Maybe that’s what I needed.
It feels good. Or at least it does after my heart stops hammering in my chest.
Eventually, the shaking and crying also stop. Yet he still doesn’t let me go. His kisses flutter along my shoulder and neck, and, when he settles down onto the pillow more after a few minutes, he buries his face in my hair as his arms tightens around me just enough.
I hold my breath, waiting for the questions I know are coming. But they don’t come. He doesn’t ask them.
He doesn’t ask me where my car is, or why I’m breaking down in his arms, or why I flinched away from him. He doesn’t ask why I didn’t return any of his messages yesterday, or even if I’m okay.
And I know it’s not because he doesn’t care or doesn’t want to know.
It’s because heknows I’m not ready to talk about it.
I take another of those long, deep breaths, letting myself relax back into him, and when he whispers “good, that’s it” into my hair this time, I feel warmth in my chest and a flicker of something not so awful.
The sun slowly grows brighter outside, and after a while, quiet noises from the rest of the house remind me that we’re no longer alone; his mom is home. Alex doesn’t seem to react, but after a few more minutes, he props himself up slightly, kisses my shoulder, and then pulls away to grab his cell phone from the nightstand.
The air from the ceiling fan overhead feels cool against my back as the comforter is pushed down, and I try not to wince as I lift my hand to tug it back up to my chin.
“Ah, Mom texted last night when she got home. She wants to take us—” Alex’s voice cuts off abruptly as the bed shifts, and then he sucks in a breath. “God, Nico...”
Before I can register what his tone probably means, I hear the phone set back down on the nightstand with a haphazard clunk, and then he’s lying behind me again, a cold space between us. I can feel his hand hovering just next to me, but he doesn’t touch me, and instead, the blanket pushes back off my shoulder a few inches. His breath hitches.
Then his fingers graze along the middle of my back, barely a whisper of contact.
“Nico, what . . . what the hell happened? Jesus.”
There’s alarm in his voice, and I screw my eyes shut, trying desperately to keep myself from panicking. I’m not even sure what he saw, but I shake my head.
“Nothing,” I say, and I twist onto my back as I pull the blanket back up over me. I can’t look up at him, but I hear him let out asharp breath. His hand falls away from me, and the bed shifts.
“No, that’s not nothing . . . Nico, your back . . . the bruises . . .”
I shake my head again, as much in response to him as in a poor attempt to keep myself from remembering. It doesn’t work. I feel everything, just as I did when it happened last night. The rough shove as Patrick pushed me, all the air crushed from my lungs as I hit the corner wall, the jolt of pain in my spine. My heart racing, my chest tight. The panic and fear and there he was, coming toward me again—
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I insist. Because I am. Hell, I had no idea I even hit the wall hard enough to bruise. Yeah, it hurts, and yeah, it’s sore, but the pain’s not anywhere near as bad as the pain in my shoulder. I force a breath and then ask, “Can you grab me a shirt?”
He hesitates but then mumbles, “Yeah.”
I risk opening my eyes as he stands and moves across the room to hunt through my laundry. When he returns a moment later and hands me a plain blue T-shirt, I still can’t look at him.
“Thanks,” I say. Then I clench my teeth as I sit up and pull the shirt on, barely holding back a hiss of pain when I slip my left arm through the sleeve.
Alex is sitting very still at the edge of the bed, like he’s not sure what to do. I don’t know what to tell him, either, and I don’t really want to talk. So I just lie back down, facing the wall with my back to him, and I close my eyes.
It’s probably several minutes later when he finally speaks.
“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. Then I hear him stand up, followed by the door opening and closing.
I can just make out him greeting his mom downstairs, and they talk for a moment, though I can’t quite hear what they’re saying. Which is probably good. I don’t really want to know what he’s telling her.
Just as my breathing starts to settle, the stairs creak, and then the door opens and closes.
“I’m back. Sorry to take so long. Um, I mean...” Alex exhales a breath that sounds frustrated. Behind me, the bed compresses. “Here, take this.”
I force myself to turn over onto my back again, which isn’t super comfortable after all. Although maybe that’s just because I’m aware of the bruises now. Alex is sitting with one leg hitched up on the bed, his face tight with worry. He’s holding a glass of water in one hand and a couple of white pills in the other, and then he’s got an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel tucked under his arm.
Dammit. “I don’t need anything. I said I’m fine.”
