Chapter Thirty-Three
Nico
When I wake up, it’s warm. And I’m comfortable in a way I can’t explain. It’s calm—around me and in my head. Nothing’s screaming. My heart’s not racing. The dreadful, cold numbness isn’t spreading from my hands.
Alex’s arm tightens around my shoulders. “Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” he murmurs into my hair with a light laugh.
I just sigh into him. I don’t want to move from this spot, snuggled up against his chest. And he doesn’t seem to want to, either. His free hand covers mine, which rests about midway up his thigh, and he caresses softly just past my wrist and then back to my knuckles.
I’m not sure what feels better—how he’s holding me or how he’s touching me.
Both make me feel loved.
I sniffle and squeeze my eyes shut, cursing inwardly as I try desperately not to cry. It’s overwhelming—this feeling. It’s overwhelming and depressing at the same time, because I’m immediately reminded of yesterday and how little my mom must think of me. How little she must love me.
She had to have set me up; she had to have known how terrifying it would be for me to face Patrick, and yet, that was what she forced me into.
That and not fucking caring enough to even give me a warning about changing the price of the car.
I’ve told her how much money I’m making and how little I have. She knows I’m struggling.
But she doesn’t seem to give a damn.
She doesn’t seem to love me at all.
Alex’s hand caresses a little higher up my forearm this time, his fingers pausing just below my elbow, and at the same time, he presses another kiss into my hair. It’s gentle and caring, and I feel his intention in it.
He wants to make me feel loved.
The contrast between him and my mom is sharp, like a knife in my gut . . . or a closed fist to my face.
I inhale another shaky breath, still trying to hold back tears, and I shift in his arms so that I’m hugging him, not bothering to hide my hiss of pain as I move my left arm—god, my shoulder is fucked up. I bury my head into the crook of his neck, and I cling to him.
I can’t hold back anymore. The tears fall. I should be embarrassed by it, but I’m not. I’m just thankful he holds me, still—his arms slowly, carefully wrapping around me. Keeping me warm. Taking care to not hurt me because apparently my back is covered in bruises that are actually painful too.
“Shh, shh. I’m here. I’m here,” he whispers, ever so lightly rubbing my upper back. “I’m here. You’re . . . you’re okay, Nico. I’ve got you.”
And those words are too much, pushing me over an edge I hadn’t even known was there.
“I need you,” I choke out, and he somehow holds me tighter without hurting me.
“You have me.” His lips brush my temple, soft but promising. “I’m here. You have me.”
Something inside me rattles and breaks loose, and I tilt my head back, aware that my cheeks are wet with tears. He doesn’t care about that. He doesn’t let me go. He just lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me. Slowly. Softly. Surely.
Fuck.
I feel it in his kiss. I feel it.
He loves me.
He loves me.
His lips continue to caress mine, still just as gently, again and again until he breaks away to flutter tiny, light kisses all along my skin.
He kisses my jaw and cheeks and nose, and then he pulls back slightly, tilts his head, and, as I close my eyes, he kisses my forehead, lingering there, breathing deeply.
My jaw trembles, and I know I should say something. Another thank you, at least. Or an apology for being an asshole to him earlier. But my voice won’t work, and I feel shaky and weak and tired, even though I just had the world’s best nap on the world’s most comfortable pillow.
So instead, I relax against him again and let him hold me.
We stay there for another long few minutes, his hand caressing my arm and his lips occasionally dropping kisses in my hair. I feel like I might fall asleep again.
“Mmm, you’re so comfortable.” I smooth my hand across his stomach and hook my fingers around his hip.
A laugh rumbles through his chest, and his arm tightens around my shoulders. “I’m glad,” he says. His voice becomes softer as he adds, “You seem like you need the rest.”
I nod. “I didn’t sleep well. Nightmares.” Nausea rises up in my chest, and I know I’ve opened the door for his questions. Part of me wants him to ask so I have that extra push to tell him the truth. Another part of me is already pulling away, seeking the safety of solitude under the blanket. Alone.
He hesitates—I feel it in the way he stiffens and holds his breath, the way his cheek presses into the top of my head. Then everything around me seems to soften, and I’m surrounded by a comfortable warmth again. Quietly, he says, “You can sleep more now. I’ll stay. If you want.”
It doesn’t seem fair or right or honest of me. But I nod. “Please.”
