Chapter 7 #2
I felt a surge of stubborn resolve and spun on my heel.
I charged him, caught him off guard, pointed at his chest, poked his sternum, and proclaimed, “You say I’m a purist, and you know what, you’re right.
” I fisted my hands on my hips and tried to straighten to a height greater.
“I am a purist. And I think boy bands sing about the purest form of love and devotion—the idea of it. The purest form of something is the idea of it. They sing about something they can’t possibly know anything about.
Once you know what falling in love is, what it requires in order to be sustained, it becomes infinitely less…
less…less….” My arms flailed about in a circular motion as I lost my mental wrestling match with the English language.
Nico lifted his eyebrows and prompted, “Less convenient?”
I scowled and poked him again. “No. Less alluring, less likely, less possible, less obtainable.”
He grabbed my finger and held it suspended between us. “I disagree.”
“You disagree about which part?” I didn’t want to be huffy, but I was. I was huffy and eye-rolly and crab-facey. None of it, however, seemed to be off-put-y because he stalked closer and held—commanded—my gaze with his.
“You had one experience that ended tragically. Have you even tried to love anyone since then? Have you tried again?” His earnestness and honest openness felt…
weird and…disorienting. I tried to glance over his shoulder, but he moved to intercept my glare.
He nodded as though confirming a suspicion. “Yeah. I thought so.”
To keep from frowning, I pinched my lips together. “You don’t know anything.”
“Is that why you left?”
I stiffened.
His eyes moved between mine, his voice growing both softer and more severe. “Is that why you left me, that night?”
My heart thumped painfully in my chest. I couldn’t answer; my throat was too tight.
“Why did you send back all my letters? When you left, why didn’t you take my calls?”
“I….” I breathed the word, but didn’t know what to say. I should’ve apologized, but instead I said, “We were just kids.”
“Did I scare you, that night? Did I do something wrong?”
My heart thump became a gallop. “No. It wasn’t you, but…but…that was so long ago. Why are we talking about this?”
Nico gathered a deep breath, his eyes searching mine. He dropped his gaze to our hands and shifted them in order to hold my palm in both of his. “Because I’ve missed you.” Nico flinched and cleared his throat immediately after saying the words.
“Nico, you didn’t even like me. How could you miss me?”
“That’s not true. I always liked you. I admired you.” Again, his gentle words and his ardent expression were contradictory
I frowned, flummoxed. I tried to respond but instead blinked, and my mouth expelled a strange, breathy sound.
“Nico…what…that…we…you and I…we were never…you never….”
I watched him close his eyes, take a deep breath, and then meet my confused stare with an extremely steady, heady, ready one of his own.
He didn’t speak. He just looked at me. Rather, he allowed me to look at him, and I knew.
He thinks he loves you.
A jarring bolt of shock, almost painful in its intensity, accompanied the realization and sounded between my ears with a high-pitched ping. This was followed by a more precise and distressing realization.
He thinks he’s in love with you.
The sound, the ping, increased in volume. I abruptly pulled my hand from his, and to my relief, the shrill squeal was replaced with rushing silence.
“Elizabeth….” Nico stepped forward as though he were going to reach for my hand again.
“It’s late. You should go.” Eyes wide, I shook my head then crossed my arms protectively over my chest.
I noted that his gaze strayed to my mouth. He didn’t make any move to leave.
I tried to laugh lightly. “I don’t know how late you New York City people stay up but, it’s got to be one in the morning by now and I…” I faked a yawn badly and borrowed a word from Sandra’s repertoire. “Well, shitzterhozen, I’m tired.”
He let out a man-sigh, which is a cross between an exasperated growl and a belligerent huff. “You’re leaving tomorrow.”
I swallowed the building thickness in my throat and shifted another step backward. “Yep.”
“Elizabeth….”
I swung my arms and clapped my hands because I was having difficulty standing still. “All the more reason why I should be getting to bed now and you should go home.”
“I have to tell you something.” He cleared his throat, and I seized the momentary pause to escape.
“Damn it, I need to pee. You can see yourself out!”
His staying hand reached for and held my arm just above the elbow; his touch was light, but it was enough to still my movements. He tugged me toward him. “Wait—don’t…don’t do that.”
“Pee?” I pointedly avoided his eyes but didn’t try to shrug out of his hold.
“No—please stop….” He man-sighed again, and when he spoke, his voice was raised, and the words came out in a staccato avalanche. “You have to know that I’m in love with you—you have to know that I’ve loved you since we were kids, since before I can remember.”
I closed my eyes against the lava-like onslaught and willed myself someplace else. His words, his expression, his voice—they burned me, and it hurt.
He started again, speaking as though he were doing his utmost to maintain a calm exterior.
He looked furious but his voice and words were gentle.
“I know that….” There was a pause, a strained swallow, and then he continued.
“I know that it was Garrett, that you chose Garrett. I know that.” I felt his free hand encircle my other arm just above the elbow.
“I didn’t want to like him, but I did; he was my best friend and I never begrudged him that—meaning, you. But, the summer after….”
I opened my eyes and stared at his chin. A long moment passed. My face was stiff and numb, like granite.
“And when I saw you in Chicago, even though I thought I was over it, over you—I knew I still . . .” He swallowed. “I’m still in love with you.” I felt the angry hesitation and frustrated indecision in him just before he released my arms. He took a step backward. “I just wanted you to know.”
I drew in a steadying breath, still not able to meet his eyes. “What do you want me to say?”
A long moment passed. Then he laughed lightly, his reply both sarcastic and defeated. “I guess nothing.”
I finally found the courage to lift my gaze to his, but he wasn’t watching me anymore. He was staring at the floor. His jaw ticked like a bomb.
“Well, now. That’s done.” His tone changed, became more The Face-like and less Nico-like, and his eyes darted around the room as though searching for something.
He patted his pockets, scratched the back of his neck, and gained another step away from me.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go find Shelly Martin and get to work on plowing that field. ”
He turned away from me, the sexual innuendo a blatant defense mechanism. He walked to the window.
I wanted to do something, but I was truly paralyzed.
He had one foot over the ledge and on the roof before I stumbled, both figuratively and literally, toward him, “What—what are you doing? You don’t need to use the window.
Why are you leaving out of the window? You’ll break your neck! Would you please use the door?”
He held his hands up and slipped out of the window, moving with fluid grace, jogging the length of the roof. I’d just reached the opening when he swung to the largest branch of the oak tree. I held my breath as he picked his way down then landed like a cat on his feet.
I wanted to call to him, but didn’t know what to say.
So I didn’t.
Instead, I watched him walk away.