Chapter 59 Nina
Nina
Wyatt’s been in my kitchen for twenty minutes, opening the refrigerator, closing it, pulling out ingredients and putting them back.
In my old apartment, those first months we were together, he never hesitated like this.
He’d show up with groceries and a plan, make my cramped galley kitchen feel like it had always been waiting for him. He’s not usually the indecisive one.
He’s holding a block of parmesan now, and I know it’s not about dinner. He’s waiting too. He’s just better at keeping his hands busy while he does it.
I’m curled on the couch with Nikita, pretending to watch a British baking show while actually watching the clock.
Chris’s appointment was at four. It’s almost six now.
“He’s fine,” Wyatt says without turning from the fridge. “First sessions always run long.”
“I know.” I scratch behind Nikita’s ears. She purrs, magnanimous. “I’m not worried.”
Wyatt glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“I’m not that worried.”
“Uh-huh.” He puts the parmesan back, pulls out a bell pepper, frowns at it. “How was your session today?”
“Good, actually.” I shift on the couch, dislodging Nikita, who gives me a look of profound betrayal before relocating to the arm. “Dr. Okafor thinks I’m making progress. We talked about avoidance behaviors. How I use distance to protect myself from things that feel too big.”
“And?”
“And I decided to do something about it.”
Wyatt pulls out an onion, considers it, sets it on the counter. “That sounds ominous.”
“Maybe.”
He moves to the pantry, scanning shelves. “What are we thinking for dinner? I can’t decide if I want to do something simple or actually put in effort.”
Here it is. My opening.
“Actually,” I say, “we should probably figure that out. We’re having a guest.”
“Oh yeah?” He’s already reaching for the pasta, his posture shifting into that easy recalibration I know so well, mentally adding a fourth portion, maybe thinking about wine, whether we have enough salad. “Who’s coming?”
I watch him do the math for an adult. Watch him pull a second box of linguine off the shelf just in case.
“Zoey.”
The pasta box freezes mid-air.
Wyatt turns slowly. “Zoey.”
“Callie’s hospital is doing their annual charity fundraiser tonight. I said we’d take her.”
He sets the box down on the counter with exaggerated care. His expression cycles through surprise, confusion, and then—as it catches up to what I’m actually saying—tenderness. The recognition of exactly what this costs me.
I wait for the concern. The gentle question about whether I’m sure, whether I’m ready. Part of me wants him to talk me out of it. Part of me is terrified he will.
Zoey is twenty months old and I love her.
That’s the whole point. I love her, and I’m tired of my body going rigid every time she reaches for me, tired of the way my throat closes around something that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with fears I never fully unpacked.
She deserves an aunt who can hold her without flinching.
“Nina.” He crosses to the couch, sits on the coffee table facing me. “That’s huge.”
“It’s babysitting. People do it all the time.”
“Not people who’ve spent the last month avoiding being alone in a room with her.”
I don’t have a response to that, because he’s right. Every time we’ve been at Mason and Callie’s, I’ve found reasons to stay in the kitchen, to help with dishes, to suddenly need fresh air. Zoey is a whole human being and I’ve been treating her like a live grenade.
“I can’t keep running from things,” I say quietly. “From her. From what she represents. I made my choice and I don’t regret it, but I can’t let it turn me into someone who’s afraid of children.”
Wyatt reaches for my hand. “You know Chris and I will be right here.”
“I know.”
“And if it gets to be too much—”
“I know.” I squeeze his fingers. “That’s kind of the point. I trust you both to catch me if I fall.”
“I should have asked first,” I add. “I know. But I needed to commit before I could talk myself out of it.”
Wyatt’s quiet for a moment, thumb tracing over my knuckles. “So. Pasta’s probably still fine for a toddler, right?”
I laugh, some of the tension cracking loose. “I have no idea. We can ask Callie when they get here.”
“When are they—”
The front door opens before he can finish.
Nikita chirps and hops off the couch, trotting across the floor to wind between Chris’s ankles.
He’s still in the doorway, keys in hand, and even from here I can see his eyes are red-rimmed.
His shoulders carry a different kind of tension than when he left.
Not the coiled, defensive posture I’ve grown used to. Looser. More exposed.
I’m closing the distance before I realize I’ve moved.
Chris crouches to scratch behind Nikita’s ears, letting the cat demand his attention, and I wait. Give him the moment. When he straightens, I’m there, and I don’t say anything—just wrap my arms around him and hold on.
He stiffens for a second. Then his arms come around me, and he exhales against my hair.
“Hey,” I say into his chest.
