Alex
Mondaymorningsduringsenioryear were the absolute worst. Our econ teacher, Mr. Replogle, had a penchant for giving us pop quizzes or making us read current political news—what a total shitshow—first thing in the morning every Monday.
But now that it’s summer, I expect my relationship with Monday mornings will be much less shaky. I’m not working, except to help my mom when she needs it, so Monday mornings should just be like every other morning. Hell, I don’t even have an alarm set anymore since I have nowhere to be and nothing to do.
I’ve rather conveniently forgotten that the same is not true for Nico, however. As the first Monday morning of the summer rolls around, Nico, who’s been staying at my house all weekend, seems to have almost worked himself into a panic. It can’t be later than six in the morning when he tumbles out of bed and nearly steps on me as he rushes out of the room and down the hallway, presumably to the bathroom.
By the time I roll over and push myself up into a sitting position several minutes later, he’s back, looking pale and nauseous. He doesn’t say anything as he crawls back into my bed and buries himself under the covers, but I get a whiff of a faint minty smell, like my toothpaste.
I decide not to ask if he’s okay, since he’s clearly not, and instead, I rub the sleep from my eyes and then reach up behind me and grab my phone. Six oh three. Way too early still.
“What time do you have to be at the library?” I ask. My brain isn’t fully functional yet, and I vaguely remember him saying nine. But it could be earlier.
He tugs the blanket down under his chin, and his hair falls in messy curls over his forehead as his eyes meet mine. He looks like he might throw up. Or throw upagain, since I’m fairly sure that was what just happened in the bathroom.
“Eight fifteen,” he says, his voice scratchy.
I frown. “Oh. Okay. So then—”
“Eight thirty, actually, but I don’t want to be late. So, eight fifteen.”
“Ah, right. Do you want—”
“I need to go home to get clothes and my wallet and my car.” He shakes his head and turns to look up at the ceiling, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead with a shaky hand. “Sorry,” he whispers, and this time, there’s clear shame in his voice.
I hate that. Or actually, it just makes me sad to hear because he knows it’s okay. We’ve been there, done that enough times before. His anxiety makes him blurt things out, interrupt when other people are talking. And I can see how anxious he is now; he definitely doesn’t need to apologize for it. Only, I’m not sure whether he’s so anxious because he has to go home, which he’s been avoiding for days now, or because he’s not sure what the day is going to be like, starting his summer job.
It’s probably both.
“I’ll come with you,” I promise, and I watch as his jaw ticks and his eyes close.
I one hundred percent expect him to say no, to tell me I should stay home and that he’ll be fine. But instead, he gives the smallestnod. It’s both a relief and a surprise.
I’m still barely awake, but I drag myself up anyway, take a few minutes in the bathroom, and then head downstairs to make coffee and toast up some bagels. I didn’t ask him if he wanted anything to eat, and I’m not surprised when he comes downstairs about ten minutes later, takes one look at the bagel I made him, and then spins around and sprints back up the stairs to the bathroom.
By the time he comes back down fifteen minutes or so later, again bringing that faint whiff of minty toothpaste with him, I’ve eaten my own bagel and wrapped his up in a paper bag.
“Here,” I say, offering the bag to him, “so you can eat it later, if you’re feeling up to it.”
He hesitates, his shoulders slumped, but then reaches out and takes the bag. “Thanks. I, um, can walk home. Alone. It’s fine. I don’t want you to have to...” He sighs as he trails off, and he looks up at me, frowning.
I can see him fighting himself right now—fighting against his awful anxiety—and I shake my head gently, doing the best I can to counter his frown with a small smile.
“It’s cool, I don’t mind,” I say. Again, I expect an argument, anotherno, anotherit’s fine. Given his level of anxiety, I also expect that familiar flicker of anger to start building in him. But he just stares at me for a second, the pain in his eyes tugging right at my heart, and then, he nods.
“Okay.”
I let myself smile more, and then I pat him on the shoulder. “Give me five minutes to change.”
“Yeah, sure.” He sits at the table and picks up the coffee I made him, and I turn and jog up the stairs.
Thankfully, he’s still there when I return less than five minutes later. I scribble a quick note for my mom to let her know where I am in case she’s up early—we’re weird like that and still leaveeach other handwritten notes rather than texting whenever we can—and he dumps out the rest of his coffee, grabs the bag with his bagel in it, and leads the way toward the front door.
It’s already warm out, hinting at the heat wave I think we’re supposed to be having this whole week, and it feels great. I follow Nico out of the house and down the sidewalk to the main road, and as we turn right, hugging the shoulder, I tilt my head back and let the sun warm my face.
Next to me, Nico is quiet, but his shoulders have loosened a bit, and the silence doesn’t seem too tense. However, the closer we get to his house, the more I notice the tightness creeping back in. When we reach the end of his driveway, he stops and just stares down the long dirt road toward his house, his jaw clenched and his expression hard. I follow his gaze, confused, and then I see it—an old, light-blue pickup truck parked just next to Nico’s car in front of the house.
A sharp pain lances through my chest. “Nico, what the—”
