Because what would that be like?
To have people.
To have an overflowing house.
Noise. Arguments. Laughter. Too much food.
To have rooms that are never empty. A kitchen with someone in it. A name you can call and know they’ll show up.
To not have to sit alone in a hospital waiting room with your hands shaking and your phone in your lap and no one to call.
I keep my face still. I keep chewing the food that’s suddenly making my stomach churn again. I keep my eyes on my plate so he can’t see anything.
I hate myself for it, but the bitterness slips in with the jealousy, quick and ugly.
They never had to go through anything alone.
Not really.
Nico’s voice drops, rougher.
“But it wasn’t the same,” he says. “No matter who moved in down the hall. It just wasn’t the same. She wasmia madre, you know?”
My chest tightens at the Italian, at the way his voice picks it up like he can’t help it. I stare at the edge of my plate until my eyes sting, then I pick up my fork again because I need something to do with my hands.
“Yeah,” I manage quietly. It comes out thin. “I know.”
I don’t, not really. I don’t even remember my mom. I have one stupid picture of her—not even a home video—and the rest of my family is in the hospital.
I swallow, and the food feels like it’s sitting in my chest. The thought of even one more bite sticks in my gut like lard.
I keep my gaze down because if I look at him, I’ll show too much. The jealousy, the bitterness, the ugly little thought that having people down the hall sounds like a luxury, even when the reason is tragedy.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, twirling pasta with my fork with no intention of eating it. The words are automatic, the way they always are when I don’t know what else to offer.
Nico’s fork stills for a beat.
He clears his throat, and the softness that came on him when talking about his mom slides back inside, where he hides it so well. His posture squares. His gaze sharpens enough to notice I’m not eating. He nudges my plate closer with two fingers.
“Eat,” he says.
“I can’t,” I answer, too fast. I keep my eyes on the swirl of pasta I’ve been bullying around my fork. “I’m full.”
He doesn’t buy it.
“Two more bites,” he says, and his voice drops again, quieter, coaxing. Like he’s trying to guide me instead of move me. He tips his chin at the eggplant parm. “Then you can stop.”
My stomach rolls. Not because of the food. Because he’s looking at me like he can see straight through my skin, and if I look back, he’ll know exactly what’s happening in my head. The jealousy. The bitterness. The ugly little ache that I’m trying to swallow with marinara and bread.
“I said I’m full,” I repeat, and it comes out sharper.
Nico’s chair shifts. He leans in just a fraction, not crowding me, but making it clear he’s not letting it go.
“Erica,” he says, sternly. “You didn’t eat enough to be full.”
“As I’m not a toddler, I have a pretty good handle on that one myself,” I say in a biting tone, and my voice surprises me with how raw it sounds.
His eyes flick over my face. He knows something’s wrong. I can feel it. But he’s not sure what just yet. He sets the fork down carefully.