“Hey.” His voice is rough.
Wyatt doesn’t crowd us. I hear him moving back to the stove, giving us space while staying close. When Chris finally loosens his grip, I pull back but keep hold of his hand, tugging him toward the kitchen.
Nikita trots after us, meowing pointedly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris says. “I know.”
He pulls open the cabinet where we keep her treats, shakes a few into his palm. Nikita inhales them with zero dignity.
“You’re going to spoil her dinner,” I say.
“She’s a cat. She doesn’t have dinner. She has an ongoing series of snacks.” Chris shakes out a few more treats, then—with exaggerated ceremony—reaches for the cabinet where we keep the actual cat food. “Unless you think she’s ready for the main course?”
“It’s six o’clock,” Wyatt says from the stove. He’s got water on to boil now, the onion sizzling in a pan. “Dinner’s not for another hour at least.”
“Hear that?” Chris tells Nikita. “You have to wait.”
She meows in protest. He gives her one more treat.
I catch Wyatt’s eye over Chris’s head. He raises an eyebrow slightly. You or me?
I take the opening. “So. How was it?”
Chris is quiet for a moment, focused on closing the treat bag, returning it to the cabinet. When he turns around, he leans against the counter, arms crossed. Not defensive, just bracing.
“Hard,” he says. “Good.” A pause. “She made me cry. In the first twenty minutes.”
“That tracks,” I say. “She is one of the best.”
Chris moves to the fridge, pulls out a beer, twists off the cap. Takes a long drink. “Apparently.” He leans back against the counter, and I settle beside him. “I thought we’d do introductions. Background stuff. Instead she just asked me why I was there, and I told her.”
Wyatt glances at me. I give a small nod. Keep it casual. Don’t push.
“You told her about Vicente?” Wyatt asks, like he’s asking about the weather.
“Yeah.”
Neither of us says anything. Chris takes another drink. Nikita, having abandoned hope of more treats, jumps onto the counter. Wyatt nudges her off without looking. She jumps back up. He nudges her off again. It’s a familiar dance.
“She said it’s treatable,” Chris says eventually. “The dissociation. All of it. She said they’re symptoms, not who I am.”
“She’s right,” I say.
“Maybe.” He sets the beer down, and I watch him watch Wyatt—the way his shoulders ease a little, just being in the same room. “I scheduled the next appointment before I left. So. That’s something.”
Wyatt glances over. “That’s a lot, actually.”
Chris almost smiles. “We’ll see.”
The kitchen settles into a rhythm. Wyatt moves between the stove and the cutting board, dicing tomatoes.
Chris drifts over to help without being asked, pulling out the pasta pot, filling it with water.
A month ago he couldn’t be in a room without tracking every exit.
Now he’s got his back to the door, shoulder to shoulder with Wyatt, arguing about whether the water needs salt yet.
I stay where I am, leaning against the counter, watching them. Watching us.
And then I notice it. The way Wyatt’s eyes keep drifting to Chris, checking. The way his shoulders don’t quite settle even when he’s laughing. He’s been holding us both up for weeks.
“Wyatt.” I wait until he looks at me. “You keep checking on us, but no one ever checks on you.”
Wyatt pauses, knife hovering over a tomato. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t deflect.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Sets the knife down. Turns to face both of us.
“As long as you two are okay,” he says, “I am too.”
Chris stops what he’s doing. I push off from the counter.
“Wyatt—”
“I mean it.” He looks between us, and there’s vulnerability in his face now, the fear he usually keeps tucked away.
“I spent a long time not knowing if this was going to work. If we were going to make it. And now—” He shrugs, but it’s not casual.
“Now we get to be home for each other. That’s all I need. ”
The kitchen is quiet except for the sizzle of the onions.
Chris moves first, crossing to Wyatt and pulling him into a hug. They shift to make room for me without a word, and I step into the space they’ve made, the three of us holding on in the middle of my kitchen.
“Okay,” Wyatt says, muffled against Chris’s shoulder. “The onions are going to burn.”
“Let them,” Chris says.
“I’m not letting them.” But he doesn’t move.
I laugh, and it breaks the tension just enough. We separate, but slowly. Wyatt turns back to the stove. Chris picks up his beer. I stay close, unwilling to put distance between us just yet.
Wyatt catches my eye over the cutting board. A small nod. You going to tell him?
I take a breath. “So. You missed the end of Vicente and Arturo’s session today.”
Chris stills, beer halfway to his mouth. He knows that tone. “What happened?”
“They invited us for Christmas. The whole family gathering at the compound.”