Maybe I should also tell her I’m not sure when I’m coming home because the walls of the house are much too thin and I can’t really sleep while I can hear her fucking her abusive ex-husband in the room next to mine. Maybe she should know that I know. Maybe that would make her think twice about the choice she made to let him back into her life.
But I don’t have the energy for it, and I’ve barely been holding myself together all day. And really, I don’t want to think about it anymore.
So instead, I hit send on the text, power down my phone so I don’t get any more notifications, and then shove the phone back into my pocket. I know I can’t stay away forever, of course. I start work at the library on Monday, which is terrifying enough, and I don’t have any clothes or my wallet or my car keys. Alex let me borrow a toothbrush this morning, but I’m still wearing my pajamas from the night before and I’ll definitely need to shave by Monday morning.
Alex has been great, which isn’t surprising—he’s always great. But he’s been even more considerate than usual today, like he knows there’s more to the story of why I’m here than I told him this morning. It sort of makes me feel like the fucking asshole that I am, knowing that I’m not being totally honest with him. Yet I can’t bring myself to start up a conversation about it.
It’s not that I haven’t had time, either. We did a whole lot of nothingallday. We watched movies, ordered a pizza for lunch, played video games and watched more movies, did a little yard work, which he apparently promised his mom he’d get done. We talked about stupid shit, like the nextHollow Knightgame that’s supposed to be coming out later in the year and the way the neighbor’s dog barking sounds like it’s an old man with a sore throat. He also told me about the place they had dinner the night before with his grandparents and attempted to describe how awful the shrimphe ate was. And when his mom got home and started to ask me how I was doing, he cut in and turned the conversation to her and her day, like he knew that I didn’t want to have to lie.
Because I’m still not doing very fucking well.
And I still haven’t even told him therealreason I came over last night or why I’m still here or why I need to stay again. But he obviously knows something’s up, and he knows I don’t want to talk about it.
Alex sets the bowl of popcorn between us and starts scrolling through the movie listings on his mom’s Netflix account. We both nope right over a few that look too intense, and even Alex doesn’t seem in the mood for some new mainstream horror flick, which surprises me. Instead, he stops on a documentary of all things.
“Oh, I wanted to watch this!” he blurts out, sitting up and motioning enthusiastically at the TV. He glances at me and then laughs when he sees my face. “Uh, I mean, what do you think? Too boring?”
It’s a documentary on the James Webb Space Telescope, which launched a few years back. I only know that because Alex talked about it nonstop for weeks before the launch and made me sit with him to watch all the news coverage of the actual launch. Every time NASA publishes new images sent from the telescope, he’s like a little kid again—bouncing up and down and talking about it for days. It’s fucking adorable, though I’ve never told him that, of course.
“Looks interesting. I’m game,” I say, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
It won’t be too boring, especially because I know it’s something he’s very interested in, although I’d probably normally tease him for it. Maybe that’s where his surprise is coming from.
“Okay, sweet. Thanks,” he says, and he clicks a button on the remote to start the documentary.
He’s literally sitting on the edge of his seat for at least the first ten minutes, his eyes still wide and his hands perched on either side of him on the couch. Each time I glance over at him, his mouth is open slightly in awe, the wonder on his face clear and beautiful. I find myself watching him more than the TV.
About halfway through the documentary, after he’s finally settled back against the couch, he turns to me and says, “You good still?”
I only nod, and then he grins broadly, brightening up the room as only he can.
“Great!” His smile doesn’t fade as he looks back at the TV, and instead, he scoots closer to me, moving the now-empty popcorn bowl to the coffee table, and rests his arm along the back of the couch.
It would be weird, right? To move over and settle in that spot I was in earlier on his bed, with his arm around my shoulders? My chest tightens in an uncomfortable way, sort of. Maybe it’s not so much uncomfortable as yearningly.
It felt good—to be held like that. Good, safe, protected. And I want that feeling again.
It’s sort of dumb of me, I know. Friends don’t cuddle. He only held me earlier because I needed the comfort. Now isn’t the same. Yet I start to move anyway, telling myself it’s okay to seek comfort in my friend. It’s not anything related to my feelings for him, after all. Totally not.
I shift over a few inches, then a few more, until he tenses up with a sharp inhale. A harsh, rough wave of unease courses through me, and I freeze.
Yeah, this was an awful idea. Of course he’s uncomfortable with it. Leave it to me to fuck up such a decent day.
Screwing my eyes shut, I immediately push myself up off the couch and stand. “I’m gonna go now,” I mumble. I try to say more—at least something to thank him for letting me stay over—but there’s a nausea rolling through my stomach, and I think I might vomit if I stick around much longer. And anyway, the buzz of anger is starting to tingle under my skin, which is exactly what I don’t want to happen right now.
“What? Why?” he asks.
I hear the TV click off, the documentary going silent, and there’s only the quiet hum of some classical music from his mom’s art studio in the garage. I feel him stand up behind me, and my chest tightens. I want to lean back into him, ask him to wrap his arms around me. It’s fucking frustrating, because I can’t let myself do it.
But then his hand sets gently on my upper back, and the negative energy that had been building up seeps out of me.
God, I’m so fucking tired.
“Nico . . . um, I thought you were staying over again? It’s late. You shouldn’t go home now . . . ?”
