Chapter Forty-Six
Max
Their house smells like garlic and something slow-cooked and that special warmth of a home that has been lived in for decades, full of love and memories.
It’s been over six weeks since I was here after the shooting, and I really didn’t want to come back.
Their mom opens the door before I knock and pulls me in by both hands. She holds me for a moment, and I let her.
Maggie is in the kitchen wearing an apron that says WORLD’S OKAYEST CHEF and arguing with Sophia about whether the pasta water is salty enough.
The argument stops when I step in.
They both look at me with the same expression—careful, surprised, warm, but trying not to make it a big deal—and then Sophia mumbles something that sounds like “finally” and Maggie swats at her.
I laugh, briefly, which surprises all of us.
Nico isn’t there. I don’t ask why.
We eat at the little kitchen table instead of the dining room and their mom puts way too much food in front of me. But I eat it. And she watches me with satisfaction.
Maggie tells us a story about a disastrous attempt to make tiramisu that devolved into another argument with Sophia about mascarpone.
Sophia tells me about a fashion show she went to.
They ask about school and I answer. We are all careful with each other, gentle in the way of people navigating the same absence from different angles.
It’s a good dinner. But I feel more empty than I have since the funeral.
Because he isn’t here. And he should be. He should be sitting at this table making Maggie crazy and stealing food off Sophia’s plate, and making his mom sit while he does the dishes and clears the table.
He should be hanging his arm off the back of my chair and making inappropriate comments in my ear whenever the conversation erupts without us.
The empty chair next to me feels like a black hole in the universe.
That is, until Nico walks in.
We hear him before we see him as he calls out from the foyer, “Hey, sorry I’m late, I was at the penthouse taking care of some documents and stuff that was left.”
He pauses as he walks into the kitchen; his hand freezes on his sleeve that he was rolling up seconds before he came in. He tries to smooth his shocked expression but fails miserably.
“Wow, uh, hey Max,” he says tentatively, like he might startle me, and makes his way to the stove to grab a plate. “Didn’t, uh, expect to see you here, uh, good to see you.”
He’s uncomfortable, and I don’t think I care.
I’m still bitter about his display of annoyance at the funeral.
He walks to the table with a full plate and kisses his mom on the cheek.
“Thanks for dinner, Ma.” He clears his throat as he moves to stand in front of the only empty chair beside me.
The smell hits me first and my breath catches in my throat. Cedar, leather and smoke—no, not smoke, not burnt salt: gunpowder. Nico smells like I could close my eyes and his brother would be standing in his place.
And I think I might pass out.
He stands for way too long, shifting from one foot to the other, and I stare straight ahead at the spot between Maggie and Sophia.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Nicolas,” his mother mumbles, covering her forehead with a shaky palm and sighing.
“Sit down, you ape, good God,” Sophia adds, swatting at him.
He clears his throat again and sets the plate in front of the empty chair.
“Sorry, Max.”
“It’s, um—” I set my napkin next to the plate in front of me and try to force a smile with a swallow. “It’s your house, Nico, it’s your chair, it’s fine, it’s—”
I feel my nose burn and choke on the words.
“Excuse me.”
I stand up carefully, avoiding eye contact.
I walk fast to the little bathroom by the stairs. I close the door quietly, then slide down the back of it like a dramatic scene in a movie. But my legs won’t hold me up.
I’m gulping air in through my mouth and trying not to cry. The smell still lingers in my nose and the tears start.
I hear quiet conversation filtering in through the hallway behind the door, but I can’t make out the words.
My own thoughts are flying through my head instead:
I have to get out of here.
I shouldn’t have come.
I should never have come.
I should have known that it’d be full of memories and just lead to this. Lead to me, on the floor of their bathroom, hysterical.
I lie down, pressing my hot, tear-streaked cheek to the cool black tile and cry silently.
I think of the plane ride; of stepping into the penthouse the first time; of being in his arms up and down the stairs and in the study, in his office.
His smile.
His eyes.
Our future that can’t be our future anymore.
He is all I need.
And I spent so long without him.
And didn’t get enough time.
I hate this.
The tile slips under my hands where my tears have fallen.
