Chapter Three
Nico
Sunday night after the two-day event at the new gallery opening, Vera pulls me aside and tells me, under no uncertain terms, that I’m to take the next two days off.
I would argue, because I still have a ton of work to do both for her and for Greta, but the weekend was long and taxing, and I’m barely holding myself together as it is.
My job for the weekend consisted mostly of managing things from the back office—yet the number of phone calls I had to make or take and the number of strangers I had to meet were both impossible for me.
On top of that, ever since I got that message from my mom two weeks ago, I’ve been in a bit of a downward spiral.
Sleep has been difficult and filled with nightmares, and work has been one challenge after another, every little thing making me second-guess myself.
Honestly, I’m surprised I made it through this weekend.
I pack up my stuff, thank Vera, and say good night to the owner of the new gallery and several other colleagues.
Then I step out into the brisk spring evening and start the walk to the train station.
It’s not until I’m alone that I really start to feel all of the tension and anxiety I’ve been holding all day, all weekend, all of the last two weeks.
I’ve been ignoring it as best I can, pushing through, going, going, going.
But it suddenly hits me like a brick wall, and I nearly stumble as all of my energy seeps away and a vaguely familiar lightheadedness makes me wobble on my feet.
Fuck, this isn’t good.
There’s a bench along the sidewalk, and I stagger over and collapse onto the seat, dropping my head down between my knees.
Long, slow breaths help a little, as does closing my eyes and covering my ears to shut out all the noises echoing around me.
But the world keeps swaying for what’s probably several minutes.
I should have stuck around and asked Vera for a ride back to San Jose. Or I should have called Alex and asked him to meet me here. Or I should have taken that day off last weekend, like he suggested.
My chest tightens, and my shoulders ache, and everything around me feels like it’s shrinking, closing in, suffocating me, even though I know I’m outside, out in the open, and perfectly safe. And I should be able to breathe.
Shaking, I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone.
He’ll be mad at me. That’s the first thought that pops into my head.
He’ll be mad at me because I should have known this was going to happen, and I should have listened and taken a day off, and I’ve overworked myself into this panic.
And if he’s mad, maybe that’ll be it. Maybe that’ll be enough, and he’ll leave me.
I know it’s not true. I know it. But these types of thoughts have been fucking with me for the last couple of weeks as well.
It’s almost as though the note from my mom brought back all of my insecurities—the awful reminder of how she turned on me and abandoned me that summer six years ago—and those insecurities are now bleeding over into my relationship with my boyfriend.
I grip my phone tighter, my eyes screwed shut, and I focus on my breathing for a few moments. Alex isn’t like that. He won’t be mad at me. If anything, he’ll be worried, and he’ll be glad I called to get help. I know that. I do.
Still, I hesitate, my indecision fueled by uncertainty and the icky feeling that my heart’s not beating right.
“Goddamn fucking anxiety,” I curse under my breath.
I force my eyes open, and I glance quickly to my right—the way to the train station. It’s really not too far. I should be able to make it on my own.
Clenching my jaw, I grip the arm of the bench with my free hand and use it to push myself to my feet.
And I manage to get myself moving again.
The world’s still spinning, and everything’s loud and too bright, even in the darkness of the night.
I keep my head down, staring at the sidewalk in front of me as I walk, still holding my phone tightly in my hand.
The tension in my jaw turns into an irritating ache that starts to work its way upward, into the back of my skull, and before I make it to the train station, I have a pulsing headache—the kind I know isn’t going away until I’ve gotten enough sleep and a hefty dose of Tylenol.
When I finally sit down on the bench at the platform to wait for the next train to show up, I’m weak and shaky, and the air around me feels hot, like it’s tinged with anger and irritation. I know the feeling; it’s not new or different. But it has been a while since it’s been this bad.
The next southbound train isn’t due for another ten minutes, and so I pull out my phone and immediately open up my text message app and click on Alex’s name.
Alex (5:08 p.m.): <3
It’s the last message he sent me, nearly four hours ago now—just a heart emoji.
I never had the chance to respond earlier, but even just seeing the text now seems to take the edge off the worst of my anxiety.
