And I smile and nod and then get to work, trying to keep my thoughts from straying back upstairs.
It’sjustaftertwelvethirty when I finish with the work my mom wanted me to do. I log my hours in a notebook she keeps in the top drawer of her desk and then pull my phone out of my pocket. I’ve got three messages—two from my mom and one from Jenna.
My mom’s messages are both just to let me know she’s going to be gone a bit later than she expected—the art supply store she went to was out of the specific type of canvas she needed, and so she had to head across town to another store. That, and she decided to run a few more errands while she was out.
I send a quick text back with a thumbs-up. Then I stand as I clickon Jenna’s text.
Jenna (10:14 a.m.):Hey. Everything okay with Nico? Text me back :)
I’m not sure what to say, so I stuff my phone back in my pocket, pick up the box filled with my mom’s client paperwork, and put it away on its shelf. Then I head inside.
It’s quiet, which I expected, I guess. And when I glance toward the stairs, wishing I’d see him coming down to meet me, all that’s there is more quiet and an emptiness.
Accept where he is, meet him there . . .
He’s hurting. And probably lost. And maybe scared.
And I’msurehe’s hungry.
With as much certainty as I can muster, I turn and head to the kitchen. If nothing else, I can make him something to eat, spend a few minutes up there checking on him, and remind him that I’m here for him.
Maybe that’ll be enough. Or at least a start.
A quick search of the kitchen tells me that all the leftovers are gone, and we’re down to just a few essentials, which is why my mom is going shopping, I suppose. But we do have bread and cheese and some oranges that a neighbor brought over a few days ago. So I cook up a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches and slice up two of the oranges.
A few minutes later, I knock lightly on the bedroom door with my free hand, balancing a tray with the food in the other. There’s no answer, and I swallow back my unease and worry and slowly open the door.
“Nico?”
My eyes immediately land on the bed, and my heart sinks. He’s lying in the same position he was in when I left the room hoursago—curled up on his right side, facing the wall, with the comforter pulled all the way up to cover his shoulders. A quick glance at the nightstand tells me he hasn’t touched the glass of water and he didn’t take the Tylenol. The ice pack also sits in the same spot where I set it.
He really hasn’t moved.
I can’t tell from here whether he’s awake or not, so I shut the door behind me and then step closer to the bed.
“Hey, Nico. I, um, made some lunch, if you’re hungry.”
He reacts this time—a tiny movement that’s actually just him curling up into himself more. I stop near the end of the bed and hold my breath, waiting for any real response. His mess of black curls covers his face, and he turns his head slightly until our eyes meet.
My heart hurts even more.
He’s been crying, and the dark circles under his eyes suggest that he maybe hasn’t been sleeping this last four or five hours since I left. I hate that. I hate that I left, that he’s hurting so much himself, that he’s spent all this time alone. I hate that I wasn’t here for him.
I should have been here for him.
I purse my lips and then force a small smile. “Grilled cheese. If you want.”
His eyes flicker down to the tray in my hands, and I watch as he swallows and then shifts gingerly onto his back, obviously trying not to grimace. He must see the worry in my face, because he drops his chin and pushes himself up first to his elbows and then to a seated position, carefully avoiding my gaze.
“That’s a yes, then?” I ask when he pulls his knees in to sit cross-legged and scoots back against the wall.
He doesn’t say anything, but he does nod, and to me, that feels like the biggest win of the day so far. It’s even better when he lifts his eyes and tries for a smile, then pats the bed next to him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Um, I mean, assuming you made yourself lunch too?”
I’m the one nodding this time, and my smile grows. “I did.”
