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? Literallyany 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 ormaybe 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.
