But the alternative—returning to a life without Nico in it—is unthinkable.
And I meant it when I told Nico I wanted another chance with him.
Sighing, I give the kitchen counters a final wipe, then give them a cursory glance to make sure I didn’t miss anything. They’re still gleaming white, almost blindingly so. For the dozenth time—at least—I mentally reconfigure the kitchen to my tastes. The room would be warm, with butcher block counters and a farm-style sink. Some of the cabinets would be replaced by open shelves to display collections of plates and glasses in an array of blues and greens. Herbs would be lined along the windowsill—rosemary and basil and mint—with a flowering plant hanging above them.
Is it silly to be thinking about how I’d redecorate when I don’t even know if Nico and I will be together long term? Or is it hopeful optimism at its best?
As I lift the casserole dish from the counter and carry it over to the oven, I debate my approach for the evening. Nico’s still in his home office—he’s been working from home ever since the sniper took a shot at me outside the F & F building—but it’s nearly six, which means it’s definitely time to think about dinner.
Last night, we had a quiet dinner and watched TV together in relative silence. We avoided serious topics in favor of occasional comments about the show we were watching, the predicted snow for the weekend, and the Yankees’ prospects for the upcoming season. We snuggled. And when it was time for bed, I slept beside him, his arms tightly wrapped around me.
But we didn’t have sex. We didn’t talk about our relationship. We didn’t discuss the future.
I get that it’s still early days for us, even without Elio’s unwelcome involvement. But the uncertainty of it is really starting to get to me. The logical voice in my head pops in at random times to ask,How long will you stay with Nico? Will you go back to Hoboken? Will you go back to your job? Will you ever feel safe on your own again?
The answers to all those questions are a resounding,I don’t know.
Once I set the timer on the oven, I quickly wash my hands, then head out of the kitchen and towards Nico’s office. My pulse flutters nervously as I approach.
Do I leave things alone for now? Wait for Nico to bring up the wholewhat’s next for usconversation? Or do I push to talk about it?
When I reach his office, I just stand in the doorway for a few seconds, watching him.
He’s hunched over his laptop, his gaze intent on the screen. In profile, his features are hard. Tense. The muscles in his jaw are working. From beneath the desk, I hear the faint sound of his foot tapping.
This isn’t typical Nico, always so calm and in control.
As he reads, he mutters, “Fuckingasshole.” He thumps his hand on the top of the black wooden desk, making the entire piece shudder.
My heart twists again.
I wish I could take this pain away from him.
I wish I could fix it.
With the wishes come what-ifs. What if I hadn’t taken Emily’s case? What if I never found the connection between the thefts and Elio’s company? Nico would never know the monster his father is. He wouldn’t be hurting right now.
And decades earlier; what if I hadn’t gone to Nico’s apartment that day? What if his father never had the opportunity to frame me? What if he ended up framing the housekeeper instead? Would Nico and I have gone off to college together, instead of taking off in opposite directions?
Or did everything happen just as it was supposed to? And this is just where we’re meant to be?
Lightly rapping on the open door, I say, “Nico. I just started dinner.”
His head jerks up and he turns to me. “Shit. What time is it?”
“It’s”—I glance at my watch—“six-ten. And the casserole should take about half an hour. But if you have a lot more work to do, I can always keep it in the oven on warm.”
“Soph.” He shuts his laptop. “You don’t have to cook for me. I told you that. We can order?—”
I walk into the room. “I know I don’t have to. Iwantto. And it’s nothing special. Just broccoli, cheese, and chicken.”
A smile ghosts his lips. “It sounds delicious. Far better than anything I could make.”
“I can show you, if you’d like.”
He stares at me for a moment. “You want to teach me how to cook?”
Insecurity creeps in, cold and clinging. “It was just a thought. But if you’re too busy…” Or if he’s planning to kick me out, despite his protestations that I should stay here because it’s safer.
