When my eyes start burning again, I close my eyes and take deep breaths.
He’s alive, Erica. The surgery went well. He’s going to recover.
What is wrong with you?
I know what’s wrong with me.
I know it’s not just Dad. The kidney mass, surgery, recovery.
It’s something I haven’t been able to deal with. Something that’s been pressing on my chest for over a week, making it hard to breathe.
Since the night in a hotel room with the man downstairs.
Since the night everything changed.
And it’s why I called Nico. It’s why he came so quickly. Why he’s been so patient with me.
No, he won’t say “I told you so.” It’s not the kind of man he is.
But he knew all along. He knew me better than I knew myself.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror.
I don’t look any different.
How can I be so different?
I should feel self-conscious walking downstairs to him.
I should feel embarrassed that I clutched his expensive shirt in my fists and cried all over it.
I should feel embarrassed that I needed him. Still need him.
But I can’t bring myself to care.
Not about the sweater. Not about the sweatpants. Not about the fact that Nico Conti is in my house.
I don’t even know what happens next.
I don’t know what he expects from me now.
I stare at my reflection again, at my red eyes and my damp hair and the Rutgers logo stretched across my chest, and I take one breath. Then another.
My hands shake when I reach for the towel hanging on the rack, and I use it anyway, pressing it to my face like it can absorb more than water.
I swallow hard, glance at the door, and try to make my legs move.
I come down the stairs slowly, one hand on the rail, even though I don’t need it.
My hair is still damp at the ends. The sweatshirt hangs heavy on me, warm and familiar, like I’m borrowing comfort from a version of my life that made sense.
The curtains are pulled across the windows, and the living room lamp is on.
So is the kitchen light.
And there are bags on my counter.
