Chapter 7 Este
ESTE
“Do you think I’m boring?”
Rebecca, my therapist, tilts her head, frowning at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Sloane said post-crash Este is boring.”
“Ah. Sounds like something Sloane would say.” Unlike my dads, Sloane has come along to a couple of my therapy sessions.
Rebecca says healing is about more than just the person at the center of whatever happened, so she likes to be a space for conversations between loved ones, too.
I imagine it works, but Sloane isn’t the person who needs help talking about what happened.
I started therapy via video call a couple of weeks after the crash while I was still stuck in bed.
It’s required for Skylark staff involved in any kind of on-the-job trauma to do a minimum of eight weeks of therapy with a qualified psychologist and get signed off before they can start working again.
Rebecca declared me fit to fly after twelve weeks, but I didn’t feel ready to stop therapy, and she agreed.
I also don’t feel ready to fly, but she won’t tell me what she thinks of that.
“I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume you’ve been less exciting lately, considering you’ve experienced a major trauma, Este. That doesn’t mean you’re boring, though.”
“That was a very diplomatic answer,” I muse, and Rebecca laughs.
“That’s my job. Besides, it’s not important what I think. Do you think you’re boring?”
I think back over the past few months. What have I done?
Mostly, shut myself away with my Kindle.
It’s not like I was going out and partying much before the crash, but the nature of my job meant I went to a lot of new places.
I liked to go out and try out local restaurants and cafés, visit museums, and see shows.
And yes, I still spent a lot of time glued to my Kindle, but even when I was at home in my apartment in Chicago, I never spent a whole day in bed reading like I do now.
I would take my Kindle to coffee shops—I even bought a fancy handmade purse specifically for Kindles—or I’d stay home and make my living room cozy with candles, put a fireplace on my flatscreen, and open the windows so I could get fresh air.
Obviously, I’m not going to get to see the world if I refuse to get on a plane, but I have become a little too acquainted with my bedroom ceiling. And not even for fun reasons.
It’s not like reading is all I did. Randall and I went on dates, and, though he had no personality, he knew how to plan a decent night out.
I went to bars with Sloane, who’s had a fake ID and a knack for finding bars that don’t look too closely since she was nineteen, and I have friends from work I’d meet up with whenever they passed through Chicago.
Since the crash, not so much. I don’t even go to the grocery store anymore. I only leave the house to go to my favorite coffee shop nearby, for doctor’s appointments, and dinner at my dad’s house, because if I didn’t, they’d worry about me.
“I think I might have gotten a little boring,” I admit. “I’m twenty-six. I shouldn’t be spending all my time shut away.”
“It’s understandable that you’d want to stay somewhere that feels safe after going through something awful. But no, you can’t do it forever. I don’t think it would be a bad thing for you to do something a little more fun.”
“You got the part where I mentioned being snowed in on a mountain for at least a month, right?”
“I’m sure you can find something to do.”
My first thought should not be the man I can hear moving something around downstairs. And yet…
“I’ll think about it,” I say, because I don’t think I can bring myself to tell Rebecca about this newfound… crush. Yeah, that’s all it is. A harmless crush that’s the result of being in an enclosed space with him. That’s it.
Rebecca smiles. “Good. So, how are your dads handling you being away?”
There’s a dull ache pounding between my brows as I turn into the living room and stop in my tracks. First, because all the furniture has been moved. Second, because Nico is holding the coffee table like it weighs nothing.
“Isn’t that solid wood?” I ask, eyes wide.
“Maple. Yeah.” He puts it down in front of the couch, except it’s not the same couch where I fell asleep this morning after Nico woke me up from my nightmare.
That’s twice now I’ve fallen asleep beside him on the couch, and twice I’ve stayed asleep. Did I once again have an inappropriate dream about my dad’s best friend? Maybe. Is that why I’ve avoided coming down since the first night? Absolutely.
But at least I slept.
And just like the first night, I think Nico managed to fall asleep, too. At least for a few hours.
“What’s going on? Where’s the couch?”
“I had this one in one of the guest rooms, so I swapped them,” Nico tells me, putting back the tray that sits on the coffee table to hold the remote, Kleenex, and a jar of treats for the boys.
“You carried this downstairs by yourself? Why?” I can’t keep the disbelief from my tone.
I knew he was strong, obviously. He’d have to be, considering the heavy furniture pieces he works on.
And I’ve seen his arms—dreamed about his arms. But carrying a couch downstairs alone is not just strong, it’s a little stupid. And, admittedly, pretty hot.
Nico leans down and pulls something I can’t see. The bottom of the couch slides out and clicks into place, making it more like a bed than a sectional. He stands and clears his throat. “I noticed you seem to sleep better in the living room, so I wanted to make it more comfortable.”
“I don’t think it’s the room,” I say without thinking, and his eyes widen a fraction. What the fuck is wrong with me? “Thank you, though. This is basically my dream reading setup.”
“Good.” Nico looks at the couch and crosses his arms, then looks at me and uncrosses them, like he’s not sure what to do with himself. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed him being a little awkward around me since I had the nightmare and he woke me up. Maybe I opened up too much.
