Chapter Thirty-Two #2
My mom’s messages are both just to let me know she’s going to be gone a bit later than she expected—the art supply store she went to was out of the specific type of canvas she needed, and so she had to head across town to another store.
That, and she decided to run a few more errands while she was out.
I send a quick text back with a thumbs-up. Then I stand as I click on Jenna’s text.
Jenna (10:14 a.m.): Hey. Everything okay with Nico? Text me back :)
I’m not sure what to say, so I stuff my phone back in my pocket, pick up the box filled with my mom’s client paperwork, and put it away on its shelf. Then I head inside.
It’s quiet, which I expected, I guess. And when I glance toward the stairs, wishing I’d see him coming down to meet me, all that’s there is more quiet and an emptiness.
Accept where he is, meet him there . . .
He’s hurting. And probably lost. And maybe scared.
And I’m sure he’s hungry.
With as much certainty as I can muster, I turn and head to the kitchen. If nothing else, I can make him something to eat, spend a few minutes up there checking on him, and remind him that I’m here for him.
Maybe that’ll be enough. Or at least a start.
A quick search of the kitchen tells me that all the leftovers are gone, and we’re down to just a few essentials, which is why my mom is going shopping, I suppose.
But we do have bread and cheese and some oranges that a neighbor brought over a few days ago.
So I cook up a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and slice up two of the oranges.
A few minutes later, I knock lightly on the bedroom door with my free hand, balancing a tray with the food in the other. There’s no answer, and I swallow back my unease and worry and slowly open the door.
“Nico?”
My eyes immediately land on the bed, and my heart sinks.
He’s lying in the same position he was in when I left the room hours ago—curled up on his right side, facing the wall, with the comforter pulled all the way up to cover his shoulders.
A quick glance at the nightstand tells me he hasn’t touched the glass of water and he didn’t take the Tylenol.
The ice pack also sits in the same spot where I set it.
He really hasn’t moved.
I can’t tell from here whether he’s awake or not, so I shut the door behind me and then step closer to the bed.
“Hey, Nico. I, um, made some lunch, if you’re hungry.”
He reacts this time—a tiny movement that’s actually just him curling up into himself more. I stop near the end of the bed and hold my breath, waiting for any real response. His mess of black curls covers his face, and he turns his head slightly until our eyes meet.
My heart hurts even more.
He’s been crying, and the dark circles under his eyes suggest that he maybe hasn’t been sleeping this last four or five hours since I left. I hate that. I hate that I left, that he’s hurting so much himself, that he’s spent all this time alone. I hate that I wasn’t here for him.
I should have been here for him.
I purse my lips and then force a small smile. “Grilled cheese. If you want.”
His eyes flicker down to the tray in my hands, and I watch as he swallows and then shifts gingerly onto his back, obviously trying not to grimace.
He must see the worry in my face, because he drops his chin and pushes himself up first to his elbows and then to a seated position, carefully avoiding my gaze.
“That’s a yes, then?” I ask when he pulls his knees in to sit cross-legged and scoots back against the wall.
He doesn’t say anything, but he does nod, and to me, that feels like the biggest win of the day so far. It’s even better when he lifts his eyes and tries for a smile, then pats the bed next to him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Um, I mean, assuming you made yourself lunch too?”
I’m the one nodding this time, and my smile grows. “I did.”
There’s still pain in his expression, but he holds my gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitches up ever so slightly. “And did you cut the sandwiches into triangles like your mom always does?”
“Of course,” I say with a fake scoff, setting the tray down on the bed. “Any other way would be completely wrong and affect the whole sandwich-eating experience.”
“Right.”
I’m grinning now, and he is, too, and for a brief moment, everything feels kind of okay again.
I climb onto the bed, careful not to make the mattress shift too much, and I settle next to him with my back against the wall.
Then I slide the tray over between us, turning it so his plate is closer to him.
“See? Perfect triangles,” I say, motioning to his plate.
He squints and leans over. “I dunno. This one here—slightly smaller than the others. Might need to send it back to the kitchen.” With a smirk, he glances up at me.
“Guess you’ll have to taste it and see.”
We start eating, and I’m glad to see he actually does have an appetite. He eats slowly, though, and I try not to show that I’m noticing every stiff movement he makes, every wince or flinch, every sharp breath. He is hurting, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to me.
That’s okay, I tell myself. And I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. He’ll tell me when he’s ready to.
“Thank you,” he says quietly after a few more minutes.
I turn my head toward him as he awkwardly pushes the now-empty tray out of the way and then scoots himself over closer to me.
He doesn’t look at me, his gaze focused somewhere between us on the bed, but he moves closer all the same.
My heart aches and soars simultaneously, and I want nothing more than to hold him in my arms. Cautiously, I lift my arm up in invitation, giving him a spot to cuddle against me.
He pauses, but only briefly, and then he lets out a shuddering breath and scoots over the rest of the way.
I feel all the tension in him, even as he leans into me and rests his head in the crook of my shoulder, his hand coming to settle on my stomach.
I wish I could just chase it all away.
Gently, I settle my arm across his shoulders, and then I tilt my head and press a kiss into his hair. “I’m glad the triangles were cut to your satisfaction,” I tease.
His body shakes with a weak laugh. “They were perfect.”
“Good.” I kiss him again, then let my head fall against his, closing my eyes.
We stay like that for a few long minutes, and eventually, his shoulders relax, his breathing deepens, and his hand slides lower until it’s quietly resting on my thigh.
He’s asleep.
I hold back a smile, but I feel it in my heart—how much I love him. If this is what he needs from me—to just be here, to hold him, to take care of him, to let him open up in his own time, when he’s ready—then I’m here for it.
I’m here for all of it.