But it has to hurt. There’s no way it doesn’t.
I clear my throat to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I think the, uh, digital images are in your Google Drive folder here, right?”
“Alex,” she says again, squeezing my shoulder.
I close my eyes and sigh, letting my hand fall down to my lap. “I know what you’re going to say, but I already told you, I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand that.” She moves so she’s leaning against the desk, and I force my eyes up to meet hers. She gives me a small, knowing smile. “But even if you can’t tell me what happened or what’s going on, you can tell me how you’re feeling about it.”
A buzz of something uncomfortable and uncertain flutters in my chest, and I drop my chin down, clenching my jaw. “I feel like shit, okay?” I blurt out, and I immediately grimace. “Sorry. I meant awful. I feel awful.”
Her arm comes around my shoulders, and I let myself lean into her hug.
She doesn’t say anything, which I know means she’s waiting for me to say more.
I’m not even sure how much I can say, and I honestly don’t know what happened anyway.
All I have is what’s been floating around in my head, my dumb imagination going wild.
“He won’t talk to me,” I mumble, finally.
Then the dam breaks open, and I’m just trying not to cry as I walk the careful line of telling her but not telling her .
. . “Something’s wrong, and I don’t even know what it is, and he won’t talk to me about it.
And I’m worried about him because . . . because I have reason to worry.
But he doesn’t want to talk and he doesn’t want my help.
And I’m scared and I don’t know what to do. ”
She saw me get the Tylenol and the ice pack earlier this morning. And she’s smart. I’ll bet she can guess something at least close to the truth. But if she has, she doesn’t say.
“Oh, sweetie.” She pulls me out of the chair and to my feet, and she wraps me up in a tight hug like she knows just how much I’m hurting. She holds me for a few long seconds. Then she says, quietly, “Nico’s always had trouble communicating about difficult things, right? Even with you?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Does this seem different than that?” She straightens up a little and moves her hands to my arms. Her eyes are a little glossy, like she’s holding back her own tears.
“By that I mean, is there anything different about it now—how he’s told you he doesn’t want to talk or doesn’t want your help?
If you think about it, is this how you’d expect him to behave, normally? Or, normal for him, I mean.”
I sniffle and look down at the space between us, and even though I don’t want to, I think back on earlier this morning and even back to last night.
How I got home to see him in my bed, scrunched up against the wall.
How I lay in bed with him. How, early in the morning before the sun was really up, he woke me up, asked me to hold him.
How he flinched away from my touch, not once, but twice.
Then, how his tone changed—scared and angry and irritated.
Anxious . . . just like . . . “normal” for him, when he gets anxious.
“I thought . . . we’ve been getting closer,” I stammer, “and he’s been more open with me, and . . .”
“It’s hard to change habits, especially ones rooted in the type of trauma his is.”
My heart misses a beat, and I inhale a rough breath as I shake my head. She’s right. Of course.
I remember how he changed before—gradually but obviously.
His slow withdrawal into himself after Patrick started coming around.
His reluctance to want to spend time at home.
The bruises he tried to hide, even from me.
The whole terrible week freshman year when he stayed home from school and didn’t return any of my calls.
I found out what happened later, after he had surgery to repair his broken nose. He told me. Eventually. Reluctantly.
“He was always quiet and stuff, but when the, uh”—I swallow hard and look up to meet my mom’s eyes—“when the abuse started, it got worse.”
She knows already. But my stomach churns, and I find myself wishing I could take back the words.
Nico hasn’t said I can talk to my mom about any of this.
But what happened in the past—yeah, she knows about all of that.
We had to talk about it then. She and I talked a lot about it then, actually, which I desperately needed at the time.
“He’s had nearly a decade of this now,” she adds quietly, and I nod, the lump in my throat painful. “And I don’t know what’s going on now—”
“Neither do I,” I cut in.
“Right. So whatever it is, if you care about him—”
“I do. Very much.”
She pulls me back into her and holds me tightly. “I know, sweetie. I know.”
I’m crying now, and I bend down and bury my head in her shoulder.
“So whatever’s going on,” she continues, “the best thing you can do is just be there for him as much as possible. Be there when he’s ready to talk.
Remind him how much you care. And be patient with him.
Accept where he is, meet him there, and know that even if he doesn’t open up right now, if it takes him time, if he seems to be pushing you away, it’s only because that’s what he’s had to do for years now to protect himself. ”
I nod into her. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.” She steps back, letting her hands drop away.
Then she reaches up and touches my cheek.
Something like pain flickers through her expression as she studies me, and she purses her lips and says, “Don’t .
. . don’t give up on him. I . . . don’t think you will, but I worry about him, too.
I worry . . .” She hesitates and lowers her eyes, frowning.
“I worry that he doesn’t see his own worth.
Especially now, with everything happening with his mom and that awful man coming back into his life. ”
Fear seizes me, just like it had that moment on the stairs the other night, and I nod again.
“I worry about that, too. More than you know.” When I look up at her, the pain is back in her expression.
“I . . . want to be there for him,” I add.
“I’m just not sure what to do when he pushes me away.
Do I stay anyway? Do I give him space? Do I insist, or do I leave him alone and hope he comes back to me? What . . . what do I do?”
I know there’s no right answer. There’s no answer she can give me that’s definitive. And her brief smile as she shakes her head tells me that.
Letting out a sigh, I turn back to the computer and slip into the chair. “I should be able to get this done in a few hours.”
Her hand sets on my shoulder, and she squeezes me gently.
“Perfect. I’ve gotta run to Omaha and pick up some paints and supplies.
I got a new commission just this morning.
I should be back around noon, maybe a bit later.
Although I think I need to stop at the grocery store too.
Anything you need that’s not on the list on the fridge? ”
I start to shake my head, then stop and smile. “Syrup?” I turn in the chair to face her. “We ran out a few days ago.”
With a laugh, she nods. “No problem.” She leans over and kisses the top of my head. “I’ll grab eggs and potatoes, too, and we’ll have breakfast for dinner.”
“Sounds great, Mom. And thank you.”
“Everything’ll be okay, sweetie.”
“I know.”
She gives me one more smile, and even though it’s a small gesture, it makes me feel a little better. “Be back soon,” she says.
And I smile and nod and then get to work, trying to keep my thoughts from straying back upstairs.
It’s just after twelve thirty when I finish with the work my mom wanted me to do. I log my hours in a notebook she keeps in the top drawer of her desk and then pull my phone out of my pocket. I’ve got three messages—two from my mom and one from Jenna.