Chapter 8 #2
He storms into the bathroom, and I’m left alone with the dull roar of adrenaline in my veins. But this kind of high doesn’t feel good at all.
I blame the crying on a lot of things.
The book I’m reading is devastatingly sad—definitely not a light beach (or road trip) read.
Especially not in a cramped replacement sedan with shitty A/C and nowhere to hide.
I can’t stop thinking about my email to Chef.
At the sudden reappearance of the kid who started the downward spiral of my life.
I can’t stop thinking about my lack of impulse control, ashamed that I couldn’t even make it one full year of Sister Annie again, rubbed on my worst enemy after one day of being around him because I was bored and horny and depressed.
I’m also probably still coming down from this raging asshole yelling at me afterwards.
And now I’m trapped in a four-door emotional pressure cooker with the asshole—the guy who ruined everything.
And I’m only here as a fucked up way of saving May. And she still thinks I’m going to blow up her wedding, and she’s right.
And you know what else? I hate Sister Annie. What the hell has she actually done for me this year?
Because I’m fucking miserable.
I look out the window and surreptitiously try to wipe my eyes.
But it’s Fuckin’ Dr. Nico.
“Hey,” he says quietly. He puts his large bear paw on my knee. “You good, honey?” I close my eyes and enjoy the gooeyness of my insides and the weight of his hand for one second before lifting his hand and dropping it on his lap.
“I’m not your honey,” I warn.
He sighs. “I’m sorry about earlier, Annie.” He sounds genuine, but too fucking bad.
“I’m not crying because of you, Nico,” I snap. “I did enough of that in high school.”
“Why are you crying then?”
I sniff and shift my body as far away from him as possible. “This book,” I decide to say.
“Oh.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“So it’s a good cry?”
“It’s certainly not a ‘Nico Giannuzzi ruined my chances of getting into Harvard cry,’” I can’t help but snarl. “That was more of a ‘bawling my eyes out, sobbing so hard I threw up’ cry.”
To his credit, he blows out a slow breath, really trying to keep his shit together. “Should we just go ahead and address the elephant in the car then?”
“Which one?” I’m not touching high school. “How I’m your worst fuckin’ nightmare and your wettest fuckin’ dream,” I taunt, “or how the townie humped a bunch of professors to get a doctorate?”
He looks at the road in front of us for what feels like several minutes.
I shift in my seat, picking at the ratty leather, the uncomfortable charge in the air prickling my skin.
“Why are you like this?” he finally asks quietly.
It is somehow the verbal equivalent of a slap in the face. Fighting Annie is shocked into silence. My lungs seize. I don’t answer. Why are you like this, Annie? Get your shit together, Annie. Do better, Annie. Be the best, Annie.
“Jesus, Annie. You’ve gotta know it’s truly exhausting,” he says. “They may seem like funny little insults to you, but…” he shakes his head. “You chip and pick and chip away bit by bit until I finally feel like a giant gaping fuckin’ wound.”
Stop causing problems for everyone, Annie. I look out the window, clenching my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms. Selfish, self-centered Annie. Worthless, stupid girl.
“Did you know that after you harassed me for, oh I don’t know, my entire childhood about what an idiot I sounded like, I spent an entire year trying to get rid of my accent?”
You’re really good at insulting people, Annie.
“You know that I would try to avoid walking through the hallways senior year so I could avoid you belittling me for one reason or another?”
Tone down the nastiness, Annie.
“Well, that’s a giant, gaping fuckin’ wound,” he tells me.
“You fucked me over,” I finally whisper. It just comes out of my mouth.
“I fucked you over? Did I not just tell you that you made my entire senior year a living hell on earth?”
He has no idea.
“We’re only on the second day of this road trip,” he continues, “and I already wanna give up. I just wanna stick you on a train and do the rest of this myself.” He sounds defeated instead of angry, and somehow that cuts deeper.
I’d rather bear the sharp edge of his anger than the heavy weight of his surrender.
However, I’m used to all of this now, know this song and dance.
Used to this tone of voice from people right before they run, right after I let them down, right after they’ve used me up and decide what’s left isn’t worth it.
This time, I’m going to get ahead of it.
I turn, meeting the side of his face. “Then leave,” I tell him.
My voice wavers, but I pull myself together.
He whips his head towards me as best he can while barreling seventy miles an hour down a highway. “What?”
“Just drop me off at the train station in Richmond, and I’ll get a train down the rest of the way.” I’ll figure out the rest—lodging, everything—on my own. As always.
Silence.
I clench my jaw to keep my voice from trembling, but I’m not successful. It shakes when I say, “We’ll just tell May we drove down together, and we’ll avoid each other during the wedding, and then we’ll never have to see each other again.”
More silence. I think I hear my insides churning.
“Then I don’t have to listen to your inane—”
Nico suddenly jerks the wheel and veers off the highway onto a rest stop ramp.
My heart slams into my ribs. “Are you serious?” A knot the size of a fist lodges itself in the upper part of my esophagus.
He doesn’t answer, just drives all the way into the parking area. He pulls up to one of the curbs.
“Get out of the car,” he orders.
I will not cry. Don’t you dare let him see you cry. “You won’t even give me the courtesy of dropping me at the train? Literally any train station?” My voice cracks. Agony slices through my ribcage.
He steps out, rounds the car like an angry bear, and wrenches my door open. “Get out of the car,” he repeats.
