Chapter 15 Nico #2
Este hesitates for only a moment before she cuddles into my side, laying her head on my chest. It feels right, having her here. I allow myself to kiss her head, and Este lets out a tension-filled breath, until I feel her body relax against me.
“Good night, angel.”
“Good night, Daddy.”
Jesus Christ. “Este.”
“Shh. I’m trying to sleep.”
I close my eyes and, for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep smiling.
The air blowing from the heater is lukewarm, and the wipers only have two working settings—off or lightning speed—so I have to choose between squinting through a blotchy windshield or aggressive wipers.
But I love this car. We’ve been so many places together, made so many memories.
The first thing Georgie did when she got in the car was flick through the folder of CDs to find her favorite and shove it in the CD player.
It’s scratched from being played so many times, and it skips sometimes until she bangs the stereo, but it wouldn’t be a drive with my sisters if they weren’t singing ABBA.
Georgie at the top of her lungs, Shay half-singing from the back seat while she scribbles a recipe idea for some kind of layer cake on an old gas station receipt she found in the footwell.
There’s never a quiet moment with Georgie and Shay around, and that’s exactly how I like it.
When they’re not here, I like the quiet.
But when it’s the three of us, their energy recharges me.
It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
They’re a part of me. No matter how far they are, I can feel them, and they can feel me, but we always feel better when we’re together.
Georgie turns the music down and looks over her shoulder. “You never told us what the psychic said at your work party last night.”
“It was just generic bullshit, as always,” Shay replies, her voice laced with skepticism. “Apparently I should keep an eye out for black cats, and I’m going to marry someone who goes to Berkley.”
“Could be worse. She could’ve said you were going to die some tragic way,” I offer, and she snorts.
“Even worse—she told the new busboy he should try a different deodorant.”
Before Georgie or I can respond, a gust catches the car, and it’s all I can do to stay in my lane.
I curse, gripping the wheel and slowing down.
Thankfully, the road is dead, but the weather has been shit lately, and there’s rubble all over the place.
I almost suggested we go somewhere else, but we’ve gone to the same restaurant on our birthday every year for as long as we can remember, and our parents are meeting us there.
Even the year Georgie and Shay lived in Paris, they came home for a long weekend over our birthday.
A little bad weather isn’t enough to stop us, but it is enough to slow me down.
I insisted we leave early so we didn’t have to rush.
Georgie doesn’t turn the music back up; she and Shay sit quietly as I navigate the winding, cliffside road. If not for the silence, we might not have heard it. A deep rumble that sounds like it’s coming from miles away.
“Is that an earthquake?” Shay murmurs from the back, but I can’t feel anything.
I round a bend in the road, squinting as the noise gets louder. It’s not until I see a dust cloud forming that I realize it’s a rockslide. It’s hard to see in the dark, but I think the whole side of the cliff is crumbling.
“Fuck,” I growl, pressing my foot down and trying to speed past this stretch of road. If I can just get a bit farther…
The bang is deafening as the mass of stone batters the passengers’ side of the car. The sound echoes in my head as we’re forced off the road, and, when it clears, Shay is screaming.
Georgie isn’t.
I turn the wheel like it’ll do anything when we’re nose down, falling down the ravine.
I’m vaguely aware of my seatbelt biting into my chest, the only thing holding me together.
My eyes won’t open when I try to turn and look at Georgie.
And I need to look at Georgie, because I can’t feel her. I can’t…
“Nico.”
Why can’t I feel her?
“Nico.”
Oh god. Oh god. Oh—
“Nico!”
I jolt awake, drawing in a breath that feels like a knife in my throat. There’s a hand on my face. Two hands. Soft, warm hands and a forehead pressed to mine, and—Este.
My vision is hazy when I force my eyes open, but I focus on her. She looks worried.
“Sor—I’m… Sorry. I’m sorry,” I murmur, or I try to. I’m shaking, and the words are all disjointed.
Este breathes my name, gripping me tighter. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re awake. It’s over now.”
It’s over now. Usually, people tell you to remember that nightmares aren’t real. But this was real. This happened. And Este knows that. Because she lives it.
I wrap my arms around her and try to match my breathing to hers.
When I no longer feel like every breath might be my last, I loosen my hold on her and brush her hair back from her face.
Este searches my expression, and I see a little of her panic fade.
“I’m sorry for waking you.” My voice is scratchy, my throat sore as hell.
I don’t want to know if I was screaming out loud. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“You didn’t. I hadn’t fallen asleep yet.”
I glance at the clock on the nightstand and frown. We’ve been in bed for a few hours. “Are you okay?”
She nods, absentmindedly tracing her finger around my hairline. “Just couldn’t settle. And I… I can’t explain it, but I had a feeling you’d need me tonight.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. It’s been so long since anyone was close enough to me to see me like that.
“Thank you. It was… It’s been a while since it was that bad.
” That’s what happens when I let myself think about Georgie more than usual, I guess.
She felt so real, and as much as it hurts, this is the most vividly I’ve remembered her in years.
I don’t want to forget the details of her.
Este doesn’t ask what my nightmare was about.
If it was that bad, she knows, and she knows I don’t want to repeat it.
Instead, she says, “After the crash, when I was trying to force myself to get up and out again, I stumbled upon a little coffee shop near my apartment that I’d never seen before.
I fell in love with their coffee, and I went in every day for two weeks before the old couple that ran the place started talking to me.
They’re Italian and moved here thirty years ago, but their English isn’t great.
My Italian isn’t great, but we chatted a little more every time I went in.
I helped them set up a Facebook page and posted about them in some local groups.
They’re much busier now, and, when I’m home, I still go every day I can. ”
We don’t usually trade good stories, but I see what she’s doing. Sharing something good that came from something bad. Giving me the chance to do the same without feeling guilty about it.
“If the accident hadn’t happened, I would never have moved here. Which means Shay would never have moved here, and she might never have met Noelle. And if I’d never moved here, I would’ve been around to watch you grow up. Which means…” I trail off, and a perfect smile curves Este’s lips.
“We would never have had this.”