I see it in him before he says anything.
The temperature drops. Not in the room—in him. His shoulders set. His movements get more efficient. He doesn’t slam things or make a show of it. He just goes quiet in that way that tells me I finally pushed too far and now he’s back behind the wall where nothing touches him.
And just as quickly as the mood struck, it’s gone. Leaving me to deal with the aftermath of what my bitterness spewed out.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
What the hell did I do?
“Nico,” I blurt, voice cracking on his name. “Oh my God. Nico, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I take a step toward him as if I can physically grab the words out of the air before they land. But it’s too late. It’s too fucking late. My heart is pounding again, sick with regret. “I didn’t mean— I—”
He doesn’t look at me.
He just picks up the foil pan and snaps the lid on with one firm press, like the sound can seal the whole night back up.
“It’s fine,” he says stiffly, already turning toward the counter like he’s going to handle the leftovers and the plates and then walk right out the door. Which I would deserve.
But he can’t go like this.
“It’s not,” I say immediately, too loud, and the word slices through the quiet. I move faster, cutting around the table, getting in his path without touching him. He pauses, but his gaze stays flat when it finally lands on me.
“You came all the way here. You’ve been so patient with me, and you did all this.” I gesture wildly toward the table, the foil pans, the bread, the stupid comfort food I didn’t deserve. “And I cried all over you. Like a complete wreck. And I’ve been a huge bitch to you all night.”
Nico takes a breath through his nose. Controlled. Measured. His eyes on mine have no warmth in them now. It makes my chest ache.
“Hell, all week,” I add, my voice edged with panic. “I’ve been snippy and defensive and mean, and you still came. You haven’t told me to fuck off yet, which I completely deserve. And you didn’t even say ‘I told you so,’ whichyoucompletely deserve to do because you were right.”
He shifts, like he’s going to step around me.
I panic and put my hand out to his arm, but quickly snatch it back. “No, wait. Please. Just—” My breath catches, and I hate how pathetic I sound, but I keep going anyway.
“I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me,” I say, hands lifting and then dropping again because I don’t know where to put them. I pace one step, then back, like my body can’t pick a direction. “My dad didn’t even—” My throat clenches. “He’s fine. He made it. He’s in the ICU, but he’s fine. And I’m— I’m just dumping it all on you.”
“I said it’s okay,” he says, probably trying to shut this down before it gets worse.
Too late.
“It’s not okay,” I say, and my voice is shaking now for a different reason. “Not at all. I made it sound like losing your mom wasn’t… wasn’t that big of a deal because you had other family.”The words taste like rot. My stomach drops. “Because I’m feeling sorry for myself and everything inside me is a mess, and you were the closest target. I was horrible and bitter and jealous.
“You don’t deserve that,” I say quickly, as if I can get it out fast enough, it’ll fix it. “You don’t deserve me taking a swing at you because I’m drowning. You don’t deserve me trivializing your mom because I’m jealous of the fact that you had people down the hall and I—” My voice breaks, and I swallow it down with force. “It was cruel and ugly. And I’m so sorry.”
“Erica,” he says.
I laugh once, sharp and bitter, because the alternative is sobbing again. “You should be the one taking a swing at me. Literally. I deserve it.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, frantic, ridiculous.
“Erica,” he repeats, more firmly. He moves to take my arms, but I pull back.
“I’m throwing myself the world’s biggest pity party,” I say, voice cracking harder. “And that’s not like me. I don’t do this. I don’t— I don’t make someone else’s pain smaller so mine can feel bigger. I don’t victimize myself. That’s not me.” My hands go up to my hair, then drop. I rub at my face like I can erase the last ten minutes. “I just—”
My breath hitches harshly.
I press my palms to my temples, squeezing like I can hold my thoughts in place before they spill any more.
Chapter Twenty
Nico
She’s still standing there with her palms pressed to her temples like she’s trying to keep her skull from splitting open.