I take a slow breath and then click on the phone icon to call him as I pull my feet up onto the bench.
It rings twice before he answers.
“Hey, Nico!” His voice surrounds me like a warm blanket, and I close my eyes and let the feeling settle.
“Hey, yeah, um—”
“Are you okay? What’s wrong? Where are you?” He must hear the hoarseness of my voice, because he cuts in before I can even start to tell him what’s going on.
I take a slow breath. The air isn’t quite as hot or stale now, though the acrid smell of exhaust fumes lingers. And suddenly, I want nothing more than to be at home, with him. “We finished with everything a bit ago,” I say. “I’m at the station in San Mateo, waiting for the next train.”
“Alright, okay. But that doesn’t answer my question. Are you okay?”
A tiny huff of a laugh escapes me. “You asked me three questions! I answered the last one, which was the easiest.”
“Yeah, well, you should have answered them in order of importance,” he teases back, his tone playful but still worried.
I grumble a nonresponse and open my eyes to look down the train tracks.
“I’m tired,” I say quietly, but I know he needs a little more than that, so I continue.
“I started feeling exhausted and lightheaded when I left the gallery. Um, I think it’s just from all the stress and going nonstop, and today and yesterday were busy, you know?
But I made it to the station, and . . . and now that you’re on the phone with me, I’m feeling a lot better. ”
It’s the truth—I am feeling better just hearing his voice. But it’s not the whole truth, and maybe that makes me an awful boyfriend.
Even if I wanted to tell him about my mom, about how sharp the reminder of her abandonment has been stinging, about how deeply bone-tired I am, especially with all the extra stress of working so fucking much—which I don’t—I’m not sure I could anyway.
He’s been so happy lately—all cute and lovey and sappy, holding me longer when we’re in bed together, sending me those little heart emojis all the time.
I would hate to see his joy drained for even a second.
I close my eyes and lean back against the bench again, one arm wrapped around my knees.
The line is silent for a few seconds, and I feel my shoulders tightening. But then he says, his voice soft with concern, “Do you want me to come meet you? I’m at home, so it’ll take me some time to get there. But I can leave right now, and you won’t have to be alone.”
It’s nearly an hour by train from San Jose to San Mateo, and I know if I need him to, that’s exactly what he’ll do—leave home right now, catch the first train he can, and meet me here. He’s amazing like that.
“I love you,” I say.
“That’s sweet of you. But that doesn’t answer my question, again.”
I smile weakly and shake my head. “I know. I’m thinking.”
“I’m leaving now. Are you safe?”
My heart does something funny, rejecting all the negative stuff that’s floating around in my head and replacing it with gratitude and love for my wonderful boyfriend.
“I’m safe,” I say quietly. “Don’t come, please.
The train will be here in just a few minutes, and I just need .
. . I just need you to stay on the phone with me for a bit. ”
“I can do that,” he says without hesitation. “Oh, you’ll totally appreciate this! So, I was on campus earlier studying with Garrett and Parker, and we decided to go to that taco place, you know, the one with the giant cactus mural on the wall . . .”
I lower my head to my knees and listen as he talks, taking me through most of his afternoon and evening.
When the train arrives a few minutes later, I stand up without swaying at all, and I find a seat in the closest car.
Alex keeps talking the whole time—the entire fifty-minute train ride.
It’s exactly what I need, and somehow, he knows it.
It’s after ten when the train pulls up at Diridon Station in San Jose, and I see him standing there before it even stops. He’s still holding the phone up to his ear. Our eyes meet through the window on the train car, and he smiles a big, gorgeous smile that makes my heart flutter.
“Hi,” he says into the phone, like we haven’t been talking to each other for nearly an hour.
A smile finds me, too, and I shake my head as I stare at him, a million things running through my head.
What are you doing here?
You didn’t have to come.
God, it’s good to see you.
I love you, Alex. I love you so much.
Instead, I just echo back, “Hi.”
His smile widens, and he tilts his head toward the doors to the train just as they open. We both hang up, and I meet him outside the train a moment later, immediately melting into his arms. He hums as he hugs me to him, and he kisses my cheek.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “Yeah. I am now.”