Most silences with Nico, I like. They’re comfortable. But these ones, when it feels like he can’t even look at me… not so much.
“I’m sure I’ll be able to sleep better, too,” I say, for lack of anything else.
Nico nods. “Yeah. And I’ll go to my room when you’re ready to go to sleep, so you have space.”
“Huh? You don’t have to do that. I’m not kicking you out of your own living room.” First, I pass out on him, then I invade his space for longer than I was supposed to, then I cry on him so much his white T-shirt was see-through, and now this.
“You’re not kicking me out. I’m offering.”
“Okay, well, I’m declining,” I say, and his brow knits together. “You’re being weird. Is it because I cried on you?”
He blinks at me. “Wha—of course not. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“Why would I be uncomfortable? Are you uncomfortable? Because I can stay upstairs. It’s fine.”
“I’m not uncomfortable.” He sighs. “I just thought you might not want a relative stranger falling asleep a few feet away from you.”
Oh my god. He’s worrying about making me feel uncomfortable, and I’ve been picturing him in various stages of undress every time I close my eyes. We might be alike in our most traumatized ways, but Nico is a better person than I am.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” I confirm. “Honestly, I’ve slept better on the couch than I have in months. And you seem to have slept better, too. Right?” He hesitates, but nods. “So, let’s just keep doing what we’re doing.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I am,” I confirm, as a sharp pain travels between my temples. I wince, and Nico immediately moves closer.
“What’s wrong?”
I squeeze my eyes closed, pinching the bridge of my nose until the pain dissipates. “I’m fine. Since the accident, I get these headaches, and they’re always worse after therapy. But it’s not too bad.”
When I open my eyes, he’s frowning, but it’s more worried than pissed.
“Lie down.”
“I’m fine, really. I don’t want to be—”
“Este.” He says my name in that soft, demanding way that makes me want to say yes to whatever he’s asking. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.
“Maybe for a little while,” I grumble, stepping toward the couch.
“Until you feel better,” he corrects as I lie down. It’s comfier than I expected for a fancy sofa bed. “Can I get you anything? Painkillers?”
“Would you mind bringing me the blue pouch that’s on my nightstand, please? And my Kindle. It should be on the bed.”
Nico nods, handing me not one, but two blankets before disappearing upstairs. He comes back a few moments later with my Kindle, the pouch, and Amelia Bearhart.
“Thought you might want her,” he says as he passes them over. He thought right. I’m old enough not to need a stuffed animal to comfort me, but it helps. Before the crash, she sat on a shelf in my room, and I hadn’t touched her in years. Recently, though, she grounds me.
“Thank you,” I say, hugging her tight against my chest.
“I’ll just be in the kitchen. Call me if you need anything, angel.”
Angel. He’s used the nickname a few times since he woke me up and held me, and every time, it makes me feel conflicting things.
Touched, that “angel” was the nickname that came to mind in the heat of the moment when he was trying to calm me down.
And incredibly turned on, because such a soft word in such a low, commanding tone is the second hottest thing I think I’ve heard—next to him saying my name.
Like I said: conflicting. Almost as conflicting as how I feel about him taking care of me. On one hand, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. I like looking after myself. I always have, but even more so after the crash, because I’m so grateful that I didn’t lose that independence.
On the other hand, it feels good to do what he tells me and let him hold the reins. It feels good to know I can switch off a little and trust him to keep everything in hand.
I take a cooling forehead patch from the blue pouch.
When I first got out of the hospital, they gave me all sorts of painkillers, but I didn’t like how they made me feel.
Nightmares are bad enough when you’re asleep, but the medication made me so woozy that I could never tell what was real and what was made worse by my anxiety.
The patches take the edge off, and as long as I avoid bright lights and loud noises, the headaches usually get better after a few hours.
The tingling relief is instant as I stick the patch to my forehead.
I snuggle in under the blankets and turn on my Kindle, lowering the brightness.
Falling asleep while reading isn’t like me, and I must have turned the page last night in my sleep, because I have to go back a few pages to find the last thing I remember reading.
I can’t believe I fell asleep in the middle of a sex scene. Damn.
I’ve gotten used to reading with Nico moving around as background noise, but reading this while I can hear the splash of the sink as he washes dishes is a problem.
It’s so easy to imagine us in place of the couple in the book.
Would Nico be as rough and demanding as the man on the page?
He’s been so soft with me, but picturing him slipping into a less-gentle role isn’t hard.
It’s just completely inappropriate. Reckless.
But something Sloane said the other day keeps replaying in my head: “You’re probably never going to see him again. What’s the worst that could happen?”
And Rebecca did suggest I find something fun to do.
Granted, I’m not sure she’d approve of this particular kind of fun.
But is there really any harm in turning on the charm a little around Nico to see if he seems interested?
I might end up embarrassing myself, but I can always claim a temporary lack of judgment as a side effect of the crash.
And if he is interested… a month stuck here might go by faster than either of us expected.