Chapter 7
SEVEN
HENRY SALMAN
It’s startling how quickly Nicolo settles in. Makes himself at home.
He unpacks with a single-minded determination so rarely seen when he was a child. Within a couple of hours a new pillow has been added to the bed, along with a heating blanket and a stuffed frog that has seen better days. His clothing is sorted—some hanging in the closet with mine, some stuffed in drawers he rearranged to make room for himself.
The bathroom sink’s right side now has his toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving kit, and other assorted items. The shower is lined with way more product than a typical eighteen-year-old boy usually owns.
“What’s left?” I nudge the three unmarked boxes he hasn’t touched.
“Oh. Um.” Nicolo sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and wraps his arms around his midsection. My stomach cramps as he curls in on himself and refuses to look at me. “Those aren’t mine. Not . . . Not really.”
I frown and squat by a box, picking at the tape. “Whose are they? Not your roommate’s, right?”
He shakes his head. “No. They . . . Yours.”
I look up. His face is flushed and his gaze is darting around the room. “Mine?”
Nicolo shuffles closer and crouches beside me. His shoulder presses against mine and he holds out the utility knife he used to open the other boxes. “When, um . . . didn’t come back that night Dad was pissed. He trashed your bedroom. Mom and I cleaned it up, threw most everything away.”
He swallows and blinks back tears. I pull the box cutter from his lax grip. “She knew you weren’t coming back, I think. So some of it—things I think she thought you or I might want one day—she put in boxes and told me to hide it in the attic.”
Anthony never went into the attic. There was never any reason for him to do so, because it never even occurred to him his wife or kids could or would keep secrets.
Anything Mom, or even myself, wanted kept safe from him was hidden amongst the seasonal decorations or generational furniture that had been passed down through the years.
“Grab a couple beers from the fridge and we’ll open them.” I tip my head towards the door. Nicolo turns wide, turbulent eyes my way. He’s not anywhere near the drinking age but if there was ever a time to have a beer, it’s when I’m opening up boxes that contain my literal past. “See what Mom thought mattered to me.”
He swallows and stands. “Okay.”
I push the utility knife into my pocket and carry the boxes one by one to the living room. Nicolo meets me, two opened beers in hand. “You’ve drank before?”
“Just wine at dinner.”
I clink the bottle neck against his. “Cheers.”
His smile is weak as he lifts the bottle and takes a small sip. He grimaces. I laugh and drop in front of the boxes, setting my own bottle to the side and pulling out the box cutter.
Nicolo sits beside me, his knee pressing into my thigh as he cradles his beer against his chest.
The tape parts easily. I peel open the boxes and suck in a sharp breath. Right on top is a blast from the past. The picture is torn—a missing corner held in place by the worst tape job in history—but the moment captured on film is easy to recognize.
Me—fifteen, maybe sixteen at the time, with short hair, a black eye and a broken nose, but grinning. Not at the camera. I’m sitting in the grass, knees pulled up, arms hanging over them, my face upturned towards the little monster clinging to me. Nicolo is collapsed against my back, a gap-toothed grin rimmed by chocolate on full display. His left arm is in a bright blue cast from wrist to elbow.
We’re so young. Not just Nicolo, but me too. I barely recognize myself as I reach for the picture. It’s hard to believe. Thirteen years ago, that was me.
I’m all long limbs and gangly. My nose is too big for my face, but I can see in the shape of my jaw one day it won’t be. A kid still growing into his own body.
“I forgot you were kind of emo.” Nicolo takes the picture and inspects it for a long moment before flipping it over.
On the back is a simple inscription: Sebastian (15) sixteen, six; seventeen, seven—our gaze grows more haunted. Nicolo’s smile is less bright, and he curls into himself more. In more than one picture, he’s clinging to my hand like a lifeline.
Leaving Nicolo was the hardest thing I ever did, but it was for the best. Testifying against my own father while there was a bounty on my head was easy in comparison. A cakewalk.
Taking the stand, speaking my truth despite the danger doing so put me in, gave Nicolo his childhood back in many ways. I protected him the only way I truly could because if I’d stayed, eventually I would’ve fallen in line and become the man Anthony wanted me to be.
People are hardwired to choose the path of least resistance, after all. Nicolo would have suffered, and I would’ve been the one making him suffer, just to avoid my own suffering.
“Sebastian?” Nicolo presses against my side. His beer is cold against my arm. “Are you okay?”
I open and shut my mouth, eyes falling to the pictures. Am I okay? Is he?
I shake my head and choke out the truth. “No. Not really.”
Will either of us ever truly be okay, after all we endured?