“Please,” I whisper. “Just drive me to a train station.” I fail. A tear gets out. Then another. I’m done.
He reaches into the car and bodily hauls me out.
And then, Nicholas “Nico” Giannuzzi, my childhood neighbor, high school nemesis, source of all teenage anxiety, and the kid who ruined my life…
…Wraps me in a hug.
Pulls me to his chest and wraps both his meaty arms around my shoulders.
At first, I’m stiff as a board. Confused. But then he squeezes even tighter, and then I… dissolve.
Something about this feeling—safe, squeezed, secure, supported? That’s it. All I need. And then… I just let it all go. The regret and guilt of the past week, of the last year, maybe even eleven? I let it all go and sob into his shirt.
His hands smooth down my back, through my hair. His lips press, soft and warm, against my forehead. I cry harder, and he shifts his arms to curl around my head, mashing my face into his chest.
“I’m a mess,” I sob.
“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing tighter.
“I’m fucking insane,” I cry.
“Aren’t we all?” he says, petting my head.
“I hate you,” I sniff.
“I know,” he says, pressing his mouth into my hair.
Nasty, selfish, problematic, miserable hurricane of serious issues. I take it all and soak his shirt with it.
This goes on and on and on until I run out of juice and I’m an empty husk of a human. It could be a few seconds or minutes or maybe an hour, I’m not sure, but Nico’s arms don’t relax in the slightest, remaining strong. Sure, dependable, unwavering.
When he feels my breath even out, Nico Giannuzzi puts my face in his big hands and uses his thumbs to swipe under my eyes. I can’t look at his, afraid of what I’d find, so I focus on the giant wet spot I put on his shirt. Again.
“I’m still tough,” I tell the spot.
“Tough as nails.”
“And pretty.”
He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. The brown eyes filled with warmth instead of judgement. “Fuckin’ beautiful, honey.”
I sniff, step away. Wipe my nose. “I’m still not your honey.” But please don’t stop calling me that.
Nico drops his hands to his sides. Chuckles. “You need a second,” he tells me, and he’s right. “I’m gonna go get you a soda in the meantime. The high fructose corn syrup will activate your dopamine receptors and make you feel better,” he says, and then he walks away.
I sink down to the ground and watch him walk away. Inexplicably, the first and only thing I think is that he has a really nice butt. Then I rest my head in my hands and let myself disassociate.
His sneakers eventually enter my line of vision. I look up, and his hand is outstretched. I take it, and he hauls me up and shoves me back into the car. He walks around and gets in, hands me the soda, then wordlessly pulls back onto the highway.
We pull into an almost-mansion in Richmond in the evening. This one has a pool and a separate pool house.
We haven’t said a word to one another since the rest stop, but my brain has been a whirlpool of anxiety and overthinking and thinking in circles and then thinking some more.
I recognize it now. Sister Annie reached the frayed edge of her rope, the knot slipping, the fibers splitting.
I was triggered, unraveled, ashamed, lashed out.
I wanted to go out and do all the things and was upset that I’d fuck something up while doing it.
And then I made another ridiculously reckless choice.
But that’s why Sister Annie took her vows. No indulgence, no temptation, no slipping into the arms of bad choices disguised as good nights. But something in me is starting to wonder—maybe this isn’t discipline. Maybe this is just another way to disappear. I can’t be a problem if I’m not there.
I think about the response I got from Chef right after we pulled out of the rest stop, the one that almost had me bursting into tears and then feeling horny all over again.
From: chef@
To: ali@
I don’t think you’re mean. You’ve been nothing but kind.
Why do you think you’re mean? Maybe you’re scared?
Defending yourself against something? Or someone?
Also, “impulsive” doesn’t bother me. Impulsive is fun.
Gets me [Redacted for Work Email], like I said.
Miserable, I can work with. Maybe that means you’re fighting for something better.
But don’t act like everyone’s given up on you—I haven’t and never will. I’m on your side.
You’re writing our book, after all.
Could he be right?
It forces me to think about what Nico did at the rest stop. Because he saw right through the mean and the scared, saw me while I tried to disappear and yanked me clear out. But I hate Nico. I’ve always hated Nico. But maybe just not right now?
I take one look at the pool house and decide I’ll be hiding in it until tomorrow morning. I’m not ready to learn to hang out and be cool tonight at the fancy restaurant with all the cool restaurant people and cocktails. Maybe I’ll try in the next city. Maybe I’ll relax tonight.
Maybe I’ll watch some old Chef videos to really relax. Don’t even start with me right now, Sister Annie.
Nico turns off the car, and the small space fills with the buzzing, relentless energy of silence as we both stare ahead.
“Thank you,” I finally say.
He looks over at me, nods once.
“I’m…” I look towards the pool house. “I’m exhausted. I’m gonna hide in there until we leave in the morning. I’ll just get some food delivered for dinner.”
“Okay.”
“Please don’t help me with my luggage. I’ve got it.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah. Have fun tonight.” I get out of the car and take my luggage out of the back and start moving towards the front door of the pool house.
“Annie.”
I stop and look back towards the car. At Nico, my worst enemy and award-winning hugger, with his arm hanging out his open window, handsome face shrouded in the warm, sepia and lavender toned shadow of the sunset.
“You good?”
“Trying,” I answer truthfully.