A soft knock that must belong to one of the sisters comes from behind my back.
I’ve been in here too long.
“I, um,” I sniffle and try to wipe the tears from my burning cheeks. “I’ll be right out.”
A man clears his throat, and a gruff voice muffled by the door says, “I thought you might want to leave… Can I take you home?”
It’s Nico’s voice.
My chest tightens and I sob again just thinking about how he smells, like the penthouse must still smell.
“Unlock the door, sorellina.” His voice is lower now, like he’s bent down and whispering through the crack at the bottom.
I scoot away from the door and flip the lock on the handle as the tears fall from my jaw and the door cracks open.
Nico is sitting back on his heels and he sighs.
“Come.” He stands and closes the space between us in two steps.
I move to push myself from the tile, but the smell of cedar and leather and gunpowder hits me, crippling me as I crumple to the floor again.
But my face doesn’t hit the tile. Nico’s arm is under my head in an instant.
I grasp at him. I feel my tears soak into the rough linen of his fancy shirt, no doubt leaving a watery stain on the blue fabric. I feel his other hand loop under my legs and he lifts me.
“No, no, they can’t see me like this,” I choke out the words into his shoulder and put both my hands on his chest.
The smell is overwhelming, but I remind myself it’s Nico.
Nico is sharper and colder where his brother was soft and warm.
His shoulders aren’t right and despite the smell that is undoubtedly his brother, I remind myself again that he is Nico.
He freezes in the doorway of the bathroom.
“Tell me what to do, Max,” he mumbles, but not in a normal Nico exasperated way.
I move my feet and he sets me down, holding me under the arms while I get my balance. I wipe my cheeks, swipe my fingers under my eyes and take a deep breath.
I just need to say goodbye; I can fall apart as soon as I leave, but I can’t do this to his mom, to Sophia and Maggie, it’s not fair, I think slowly.
“I just—” I look up at Nico and take another deep breath. “I just need to say goodbye, then Gio can take me home.”
He nods, pursing his lips together before rolling them in a way that screams he has something to say.
He steps aside and gestures for me as I take another deep breath.
Just say goodbye and go.
I walk on wobbly feet to the entry to the kitchen. Maggie and Sophia sit at the table and their mom is at the sink. She looks up and her hands wring the towel she is holding.
“I’m going to head home but thank you so much for—” My voice cracks and I swallow. “For dinner, it was so amazing.”
“Please don’t be a stranger, Max.” She looks at me with tears in her own eyes.
“Please,” Sophia whispers and I see that Maggie is holding her now, as they both look close to tears.
I nod, and force a small smile, fearing if I try to speak, a sob might escape instead. I offer a small wave and turn on my heel.
Nico is still standing in front of the bathroom with his hands in his pockets as I walk toward the foyer.
“I can take you,” he murmurs, looking sorry, like somehow this is his fault.
“No offense, Nico,” I sniffle again, grabbing my jacket from the coat rack beside the door. “If I have to smell you all the way home, I might throw up or go catatonic. Neither of which I think you want to deal with—again.”
He frowns and sniffs at his armpits.
“You smell like him.”
A look of terror, wide-eyed and manic, appears on his face. His mouth opens and closes like he can’t formulate a response.
I shrug my jacket on and stare at him while his eyes look around like the response he is trying to find is on the ceiling or the walls.
“Because you were at the penthouse, you smell like him.”
He snaps his fingers and points at me with a smile. “That’s right, yes.”
I frown and pull open the door.
Gio is already on the other side.
“Bye, Nico.”
He says something I don’t catch because I’m moving as fast as possible to the car to get away from the memories that continue to haunt me, and the smell I can’t ever forget.
Becca is awake when I get home, sitting on our secondhand couch with tea and a look on her face like she knew this would happen.
I’m already crying as I say, “I can’t go back.”
“I know,” she says.
She moves over. I sit. She hands me her tea. The radiator clanks and we sit in the quiet of the small apartment, and I think about how this is what I have now—this couch, Becca, law school, this life that is mine and can be good—and I think he would probably say that’s not nothing.
He’d be right.
Bart lifts his head from his bed on the floor.
He would be right. It’s not nothing.
I just don’t know if it’s enough.