The car jerks into reverse, and I make the awful fucking mistake of lifting my eyes. I shouldn’t have, though. I shouldn’t have looked up, because the first thing I see is that jackass Patrick, standing at the bottom of the porch steps, his face red and his brown eyes flashing with rage.
Why the hell is he so mad at me? He’s the one who punchedmein the face. I never did anything to him except exist. In my own home. But the sight—his eyes, his anger, his fists balled up, flexing tightly like he’s ready to take another swing at me—makes me fucking nauseous all over again, and I lower my head between my knees, trying desperately to force air into my lungs. It’s not really working, though, and it’s not until after Alex has shifted the car into drive and is flooring it down the driveway toward the road that I finally manage to suck in a breath. The air feels hot and sticky and stale, and I blow it out and take another deep breath and then another.
Alex’s hand settles on my back, rubbing gently as I wheeze. It’s maybe the only good thing so far this morning, knowing that he’s here for me.
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Yeah, of course. You okay?”
His hand stops on my back. Please don’t pull away. Please. I screw my eyes shut as the thought repeats in my head over and over. Please. Please.
Fuck all of this.
“No. Yes. I mean, I-I will be?”
His hand disappears, and I almost groan in protest, but the warmth returns a few seconds later, after the car turns from the driveway onto the main road.
“You will be,” he repeats, and there’s a softness to his voice as his palm presses into me, the touch both gentle and firm.
God, it’s helping. It’s helping so much. I wish I could just tell him that. Ishouldjust tell him that. But I’m not quite there yet, and I’m not really sure why.
I manage another deep breath, and this time, the air doesn’t feel quite as thick.
Chapter Ten
Alex
I’mnotsurehowI manage to get us back to my house. The drive is short, but it’s a blur. When we turn onto my street, Nico’s panicked shaking gives way to his familiar anxiety-induced anger, and he finally lifts his head from his hands, his mouth set in a hard line as he stares ahead.
My hand stays on his back, though I’m not entirely sure whether it’s really welcome. I move it only to shift the car into park once I pull into the driveway. Then I set it on his back again.
He doesn’t say a word, and neither do I. His eyes remain trained forward, unfocused, and his breathing is stilted, every few breaths shuddering.
Have I ever seen him this upset? Probably. Things were really bad for a while just before Nico’s mom finally kicked that asshole Patrick to the curb. Nico always had a bit of social anxiety and awkwardness, but then when things started to get worse, when the bruises started to appear, his anxiety turned not-so-gradually into something different—a reactivity to being touched, anger and tension that was sometimes impossible for him to control. It got worse in the months right after Patrick left, which didn’t quite make sense to me. But in the last year or so, it’s mostly leveled off, at least from my perspective. Or maybe it’s just that it’s morepredictable to me now.
I mean, he’s still reactive. He still hates being around too many people. Crowds, he’s told me, are terrifying for him. And he still can’t stand anyone touching him—except me. I’m thankful that I’m able to give him whatever it is he needs. Reassurance, at least. Especially when things are bad.
But this feels different. Something about this time is different. I know what it is, I think. And my heart hurts even more.
He was just forced to see his abuser—the man who put him in the hospital years ago. And his mom, of all people—the one person he should really be able to count on unconditionally—she was the one who forced this upon him. She was the one who let that bastard back in. She broke whatever promises she gave him and tossed them out like they were trash.
Hell, she essentially tossed him out, too.
I’m not sure I can even imagine how that feels to him.
I press my hand into his lower back, feeling him tense up. His eyes close, and he pulls in a sharp breath and holds it. And I feel it again—his shaking. Ignoring the pang in my chest, I rub his back gently, hoping it’ll help, hoping it’s somehow enough.
“You should get changed, yeah? Um, I mean, we can talk now if you need to, or—”
“No. I need to go.” He opens his eyes, his gaze still unfocused and pained.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But—”
“I only have a few minutes, and—and I...” With a sudden flinch, he squeezes his eyes shut, balls his hand up into a fist, and slams it down onto the dashboard. Hard. “Fuck! God fucking dammit!” The anger suddenly seeps from him as though he’s too weak to hold onto it anymore, and he collapses forward, burying his head back in between his knees. His voice becomes small, filled with uncertainty, and he starts talking again, mumbling a stutteringmess of half-formed thoughts and questions into his hands. “Why... why the hell did he...? And why did she... Alex, wh-why did she let him come back? Why did she... why did she choose him over me? Do I really mean that little to her? Does she really not want me there? I don’t—I don’t—I can’t understand.”
God, I wish I had all the answers for him. More than that, I wish I could change it all—fix the whole last hour, the whole last three days... the whole last few years. There’s a lump in my throat, but I swallow past it and open my mouth to speak as he turns his head slightly to look up at me. He’s not crying, somehow. But his eyes are red rimmed and his cheeks are flushed.
And he looks so sad, so broken. I want to fix that, too. I want to make him feel better and see just how loved he is. I want to gather him up in my arms and hold him.
