Chapter Thirty-Six
Alex
Nico jogs up the stairs ahead of me, his right hand on the railing and the other holding his cell phone. “I have the resumé I wrote when I applied for the job at the library. It’s in my email,” he says. “We could use that and update it?”
I nod. “Yeah, good plan.”
He reaches the top step and pauses to wait for me, and my heart skips a beat when my eyes meet his. He’s happy. He’s smiling and happy, and for the first time in a very long time, he looks hopeful. It’s beautiful.
“I talked with Caitlin and Sharon today. They both said I could list them as references if I need it. I knew Caitlin would agree, but I was surprised Sharon said yes. I mean, I’ve only been there a couple of weeks, so they don’t really know me that well.
But they both said I’m doing a great job with the project and the other work they have me doing.
Hopefully that helps if Vera contacts them. ”
He’s talkative, too, which is new for him.
He stuffs his phone into his pocket and takes my hand as I reach the top step.
Our fingers intertwine, and he tugs me along with him on the way to the bedroom as he continues to go on about all the things, including the new information my mom gave him at dinner.
“So do you know exactly how far San Jose is from Palo Alto? If I get this job, should I look for an apartment there or closer to Stanford? It’s probably more expensive near Stanford, right?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Bro, I have no idea. But we can check it out, maybe after you send the email, yeah?”
He lets go of my hand and pushes the bedroom door open ahead of us.
“You’re right, yeah. Resumé and send the email, and then we can—” He stops rather abruptly right at my desk and turns to me.
I half expect to see him shutting down, like he remembered how hard this is all going to be and that the interview he might have, if the woman my mom knows likes Nico’s resumé enough, is just the very first step in a long, challenging process.
But the light in his eyes hasn’t disappeared.
In fact, it’s gotten brighter. Mischievous, even.
I smile crookedly at him. “We can what?”
“Nothin’,” he says with a smirk. He stretches up and kisses me quickly on the lips. “I can use your laptop, right?”
He’s already slipping into the chair at my desk and opening the laptop before I manage to mumble a quick “yeah” in response.
My computer boots up quickly, and within just a couple of minutes, he’s sifted through his emails, downloaded his old resumé, and opened it up to edit it.
We work together to add his high school graduation date, recent work experience, and references.
Then he tabs back to his email and pulls out his cell phone.
“Vera Kotovskaya, Bay Area Arts Collective,” he reads from the text my mom sent him.
He sets the phone next to him on the desk and carefully types out Vera’s email address on the computer.
Then he freezes, his fingers hovering just above the keyboard.
“I should be formal, right? Start with something like ‘Dear Ms. Kotovskaya’?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’ve sent a few emails for my mom, and she’s always told me to write formally like that,” I say.
Nico laughs and tilts his head back to look at me. “She had to tell you that so you’d actually take the time to use complete sentences and type out full words.”
“She did not.”
He rolls his eyes and laughs again. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.” Then he shifts his focus back to the computer. “Alright, so . . . Dear Ms. Kotovskaya . . .”
He types; I watch. He thought he was going to need my help, but by the time he’s at the end of the short email introducing himself and asking to connect with her for a phone interview, the only things I contributed were to suggest rewording part of one sentence and to remind him to attach the resumé.
He pauses after he writes his name and new phone number at the bottom of the email, then he looks up at me. “Good to send?”
Hope and love threaten to burst right out of my chest, and for a second, I can’t respond.
This is it.
This is real.
This is him, overcoming everything he’s been through and taking this impossible leap, to be with me.
He arches his eyebrows. “Yo, Alex? It’s good, right?”
I nod, and he grins, turns back to the computer, and clicks send.
“How long do you think until she gets back to me?” he asks, swiveling in the chair to face me. He scoots a little closer and spreads his legs until I’m standing right between his knees. Then he leans forward and rests his head on my stomach.
I let my fingers run through his hair as I think about the answer.
My mom called Vera a few hours ago—early afternoon here, but late morning in California—and I remember very casually eavesdropping on the half of the conversation I could hear through the open door to the garage.
They talked for a while, and not everything was about Nico.
In fact, they talked at length about some art exhibition Vera is planning for next year.
The conversation wasn’t hurried or rushed in any way, which could mean she wasn’t busy. Or any other number of things.
“Maybe not long? Or hopefully not, anyway. I really don’t know, though.” I trail my fingers down his neck, and Nico hums contentedly, which makes me smile.
“Thanks for helping me,” he says, turning to kiss my stomach. He tilts his head up to look at me, a soft expression in his eyes.
A million little moments flutter around me, reminding me of all the times I’ve wished to see him look like this—comfortable, happy, hopeful, content. It’s overwhelming again, and my heart feels so full.
Carefully, I bring my hand up to touch his cheek, my fingertips grazing his skin. He smiles.
“I’m so proud of you,” I say softly. My hand cups his cheek, and I get lost in his beautiful eyes—lost in possibility and hope and joy, because that’s what I see in them now. I lean down and tilt his chin up, and I kiss him with a slow tenderness. A promise.
And when I pull back and straighten up, he’s still smiling, blissful and gorgeous. My thumb traces his cheekbone as his eyes open partway, and I’m struck with that feeling again—how incredible it is to see him like this.
