“Hi, Aunt Tammy.” I give her a hug, and she squeezes me tightly before pulling back to look up at me.
“Off to Stanford at the end of the summer. I can’t believe it.” She glances past me to my mom. “I always told you he was smart, didn’t I?”
I hear my mom laugh, and Aunt Tammy releases me and turns back to the counter, where she starts rebagging the remains of a bowl of potato chips.
My mom steps over to the sink and opens up the dishwasher. “I was just going to load these dishes. Do you mind taking out the trash, sweetie?”
“No problem, Mom.” But instead of getting the trash taken out, I move to the sink next to her. “You should go sit outside and have fun. I’ll do the dishes and finish up here. You, too, Aunt Tammy.”
It doesn’t take too much to convince them, and not more thana couple of minutes later, I’m by myself in the kitchen. I get started. I load the dishwasher, wash the few extras that won’t fit, and then I wipe down the counters, put away the last of the snacks and desserts that were left out, and take out the trash. By the time I’m finished, our guests have started filtering out family by family. Most of them will be back for another round tomorrow, but some are headed home.
There are a ton of hugs that come along with all the goodbyes, and I’m embarrassed but grateful when more than a few relatives I don’t really remember ever meeting before secretly slip me some twenty dollar bills as extra graduation gifts. I spend a little more time helping get the furniture back in place so the cousins who are staying over have the pull-out couch to sleep on. Then, when my mom is settled into a conversation with Erica over a glass of wine, I excuse myself to go upstairs.
Finally.
It’s not quite as late as last night, but I still pause at the closed door to my bedroom. Will he be asleep already? And if he is, will he be in the bed or on the floor?
Our paths only crossed a few times today. After everyone started to get here, he pretty much disappeared upstairs, and I saw him mostly when I came up here to bring him food and check on him.
But I’ve been thinking about him all day long. Whenever there was any lull in the conversation or I had a moment to myself, and even when anyone would mention me going off to college, my thoughts immediately strayed to him.
I’m shaking a little as I lift my hand to knock quietly, and then I open the door slowly. The light is off, though the ceiling fan is on, its rhythmic click and hum the only sound in the room. My eyes adjust quickly as I step inside, and my heart jumps in my chest.
He’s in my bed again, his head resting on one of the extra pillows we pulled out of the closet yesterday. His back is to me, andI don’t think he’s sleeping because I can see a tiny bit of tension in his shoulders. But he doesn’t move.
I want to head directly to him, crawl into bed behind him and run my hands up his back to massage away that tension, then gather him up in my arms like the night before... But I need a quick shower first and to change my clothes and brush my teeth. So I tiptoe over to my dresser and pull out a clean T-shirt and pair of briefs. Then I disappear back down the hallway to the bathroom, rush through a shower and my bedtime routine, and sneak back in as quietly as I can, closing the door behind me.
I set my cell phone next to his on the nightstand and slowly sit on the edge of the bed. Despite how last night and this morning went, I can’t just slip into bed without asking first. Can I?
I shift so I can see him. His eyes are closed, but there’s tension in his jaw, too, and my stomach drops a little.
“Nico?” I whisper, even though I know he’s awake.
The ceiling fan continues to click as the room stays silent for a count of three. Then his eyes screw shut tighter.
“Hmm?”
“I’ll sleep on the floor again if—”
“No.”
I huff a relieved laugh. “Okay. You’re sure?”
He doesn’t answer, but when I slip under the covers and lie down, he almost immediately scoots backward until we’re touching, his back pressing up against my chest. I close my eyes as I let my hand land gently on his shoulder before caressing down his arm, slowing when I come in contact with the bare skin just above his elbow.
“God,” he breathes, his voice so low and muffled I almost don’t hear it.
I bend forward just slightly to rest my forehead against him, trying to manage all of the overwhelming sensations racing throughme. My thumb rubs gently back and forth along his skin, the warmth turning hotter when he lets out another short, ragged breath. Then I pause before pressing my cheek into his hair.
It’s all so good and perfect, and I finally let my hand slip down his elbow the rest of the way, around to his waist, and then upward to find its place on his chest again. Like this morning. And like this morning, he makes another contended sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.
I smile into him. “Mmm, good?”
“Yeah,” he says on another long, slow breath. Then—god—he snuggles back into me even a little more, wiggling until he’s settled comfortably. Or something. And his hand covers mine on his chest, warm and soft.
We lie there for a while, just like the night before, and though he’s relaxed, I feel him holding onto something, like he won’t let his breathing steady out completely. I take another long, full breath and then press him into me more, tightening my arm around him, and he sighs.
I imagine it’s a happy sigh. I imagine he’s happy. Really, actually happy. Not that pretend happy he thinks I don’t usually see.
