“Fine,” I say. “No censoring. No eggshells.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction.
“Okay,” she whispers in relief.
I lean back into the couch, take the remote, and turn the volume of the TV up.
After a moment, I say, “Let’s see what shade of beige these people chose for their house.”
Erica leans back, brushing my arm with hers.
“I bet they chose eggshell.” There’s a moment of silence between us, then she pokes me with her elbow. “Get it? Eggshell?”
I heave out a huge sigh. “There’s no one else here, and yet I’m still embarrassed.”
“No, it was a good one. Admit it.” But she can’t hide the wide smile on her face.
“Not on your life,” I say, deadpan.
She lets out a laugh—a genuine laugh. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard one of those out of her.
Chapter Twenty One
Erica
Here I am again, staring at myself in the mirror. I don’t look too different from earlier, eyes still puffy, even after the ice. Face still splotchy.
My hair is dry now and a little wild. I run my fingers through it quickly, and it only makes it worse. I consider putting some water into it to tame it, but then it’ll look like I tried.
But no matter because I look tired. I look wrung out. I look like I should be grateful I’m standing upright at all.
And I am.
But my brain has latched onto a different emergency now, because my brain is a traitor and it refuses to focus on what I order it to focus on.
Instead, it’s obsessing over the fact that I’m not in my sweatpants anymore.
I’m in what I actually sleep in. A thin tank top and shorts. It’s what I’ve always worn to bed. I’ve never liked the feeling of loose clothing twisting around my legs at night or riding up my waist or bunching under my shoulder blade until I’m half-awake and pissed off. I like minimal. I like nothing pulling or tangling.
It has never been a problem.
Tonight it is.
Because Nico is in my bedroom.
Staying the night.
The thought hits me like a jolt, the same way it did the first time. The same way it has every time since then.
What the hell is he wearing to bed?
The question is absurd and also not absurd at all.
Genuinely concerning.
It’s not like I can hand him a spare pair of sweatpants. It’s not like Dad has anything that would fit him. Nico isn’t just tall—he’s built. All shoulders and chest and long legs, dense muscle that makes even furniture look smaller around him.
There is nothing in this house that’s going to slide onto his body without ripping at the seams.