“I love you, Nico,” I murmur. There’s a slight roughness to my voice as I say the words out loud for the first time. They’re true. I’ve known them to be true for a while now. But that doesn’t stop my chest from tightening and my heart from leaping up into my throat.
I stroke his cheek gently and watch his eyes grow wide and his mouth open. His lower lip trembles, and then he stands, one hand coming to rest on my hip, the other settling right in the middle of my chest.
“You mean that?” he asks quietly.
I lower my forehead to rest against his and whisper, “With all of my heart.”
He leans into me, his hand pressing into my chest. “I love you, too,” he says on a breath, and then his lips are on mine, his kiss passionate, tender, and needy all at once.
I wrap my arms low around his waist and hold him tightly as I kiss him back. Something inside me is bursting with joy, and suddenly I’m laughing as we kiss. I bring both of my hands up to his cheeks, pull back just enough to see his gorgeous eyes and his smile, and then I kiss him again.
“I love you,” I repeat between kisses, and he breaks away and drops his chin, shaking his head. His cheeks are wet with tears, and he blinks and reaches up with his right hand to wipe the tears away.
“It almost doesn’t feel real,” he admits, though he quickly corrects himself. “I mean, it’s just . . . it’s hard for me to believe that you could . . . love me.”
I shake my head. “I do. It’s real. This”—my hand finds his, and I bring it up to my lips and kiss the back of his knuckles—“is real. I promise.”
He sniffles and lowers his eyes, then he slips his arms around my waist and rests his head on my chest. He’s quiet for a few minutes as we stand there, holding each other.
Then, he presses his cheek against me and breathes in deeply.
“You make me feel good . . . and loved.” His arms tighten around me. “You always have.”
He smiles into me, and it’s the best feeling. I straighten slightly, bring one hand up to his chin, and tilt it back so he’s looking up at me. Then I lean down and touch my lips to his in another gentle kiss.
I’m about to say something more, to tell him I always want to make him feel that way, when his phone chimes from where it sits on the desk next to my computer. He pulls back, grinning, and kisses me again before turning to grab his phone. His shoulders tense almost immediately.
“What is it?”
“She emailed me back already,” he says, all of the blissfulness gone from his tone. “That was too fast. That can’t be good. Can it?”
He hasn’t clicked on the email notification yet, and he closes his eyes and shoves the phone at me.
“What? You want me to read it?”
He nods. “Please. I can’t.”
“Okay, yeah, sure. Um . . .” I take the phone from him and click the notification.
And I quickly skim the message, a smile working its way onto my face.
I clear my throat. “‘Nico, thank you for your email,’” I read, letting my free hand find his lower back.
“‘After speaking with Laina earlier and reviewing your resumé now, I’m hoping we can set up a time for a phone interview, preferably this week. Will Friday afternoon at six your time work? Sincerely, Ms. Vera Kotovskaya.’”
“It doesn’t really say that,” he blurts out, but at the same time, he grabs the phone from me, his eyes immediately scanning the email. “She . . . she really wants a phone interview? I—I can’t . . . I can’t believe it.”
He shakes his head as he looks up at me, and I just smile back.
“Believe it,” I say gently. I motion to the desk. “Write her back. Six on Friday—that works, yeah?”
He nods, and then he swallows hard, like he’s still having trouble processing. I lean over and open the laptop back up.
“Write back to her.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Right.” He turns slowly, but then stops and spins back around to face me, his eyes now lit up. “She wants an interview!”
“Yes.”
“With me!”
“Yes.” I’m laughing at him now, and he’s grinning, too—his eyes filled with excitement and a sort of cautious hope.
He swats at me and rolls his eyes, then he sits down and composes a very short response confirming that yes, he’s available for an interview on Friday at six.
When he’s done, he swivels the chair back to me and reaches out to take my hand again, threading his fingers through mine.
His cheeks flush the most perfect pink, and he tugs me gently back to him.
“I wasn’t expecting that,” he admits.
I shake my head. I’m not really sure what I was expecting, but this is about the best outcome either of us could have hoped for.
He stares at our hands for a few seconds, then lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it lightly, like I had with his hand earlier. When he glances back up at me, my chest aches. He’s so beautiful. Beautiful and happy. And mine.
I squeeze his hand. “So . . . what do you want to do now? We’ve got the whole evening,” I say.
His eyes flash playfully. “I have a couple ideas.”
He stands up, releasing my hand and hooking his fingers under the waistband of my shorts. He tugs me closer to him so our hips meet, and his hand sneaks up under my shirt.
I suck in a breath. “I’m listening.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up in a crooked grin, and he turns us around, his fingers still hooked into my shorts, and starts backing toward the bedroom door, stopping to glance out into the hallway as though to check that we’re alone.
He knows as well as I do that my mom’s working in the garage, but he’s adorable and silly, and I go along with it.
He faces me again, still grinning, and his hands slip around to my back and then lower, until he’s cupping my ass, squeezing, pressing his groin into mine. He’s already hard—I can feel the bulge of his erection through his slacks. I close my eyes and groan.
“Nico . . .”
“We should celebrate, right?”
“Mm-hmm. Yeah. Definitely,” I mumble, letting my fingers inch under his shirt.
He stretches up and kisses just under my ear, and when I moan, he huffs a quiet laugh. His voice rough, he whispers, “Follow me.”
And he takes my hand and leads me toward the bathroom.