His eyebrows pinch together, and he shakes his head. “O-okay, um...” Moving carefully, he sets the glass and pills on the nightstand next to his phone and then pulls the ice pack out from under his arm and offers it to me, frowning. “At least ice it? That should help.”
I clench my jaw and turn back over onto my side. “I said I’m fine,” I repeat.
“Nico—”
“I don’t need to ice it, and I don’t need any medicine. I just need to sleep. And be alone.”
Fuck, I hate myself. He doesn’t deserve that. And I don’t mean it anyway. I don’t actually want to be alone. I want him to come back to bed, to keep holding me and helping me breathe, to chase the nightmares away. And the words are right there, trying to come out. But something’s keeping my mouth glued shut, and there’s that awful irritation and anger simmering under my skin.
I hate it. I’m sorry, Alex.
Fuck.
“Okay,” he says after a long pause. The bed shifts, and I know he’s gotten up. “I’ll leave the water and Tylenol here, um, in caseyou want them. And the ice pack, too. And I’ll just be downstairs, I guess. My mom probably needs help with something.”
Please don’t leave. I’m sorry. Goddammit.
“Alex...” He doesn’t hear me, because by the time I finally force out the word, he’s already gone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alex
“So,here’swhatIneed.” My mom hefts a large box up onto the desk in the garage. She takes the top off and pulls out a folder. “Each of these is a client file. I want the basic data for each client input into a spreadsheet so I have a digital record to go with my physical records.”
“I can do that,” I say, reaching into the box and grabbing one of the folders. I open it up and start scanning the invoice—this one for a landscape painting my mom created for a man in New York last year.
I make the mistake of glancing up, and my mom’s watching me with the same expression she’s had since I came back downstairs about an hour ago. I quickly look away as I slip into the office chair and adjust the keyboard. “How much information do you need? Name, date of sale...”
“Yeah, and transaction amount and date. Invoice number. A description of the piece, and... Alex...”
Her hand settles on my shoulder, and I shake my head. “I can, um, include a link to the digital images you have of each of the paintings, too, if you want.”
“Sure. But, Alex—”
I shake my head again, cutting her off. I know whatshe wants.
She wants to talk... because “everything can be fixed by talking it out.” That’s what she believes, and I guess I usually believe that too. But right now, I just don’t think that’ll be enough. After all, how can I fix things if Nicowon’ttalk to me and is actively pushing me away?
I still don’t know what happened. And the fact that he doesn’t want me to be there with him right now hurts a lot, especially when I think about how muchhemust be hurting, emotionallyandphysically.
Too many horrible scenarios are running through my head and have been since earlier this morning. I can still see his back—the ugly purple-and-black bruises forming right along his spine. I can still see the shame in his eyes and the grimace he tried to hide when he turned over.
He said he was fine. But ithasto hurt. There’s no way it doesn’t.
I clear my throat to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I think the, uh, digital images are in your Google Drive folder here, right?”
“Alex,” she says again, squeezing my shoulder.
I close my eyes and sigh, letting my hand fall down to my lap. “I know what you’re going to say, but I already told you, I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand that.” She moves so she’s leaning against the desk, and I force my eyes up to meet hers. She gives me a small, knowing smile. “But even if you can’t tell me what happened or what’s going on, you can tell me how you’re feeling about it.”
A buzz of something uncomfortable and uncertain flutters in my chest, and I drop my chin down, clenching my jaw. “I feel like shit, okay?” I blurt out, and I immediately grimace. “Sorry. I meant awful. I feel awful.”
Her arm comes around my shoulders, and I let myself lean into her hug. She doesn’t say anything, which I know means she’s waiting for me to say more. I’m not even sure how much Icansay, and I honestly don’t know what happened anyway. All I have is what’s been floating around in my head, my dumb imagination going wild.
“He won’t talk to me,” I mumble, finally. Then the dam breaks open, and I’m just trying not to cry as I walk the careful line of telling her but not telling her... “Something’s wrong, and I don’t even know what it is, and he won’t talk to me about it. And I’m worried about him because... because I have reason to worry. But he doesn’t want to talk and he doesn’t want my help. And I’m scared and I don’t know what to do.”
