Chapter Seventeen #4
"What? Because you're a little grumpy? I think it's kind of cute. Like a little old man stuck in a thirty-something body."
"Think I'm cute, huh?" he asked, and his eyes were actually dancing. It was such a striking look on his otherwise rather severe face that I felt the odd urge to reach down and place my hand over his on my knee, gave it a squeeze.
Luckily, Kingston suddenly appeared, giving my hand a purpose so I didn't make any more mistakes.
Soon, I was missed in the kitchen, was ushered back into the chaos, drinking my glass of wine, laughing at the stories the women told, lending a hand when something didn't require actual cooking.
Loading biscuits into a basket. Moving food from pots into serving wear.
Sprinkling croutons on top of the salad.
They were silly little things, but somehow made me feel very much a part of the family.
And, well, I liked it a lot more than I ever could have anticipated, being taken into the fold, being treated as one of their own.
My family was always loving, but in the distant sort of way it had to be when you only saw them a handful of times a year.
The Mallick clan was a different kind of love entirely, the kind that made it clear these people spent much of their free time together, that made you see that this entire group of people showed up for kid's sporting games or school plays, that said they all got together for every birthday, for every holiday, for dinners in between.
It was the kind of closeness I shared with my siblings before we all had life take us in separate directions.
I had never felt the loss of that more acutely than I did as Nixon was walking me back to my car at the end of the meal.
"Well, that went pretty—fuck. Are you... don't do that. Jesus Christ," he grumbled as the tears I had hoped to keep in until I was in my car and a block away started flowing freely and with their usual vengeance. A full-on hysterical episode.
Right there on the street out front of the Mallick home.
Right there in front of Nixon Rivers himself.
"Shit. I'm really not good at... okay. Fuck," he stumbled around in his feelings of inadequacy for a long moment before I suddenly felt strong arms close around me, crushing me to his wide chest.
"I don't have the words," he told me, tone helpless, apologetic, as his arms tightened, as one hand cradled the back of my head.
I didn't need the words, though.
Having someone there to keep the pieces from flying all over the place while I fell apart was enough.
Surprising even me, my arms moved out from my sides, sliding around his lower back, holding on for dear life.
I couldn't have known how desperate I was for a hug until I had one. A long one.
Therapy was great. It was necessary.
But sometimes you just needed a pair of arms around you, someone who gave a shit in a more human, personal way. If only for a few moments.
The tears flowed like they usually did, in a startling, seemingly endless wave. Until they suddenly stopped, leaving me wrung out and empty inside.
"What was that, huh?" he asked.
They weren't eloquent words. But I was starting to understand Nixon well enough to interpret them in the way he intended them.
That was his way of asking if you were alright, what the problem was, and trying to make light of a clearly heavy moment all at once.
I appreciated all of those things.
And that was the problem, wasn't it?
I couldn't keep letting him niggle his way in. Even if he wasn't trying to. Even if he was just trying to be a decent person.
I was starting to recognize something in myself lately that was new and foreign and made me incredibly uncomfortable.
There was a neediness in me.
Something that made me want to cling to him, want to invite him into my world, wanting to spill my guts about me, my grief, about Michael, about stalking, about everything.
There were two problems with that.
First, I didn't want to be that person. I didn't want to be weak and needy and the kind of person who would latch herself to some unsuspecting man just because he shows her a moment of kindness.
And second, I couldn’t tell him. Even if he genuinely wanted to know. He worked for Michael. His alliance was there.
And I couldn't risk him screwing up my plans.
It was too important.
It was everything really.
I lurched suddenly away, surprising him enough to release me, taking a step back, giving me just enough room to yank open my door, slip inside, turn on the ignition.
"Reagan, wait..." he tried, reaching for the door handle.
But I was already stomping on the gas.
The car swerved up onto the Mallick's lawn to avoid taking another swipe at Nixon, and I made myself a mental note to send someone over to fix the damage to the lawn as I made my way down the street, across the town.
I wanted to go to work.
That was my safe space most of the time.
But should he want to, he knew he could find me there.
So I turned my car in the direction of home, feeling a heavy sensation settle on my shoulders, on my chest, a weight that was impossible to ignore.
And one I could only name loneliness.