Chapter Four #2
No alarm goes off, but I’m awake before the sun’s up the next morning.
Nico’s deep in sleep now, though that wasn’t the case much of the night.
He moved around a lot, woke up out of unsettling dreams several times, and though he always came back to my arms when he realized where he was and who I was and what was happening, he did push away from me, startled, more than once when he woke.
I don’t even want to guess what his dreams were about.
I continue holding him, his back flush against my front, until light streams in around the edges of the curtains on the window.
Then I slowly slip my arm out from under him, turn over to grab my phone from the nightstand, and pad quietly across the room to the bathroom.
It’s still only a little after six thirty, and honestly, I hope he keeps sleeping for a while.
I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and shave, and when I sneak back out to find some clean clothes, he’s still sleeping, still in the same position he was when I left, which makes me happy.
After dressing in a pair of gray joggers and an old sweatshirt, I try to keep myself busy.
I study for a bit, finish reading the article we’ll be discussing today in journal club, and check my school emails.
Then, as quietly as I can, I start breakfast.
Pancakes are still his favorite. Pancakes with a ton of syrup. And they’re easy to make. So that’s what I do.
He finally wakes up with a groan about ten minutes later when I set our plates on the kitchen table. His eyes are puffy and red, probably from crying last night, and seeing that as he rolls over and looks up at me makes my stomach sink.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying for a smile. “I made breakfast.”
He manages a smile back as he props himself up on one elbow, his gaze shifting to the plates on the table. “Smells amazing.”
“It is amazing. Only the best for my man.”
His smile turns crooked, which looks adorable, and he rolls his eyes, which also looks adorable. With a yawn, he sits and glances at his phone. “Eight fifteen?” His smile fades. “You should have woken me up.”
“You needed to sleep,” I argue, and although his frown deepens, he doesn’t argue back.
Instead, he pushes himself off the bed and heads over to the dresser to find some clothes.
A minute later, he scoots his chair as close to mine as he can at the table and then leans over and rests his head on my shoulder.
“I hope I didn’t keep you up last night. Sleeping sucked. Fucking nightmares all night long,” he mumbles. Then he swallows hard and adds quietly, “Most of them were about Patrick. It hasn’t been that bad in a really long time.”
I slip my arm around his shoulder and press a kiss to his temple. “I figured.”
He stiffens a little but doesn’t say anything more. I lean forward slightly and slide the syrup across the table in his direction.
“Eat.”
He laughs weakly. “Yessir.”
“Damn right.” I grin at him, and he just shakes his head, then straightens up and reaches for the syrup.
After he’s thoroughly drenched his pancakes, I drizzle some syrup over mine as well, and we both start eating. He sets his fork down after just a few bites, however, and he leans against me again.
“What time do you have to leave?” he asks quietly, picking at a small scratch on the edge of the table.
“Nine. So, about a half hour.”
He nods and pulls his hand away from the table. When he speaks, his voice is more steady than I expected. “I’ve been going back and forth about whether I want to call her back. What do you think I should do?”
“Me? What do I think?”
“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head to look up at me. “Who else would I ask? You know the situation and her and what happened. And you have a more, um, objective view than I might.”
“But it’s not up to me.”
He laughs humorlessly and sits up. “I know that. I just want to know what you think so I can decide what to do.”
I don’t know how to answer, so I shake my head. “I’m not sure, honestly. What have you been thinking?”
“I miss her,” he says immediately. “I know we were never as close as you are with your mom, or, hell, as close as I am with your mom now. But . . . but she’s my mom, and I want to have her in my life.
I want to be able to share things with her.
Like . . . I honestly don’t even know if she knows about us.
And what if, someday . . .” He trails off and closes his eyes, and then he leans into me again and his hand comes to rest on my chest. Quietly, he says, “What if someday we get married? I’d want her to be there.
What if someday we have kids? I’d want . . . I’d want her to know them.”
My heart clenches, and I wrap both of my arms around him, pulling him up against me as best I can. I kiss his forehead, and he continues.
“I never wanted what happened between us. It hurt so much then. I-I know it was what I had to do at the time. It was necessary for my safety and well-being. I don’t regret it. But . . . but, god, Alex, if she’s changed . . .”
I let out a short breath and kiss his forehead again. Then I say the words I know he’s thinking. “And what if she hasn’t? How much more will that hurt?”
“That’s why I don’t know what to do,” he admits. His hand slips out to my waist, and he squeezes me as though he needs to be even closer. “She . . . abandoned me once before, and if she lies or hasn’t really changed or doesn’t see anything wrong with what she did back then . . .”