“Mm-hmm, of course. Did you want to lie down?”
I nod again, and he pauses for only a moment to pull back and kiss my forehead. Then he says he’ll be right back, and he takes the tray and leaves the room for a moment. I sit up, blink my eyes open, and look over at the nightstand. The Tylenol and glass of water still sit there from this morning.
Maybe it’ll help. I’m not sure why I’m at all opposed to it.
Slowly, I push myself away from the wall and scoot over to the edge of the bed.
Then I pick up the glass and the pills, pop the pills into my mouth, and wash them down with a small sip.
I take a few extra sips for good measure—I’m actually not sure I’ve had anything to drink since sometime midday yesterday, at lunch, maybe, though I don’t feel thirsty.
There’s a light knock on the door as Alex returns.
I quickly set the glass back down and climb under the covers again as he shuts the door.
Silently, he slips off his pants, leaving only his boxer briefs on, and then he takes a moment to close the shutters all the way and turn on the ceiling fan.
By the time he joins me in bed, I’m settled in my spot on my right side, facing the wall.
The bed compresses behind me, and I close my eyes, willing my body not to react as he scoots closer.
“Can I hold you?” he asks softly, and I nod.
“Please.”
He finds my arm under the blanket, and his fingers trace lightly down past my elbow. Then he slips his hand under mine and presses his body up against me. His lips brush along my neck.
“Is this okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He kisses me again and then settles down, still holding me. “I’ll be here as long as you need. Okay?”
I can’t respond this time, even though that’s exactly what I needed to hear. Instead, I press my hand against his and snuggle back into him. He hums contentedly. I love that sound.
I fall asleep not long after, comfortable and warm.
I sleep for a few more hours, and after I wake up, Alex coaxes me out of the bedroom to play some video games downstairs.
His mom makes breakfast for dinner, complete with pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, and a bunch of fruit.
It’s way too much food for the three of us, but, as she cheerfully reminds us, that means leftovers for tomorrow.
After dinner, Alex and I settle back on the couch to watch a movie, and his mom disappears into the garage to get started on a new commission.
As usual, Alex picks some bloody, violent horror film—this time one that came out earlier in the year, a sequel to a movie he made me watch last year.
I don’t object. It’s almost funny to me, actually, since his odd love of horror films is pretty much opposite his personality.
And anytime whatever’s on the TV is too much, I get to bury my head against his chest, and he holds me. So it’s all worth it anyway.
When the movie’s over, it’s almost midnight. His mom is still working in the garage, and he goes out to check on her while I head upstairs to shower and get ready for bed.
I’m surprised at how stiff I am as I undress in the bathroom, and the water’s just hot enough to start fogging up the mirror by the time I’ve carefully peeled off my T-shirt, so I can’t see how bad my back looks.
I can, however, see the redness and swelling in my left shoulder. And it doesn’t look good.
My stomach sinks as I touch the tender skin, testing out where it’s sore.
The answer is all over, and when I hit a particularly bad spot, pain shoots down into my fingers and across my chest. It’s gotten worse since last night, which isn’t good.
What bothers me more, though, is that I don’t know what to do about it.
Should I go to the doctor or wait it out?
And, if I do end up needing to go to the doctor, how the hell will I pay for it?
“Fuck,” I hiss, both at the pain as I find another tender spot and at the fact that I don’t know if I have health insurance right now. I don’t know how any of that shit works. And I should be finding out. Another thing to add to my long list of to-dos.
I shake my head and step into the shower, adjusting the water temperature down a little.
I wash as quickly as I can, given that using my arm at all hurts like hell, and when I’m done, I dry myself off, get dressed in sleep shorts and a clean, loose T-shirt, and brush my teeth.
Then I pause, staring at the hazy figure in the fogged-up mirror.
I should probably see how bad it is. Even if it’s just so that I know how it’ll look to Alex.
Frowning, I reach forward with my good arm and wipe away the condensation on the mirror.
Then I pull my shirt off again, turn around, and look back at myself over my shoulder.
Large black-and-purple splotches cover much of my mid-back, right where I remember hitting the wall.
Hell. It does look bad. No wonder Alex was upset when he saw it.
He was right to suggest I take medicine and ice it. And if he knew about my shoulder, I’m sure he’d have insisted even more.