How much longer do we have? My brain automatically does the numbers and spits the answer back out: just over one hundred days. We have just over one hundred more days of this.
Unless I can convince him to come to California with me.
I force myself to eat, if only so he doesn’t notice the look of existential dread that must have crossed my face. And the silence persists for a few minutes. It’s not uncomfortable, thankfully, and I feel something like relief when he eats everything I’ve put on the plate and drinks his whole coffee.
I’m slower to eat than him, but that in itself isn’t unusual. By the time I’ve finished, he’s leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed lightly as he cradles his now-empty coffee mug in his hands.
I should say something about California. Start the conversation again, especially now that I’m armed with all the information from my mom’s impromptu planning session in the car the night before. But there’s still a funny feeling tickling the back of my mind, tellingme now’s not quite the right time. So I try something else instead.
“Wanna head out to the river today?” I ask as casually as I can. “The weather’s supposed to be good, I think.”
Platte River is just a couple of miles east of town, and even back before Nico got given his mom’s old car when he turned sixteen, we used to walk or bike out there a lot, especially in the summer. There’s a spot we found that’s sort of “ours”—a small, sandy beach just about a quarter of a mile from the road, sheltered by a thick stand of trees—and despite the crowds of people that head out to the river every summer, our spot is hidden just enough that we’re always the only ones there. That seems to suit Nico quite well.
I watch him, waiting for his answer, but he just opens his eyes to stare down at his mug, and his fingers begin tapping anxiously on the ceramic. Now the silenceisuncomfortable, especially when he shakes his head and frowns but still doesn’t answer.
“Oh. Alright. Did you have something else in mind? I don’t have any plans, and—”
“I should go,” he cuts in, though he doesn’t move from his spot on my bed.
Confused, I shift to face him, sitting cross-legged, and he finally looks up at me. There’s a sadness in his eyes that I can’t stand, and it’s the same as what I saw last night, when he let me hug him. I swallow back all the discomfort and emotions swirling around in my chest, and this time, it’s me shaking my head.
“Don’t go. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Here, or at the river, or hell, wherever you want. Or we don’t have to talk at all. That’s fine, too. But don’t go. Please.”
His expression tightens, and he drops his eyes back to his hands. With a sudden flash of fear—fear that he’s pulling away from me, even though the summer’s not even really started yet—I scoot closer, part of my brain arguing that maybe I should just tell him how I feel. But that seems like an awful idea when I let myself thinkabout it more, at least right now, in this heavy moment that’s being held together by a thread.
His long, slender fingers wrap tighter around the mug, and he closes his eyes again, his lips pursed in a frown. The muscles in his jaw tremble. And I can’t stand it.
I set my coffee and plate back on the tray next to his plate, then carefully reach over and take his mug from him. I move the entire tray to the floor next to the bed, and when everything’s cleared off, I scoot back onto the bed, shimmying over until I’m next to him, our shoulders just barely touching.
Do friends do this? I don’t really know. I don’t do this with anyone besides him. So maybe the answer is no.
Still, I only hesitate when he flinches slightly as my arm comes up around his shoulders. “Nico?”
His body shakes, and he lets out some quiet sound—some uncertain, uneasy whimper—and leans into me.
He could have moved away. He could have jumped up from the bed, repeated his earlier “I should go,” and left. But he didn’t. He chose to lean on me instead.
That has to mean something.
I shut my eyes and squeeze his shoulder gently, and I take a long, slow breath. He’ll talk when he’s ready. I know this. Yet, I still have to hold myself back from asking him what happened last night. I let myself be distracted by his closeness, by the warmth of his body next to mine, by the feel of his curly hair brushing against my cheek.
We stay there like that for minutes. Or, at least, it seems like minutes. My brain is jumping all over the place, wondering what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. I relish the closeness, but then there’s also this overwhelming sadness in my heart because he’s obviously hurting. I want to hug him, like he let me last night.
And I find myself wishing, yet again, that I could tell him howmuch he means to me.
God, what the hell is holding me back?
His shaking finally calms, and his body relaxes a little. And just as I’m about to say something, he slowly straightens up and scoots away. The space between us is only a few inches, but it feels much greater for some reason.
“Thanks,” Nico says, and he crosses his arms over his chest like he’s protecting himself from something. He seems to try to speak, but his mouth just closes again before any words come.
I watch him, waiting, but it’s hard to see him struggle with whatever’s on his mind. I’m no stranger to this mood of his—he tends to do exactly this when things get difficult. He gets quiet, brooding. He pulls away. He doesn’t text back. He isolates, even more than normal.
But hedidcome here last night. He came to me rather than stay at home by himself.
Dammit. What happened?
“I have to go home, but I...” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “My mom had s-someone over last night. I couldn’t stand, uh, hearing them,” he explains, though I can tell he’s still holding something back.
