Marry me, Nico. Be my husband. Just you and me. Forever.
But then he sighs, tilts his head back, and kisses me again, long and deep and slow, and the urge passes.
That’s okay, though. I want to do this right, anyway.
I want to have the rings and get down on one knee and see his eyes go wide with surprise. I want to hold his hand while I say everything I’m feeling in my heart. Then I want to hear him whisperyes, yes, of course, barely holding himself together, and I want to slip the ring on his finger and stand up and wrap my arms around him and kiss him.
He hums into the kiss with a quiet contentment that makes my heart flutteragain, and then he pulls back, smiling. “I should get ready. And you should go back to sleep.” He touches his lips to mine one more time. Then he rolls over and drags himself out of bed.
I watch him shuffle across the room to the dresser and then disappear into the bathroom to get ready for work, and when the bathroom door shuts, I collapse back onto the bed. I’m fully awake now; there’s no way I’m falling asleep, despite how early it is.
So, instead, I grab my phone from the nightstand, spend a few minutes texting with my mom, who’s at the airport already, waiting for her flight back to Omaha, then pull up the same tab I showed her last night—the one for the wedding bands I picked out. A grin stretches across my face as I stare down at the dark metal band on the screen, and I close my eyes for a beat, trying to imagine what it will feel like on my finger and what it will look like on his.
God, I just can’t wait.
I mean, Iwillwait, because, again, I want to do this right. He deserves for me to do this right. But I’ll definitely be making a trip to the jeweler’s at some point today, maybe even right after journal club is over. And then I’ll have to figure out when—a day we both have off; a day we can spend all day together, no distractions or work or anything else. Just the two of us.
It’ll be perfect.
I just know it.
Chapter Three
Nico
Sundaynightafterthetwo-day event at the new gallery opening, Vera pulls me aside and tells me, under no uncertain terms, that I’m to take the next two days off. I would argue, because I still have a ton of work to do both for her and for Greta, but the weekend was long and taxing, and I’m barely holding myself together as it is. My job for the weekend consisted mostly of managing things from the back office—yet the number of phone calls I had to make or take and the number of strangers I had to meet were both impossible for me.
On top of that, ever since I got that message from my mom two weeks ago, I’ve been in a bit of a downward spiral. Sleep has been difficult and filled with nightmares, and work has been one challenge after another, every little thing making me second-guess myself. Honestly, I’m surprised I made it through this weekend.
I pack up my stuff, thank Vera, and say good night to the owner of the new gallery and several other colleagues. Then I step out into the brisk spring evening and start the walk to the train station. It’s not until I’m alone that I really start to feel all of the tension and anxiety I’ve been holding all day, all weekend, all of the lasttwoweeks. I’ve been ignoring it as best I can, pushing through, going, going, going. But it suddenly hits me like a brick wall, and Inearly stumble as all of my energy seeps away and a vaguely familiar lightheadedness makes me wobble on my feet.
Fuck, this isn’t good.
There’s a bench along the sidewalk, and I stagger over and collapse onto the seat, dropping my head down between my knees. Long, slow breaths help a little, as does closing my eyes and covering my ears to shut out all the noises echoing around me. But the world keeps swaying for what’s probably several minutes.
I should have stuck around and asked Vera for a ride back to San Jose. Or I should have called Alex and asked him to meet me here. Or I should have taken that day off last weekend, like he suggested.
My chest tightens, and my shoulders ache, and everything around me feels like it’s shrinking, closing in, suffocating me, even though I know I’m outside, out in the open, and perfectly safe. And Ishouldbe able to breathe.
Shaking, I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone.
He’ll be mad at me. That’s the first thought that pops into my head. He’ll be mad at me because I should have known this was going to happen, and I should have listened and taken a day off, and I’ve overworked myself into this panic. And if he’s mad, maybe that’ll be it. Maybe that’ll be enough, and he’ll leave me.
I know it’s not true. I know it. But these types of thoughts have been fucking with me for the last couple of weeks as well. It’s almost as though the note from my mom brought back all of my insecurities—the awful reminder of how she turned on me and abandoned me that summer six years ago—and those insecurities are now bleeding over into my relationship with my boyfriend.
I grip my phone tighter, my eyes screwed shut, and I focus on my breathing for a few moments. Alex isn’t like that. He won’t be mad at me. If anything, he’ll be worried, and he’ll be glad I called to get help. Iknowthat. I do.
Still, I hesitate, my indecision fueled by uncertainty and the ickyfeeling that my heart’s not beating right.
“Goddamn fucking anxiety,” I curse under my breath.
I force my eyes open, and I glance quickly to my right—the way to the train station. It’s really not too far. I should be able to make it on my own.
Clenching my jaw, I grip the arm of the bench with my free hand and use it to push myself to my feet. And I manage to get myself moving again. The world’s still spinning, and everything’s loud and too bright, even in the darkness of the night. I keep my head down, staring at the sidewalk in front of me as I walk, still holding my phone tightly in my hand.
The tension in my jaw turns into an irritating ache that starts to work its way upward, into the back of my skull, and before I make it to the train station, I have a pulsing headache—the kind I know isn’t going away until I’ve gotten enough sleep and a hefty dose of Tylenol.
When I finally sit down on the bench at the platform to wait for the next train to show up, I’m weak and shaky, and the air around me feels hot, like it’s tinged with anger and irritation. I know the feeling; it’s not new or different. But ithasbeen a while since it’s been this bad.
