Chapter Four
Alex
“This is ridiculous. Who the hell thinks these things up? New Guinness World Record for the most number of rhinestones stuck to the human body? Why?” Nico scoffs.
I glance over from where I’m standing at the stove to see him shaking his head as he stares at his phone.
He’s lying on his stomach on the bed, naked except for his boxer briefs, his hair still damp from the shower he just took.
He shakes his head one more time and then looks up at me as he tosses his phone down on the bed.
“Remember Shane, from high school?” I ask, and when Nico nods, I turn back to the stovetop and flip the grilled cheese sandwich I’m cooking for him. “He’s the current world record holder for most paper airplanes thrown into watermelons.”
“Sounds super useful.”
I laugh. “Right?”
With a groan, Nico rolls over onto his back and covers his eyes with one arm. He looks much better than he had an hour ago when I met him at the train station, but the dark circles under his eyes and tension in his jaw haven’t entirely disappeared. He needs to eat and then sleep.
“You have tomorrow off, right?” I ask quietly. I turn off the heat for the burner on the stove and move Nico’s sandwich to a plate, and when I glance over at him, he’s turned his head to look at me, his eyes half open. His exhaustion is so clear, and it makes my heart ache.
“Tomorrow and Tuesday. Vera made me promise not to come in.” He grimaces. “I think Vera mentioned something to Greta, too, because Greta texted and said not to come in until Friday morning.”
“Good.” He arches his eyebrows at me, and I frown. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been working so much. You need a break.”
Something in his expression shifts, but he turns his face away before I have time to figure out what it is. “Yeah, I do,” he says.
I pull out a knife to cut his sandwich into quarters, and then I move the plate to the table for him. Without a word, he pushes himself up to stand and then takes his seat at the table.
“OJ? Or milk?”
“Nah, this is fine. Thank you.”
I get a napkin for him and then start cleaning up the kitchen as he eats. He’s quiet, and not that that’s anything unusual, especially with how tired he is, but I can’t shake the concern that there’s something deeper going on.
I’ve been busy—last week, I took my qualifying exam, which I passed easily, and I have a deadline coming up for revisions for the research article John and I submitted to Nature Astronomy plus homework for my classes and exams to study for.
And I’ve also been distracted for other reasons.
I bought the rings. They’re hiding in a box in the back of one of the drawers in our dresser.
And I scouted out the Japanese garden to make sure I know exactly the spot to take him to.
I’ve also written and rewritten what I want to say to him probably a hundred times by now, and I’ve been keeping an eye on both of our calendars, hoping a day pops up that’ll work for both of us.
Actually, if he’s off work on Tuesday . . . maybe I could make that work.
But I’ve been so busy and so distracted . . .
I close the fridge after putting away the cheese and butter, and by the time I finish washing and drying the dishes, he’s done eating. He brings his plate to the sink to wash it, and I take it from him with a small smile.
“I’ve got it. You can go lie down, okay?”
His expression tightens, and he seems like he’s about to object, but he stops himself. “Then you’re coming to bed, right?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
With a nod, he loops an arm around my waist, hugs me, and then shuffles over and collapses onto the bed, not bothering to crawl under the covers.
I finish up, turn out all the lights and lock the front door, and then undress and join him in bed.
He’s already almost asleep, but he has enough awareness to scoot under the covers when I pull them back.
Then he mumbles something incoherent and cuddles up against my chest, resting a hand on my stomach.
I drop a kiss on the top of his head and close my eyes. “Good night. I love you, always,” I whisper. I don’t expect a response; I figure he’s drifting off already and probably didn’t even hear me. But I must be wrong because he stiffens up in my arms and presses his cheek against my chest harder.
He holds himself still for several seconds before letting out a shuddering breath and forcing out, “Good night.”
No love you, too, like he would normally say. And I hope I’m imagining it, but he suddenly feels like he’s trembling, even as he clings to me.
“Nico? Hey, what’s going on?” I ask softly, letting my hand rub up and down his back.
He blows out a quick breath and shakes his head. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m so tired.”
“I know.” I wrap my arms around him and turn over onto my back, bringing him on top of me.
Then I tug the comforter all the way up to his shoulders and resume rubbing his back.