I feel his jaw tighten, and he exhales a sharp breath before pushing away and looking up at me. His whole body shrinks a little as he blinks back a flash of what looks like uncertainty. And despair. His eyes drop to where his hand now rests on my chest.
And it hits me, hard. It’s not even anything he’s said, really. It’s just a sudden understanding of what his anxiety’s probably been telling him—not about his mom, but about me and about us. And it’s dead wrong.
“Nico,” I breathe, shaking my head, “you know that I’d never, ever . . . do that.”
I can’t even say the words; it hurts too much to even acknowledge that he’d think I might leave him. But when he doesn’t refute it right away, I have my answer for that, too.
It’s immediately painful—a sharp sting square in the middle of my chest—and it takes all of my effort to not react outwardly. I’m sure that would just make things worse. Just like I’m sure he’s already feeling awful and uncertain and scared enough.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, and his hand slips down my chest until it falls away from me completely, breaking the contact. I suddenly feel cold and vulnerable, and it’s not a feeling I’m used to. I don’t particularly like it. “Sorry,” he continues, “I-I don’t really think that. I . . . just . . .”
A voice in my head retorts something not so nice, but I hold it back, trying to reason it out.
Of course he doesn’t really think I’d leave him.
Right? Of course he’s just struggling because his mom, who was supposed to be the one person he could always trust to be there for him, unconditionally, played fucking awful games with his mental health.
She abandoned him. She chose her abusive ex over him. She lied to him.
But I’ve always been here for him. How could he think—
“Alex.” His hand cups my cheek, and he turns my face toward him. His eyes are pleading with me, and he shakes his head. “Sometimes my anxiety tells me things. That doesn’t mean I really believe them or that they’re true.”
I close my eyes briefly and nod. I’ve known that about his anxiety for a long time, and I hate that I’m feeling doubt about everything like this. I’ve never doubted before. I nod again. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” I laugh weakly. “Apparently I have some anxiety, too.”
He gives me a tight smile and leans in for a short, reassuring kiss. I want more, so I chase his lips as he goes to pull away. That earns me an actual smile and a cheeky shove with his hand on my chest. When our eyes meet, my heart stutters, and I reach up and brush his hair back from his forehead.
“I love you,” I say softly. “Always.”
“I love you, too.” He lets out a long, slow sigh and falls against me one more time, his head settling on my shoulder.
After a moment, he starts talking again, picking back up where we left off before my anxiety got the best of me.
“The last couple of weeks have been really hard because her call did remind me of all that shit I’ve tried so hard to forget.
And part of that was the fact that she abandoned me.
And, yes, that reminder . . . it really fucked with my head.
” His hand finds my stomach, and he sighs again.
“But I knew it was just my anxiety. I knew you wouldn’t do that to me. ”
I nod, and he continues.
“Um, so, it’s like you said—there’s this huge part of me that wants to call her back, but then, fuck, what if . . . what if she hasn’t changed? What then? I don’t know what to do.”
I press a kiss into his hair, wishing I had advice for him, but I really don’t. It’s a choice only he can make.
“I’ll be here for you, whatever you decide,” I assure him, and he huffs a laugh.
“You got nothing, really? No words of wisdom or five-step plan of attack?”
I shrug. “Sorry. I mean, I’m sure you’ll make the right decision, whatever that is, and—”
“You know,” he cuts in, straightening up with a teasing smirk, “sometimes I like you better when you just boss me around.” He pokes my side with a wink, and when I roll my eyes, he laughs. Then his expression tightens again. “Seriously, though . . . if you were me, what would you do?”
I hesitate, studying his eyes for a second. Then shake my head. “I really don’t know. Although . . . um, I think . . .” I force a small smile and take one of his hands in mine. “I think you’ll be okay.”
His eyes narrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“I mean if you call her and it turns out not to be what you expected . . .” I squeeze his hand. “I think you’ll be okay. You’re not the same person you were six years ago. You’re stronger. And you’re stronger than you think. And you won’t be alone. I’ll be here with you, and you’ll get through it.”
His cheeks redden, and he looks so perfect that I need to kiss him again. I lean in, and he meets me halfway. The kiss is warm and sweet, and when he smiles into it, I feel all his love and hope.
We part, and he’s still smiling. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I grin and nod, and I can’t help myself. I pepper more kisses on his lips and then his cheek and his forehead. “I meant every word I said,” I tell him, and I plant another kiss right on his nose.
He laughs, his cheeks still flushed. “I know.”