He sighs deeply against my neck. He loves lying on me like this; he says it makes him feel close to me and comfortable and safe.
I hope that’s the case right now, too. “That’s all, though, right?
You’re just tired? Nothing else?” I ask gently.
Tension returns to his shoulders, but he doesn’t answer right away. I guess that is his answer, though.
“Whatever it is,” I say softly, “you can tell me.”
The last couple of weeks start to replay in my head when he still stays quiet. Little things I shrugged off. A flinch here, a frown there. Going to sleep early, skipping a meal. Things that now seem out of place but that I didn’t really pay enough attention to at the time.
“Nico,” I murmur again, and I kiss the top of his head. My hand stops on his lower back as he inhales a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, his body trembling. “Talk to me, please. Whatever’s bothering you . . .”
I trail off as he shakes his head against me.
“It’s nothing. I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbles, but then he buries his head into the crook of my neck, and I feel dampness on my skin, like he’s been crying.
“I just wanna go to sleep. Please. I’m so tired.
And it’s not . . . it’s not urgent. It’s nothing, really. It’s nothing, and I—dammit.”
My stomach drops as he pushes away from me, rolls over, and sits up, swinging his legs off the bed.
He doesn’t stand or talk or move, and I’m scared if I say or do anything, he’ll retreat further.
So I don’t move, either, not even to reach out and comfort him.
After several seconds, his shoulders slump, and he lowers his head into his hands.
Shaking, he turns back around and crawls into bed again and back into my arms, and he clings to me, his cheek pressed against my chest.
“She called,” he says, his voice muffled and low and broken.
“She? Who? Vera? Or Greta?”
He shakes his head. “My mom.”
“Your . . . oh, god.” I understand now. Maybe. I hold him tighter. “When?”
“The Saturday you gave that presentation at school.”
That long ago. Two weeks and a few days. And he’s been keeping it to himself the whole time.
A twinge of hurt stabs my heart, but I quickly push it away. He has to be hurting much more than I can even imagine.
I’m not sure whether to ask him the billion questions I have or to just hold him and comfort him. He doesn’t make me decide, however.
“Sh-she called Greta’s office number when I was gone,” he says, and he shifts just enough that he’s not mumbling into my chest anymore.
“I-I’m not really sure how she found me, but I’m listed on Greta’s website as her apprentice.
That’s my only guess. She left a message with Greta asking me to call her. ”
“Did you?”
“No,” he chokes out. “No, I didn’t. I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know why she called. I’m not sure I can talk to her.
It’s been six years, and she’s never reached out at all.
She has your number, she knows your mom.
If she really wanted to, she could have called you or talked to your mom.
She could have tried anytime. Why now? Why wait so long?
Was I not—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head angrily.
Or, actually, maybe it’s not anger. Maybe it’s sadness mixed with frustration and doubt and anxiety.
I start rubbing his back again, as I did earlier, and he sucks in a breath and then buries his face against my chest. He starts crying softly, his body shuddering with each quiet sob.
“I had no idea.” I kiss the top of his head and close my eyes, willing myself not to cry right along with him. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner—”
“No. Please don’t,” he cuts in. “It’s not your fault I didn’t tell you.”
“Nico . . . you’re my boyfriend and my best friend.” I squeeze him gently. “I feel like I should have realized something was wrong and made sure you were okay.”
He shakes his head. “You were busy. We were both busy. Please don’t blame yourself. I . . . deliberately didn’t tell you. This is on me.”
That twinge of hurt pulses again, but again, I push it away. “Still, I’m sorry you had to deal with this on your own for the last two weeks. Do you want to talk about it now? Or do you want to sleep and talk about it in the morning?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes controlled, careful breaths in and out until he’s no longer shaking.
Then he silently climbs on top of me, back into that position he was in a few minutes ago.
He reaches behind him and pulls up the comforter, and he settles his head on my chest.
After a few moments of quiet while I rub his back softly, he shifts a little and sniffles. Then, his voice unsteady and tight, he says, “Can we talk in the morning? I really am exhausted.”
“Yeah, of course.”
His breath shudders, and he mumbles a shaky “thank you” against my chest before he starts crying softly again.