Well, that’s a disturbing thought. My face must showhow much I don’t like it, because Rebecca quickly jumps back in.
“I’m not saying he sees you like a sister. Clearly, that’s not the dynamic you have. But there’s a strong parallel. This could be a good thing for you both if you use it to process things and work through your feelings together. But if you don’t, and you just become reliant on using each other as a temporary fix, you’re both going to be in a worse situation when you leave, Este. You’re not going to be stuck up there forever.”
I always leave therapy feeling a little worse than I did going in. It’s part of the process. But I’ve never ended a call feeling quite so downtrodden.
Rebecca suggested finishing up with a guided meditation, but my head wasn’t in it, and my heart was downstairs—making pasta, if the scent of basil drifting upstairs was anything to go by. Still, I closed my eyes and pretended, and Rebecca didn’t call me out on it, even though I’m sure she knew.
I was relieved to say goodbye and close my laptop, but I’ve been sitting silently, hugging my knees for almost an hour on my bed. Or the bed Nico set up for me, I guess. It’s not like I’ve slept here much.
There are so many thoughts whirring around my brain, and I can’t seem to grasp a single one to focus on. Even if I could, I don’t particularlywantto focus on any of them.
My bladder is the thing that finally forces me out of bed. When I finish up, I wash my hands and frown at the reflection looking back at me from the mirror.
I look good. Well-rested. There’s color in my face, something that’s been missing since the crash, and I don’t bother lying to myself by attributing it to the cold. My hair’s a little frizzy—I quickly raked a brush through it before therapy, but Nico’s fingers made a mess of it this morning before we got out of bed, and it’s going to take more than a brush to erase the tangles entirely. I tug down the collar of my sweater and sigh at the red marks courtesy of his lips, his teeth, his beard. I can’t see them, but I know there are matching marks on my inner thighs. I can feel them.
Maybe Rebecca’s right, and all we’re doing is making things harder for ourselves in the long run. But, right now, I feel better than I have in months. And there’s a light to Nico that wasn’t there when I arrived. Is it going to go out when I leave? I can’t think about that.
Traveling so much over the past few years has really made me appreciate having somewhere of my own to call home—somewhere I can just be myself and shut away the rest of the world. I loved seeing the world, but I loved getting back to Chicago and being welcomed into the familiar sights and smells of my apartment. I’m sure I can find a candle somewhere to make it smell smoky and woody, but it won’t smell like Nico’s cabin. It won’t smell like him. It won’t feel like him. I don’t want to think about leaving, but, hard as I try, I can’t ignore it.
I turn away from my reflection and sigh. There’s no way Nico isn’t hovering around waiting for me to come down.He’s probably worried that I’ve been up here for so long. But he’s given me space, which is nice. After the accident, before I insisted on moving back to my own apartment, my dads used to burst into my room the second therapy was over to fuss over me. I suspect they were listening at the door.
The floor is cool against my bare feet, but I don’t bother getting my slippers as I drag myself downstairs. Nico is in the kitchen, and I can smell the pomegranate dish soap he keeps bulk-sized containers of in the cellar. When I round the corner and catch a glimpse of him, I can see the tension in his spine.
“How was therapy?” he asks, as I pass behind him. He does a good job of sounding casual, but I recognize the worry in his voice.
I reach up into the cabinet for a glass and turn away to fill it at the fridge. “It was fine.”
The soft splashing sounds of Nico washing the dishes cease, and a moment later, his fingers land on my hips. He spins me, then lifts me effortlessly to sit me on the dining table.
“Try again.”
I can’t bring myself to look at him. “I don’t want to break the table.”
“Are you suggesting I can’t build a strong enough table to hold you?” Nico asks.
“What? Shit. No. Of course not. I didn’t mean?—”
“Whoa, angel. I was joking.” He clasps my face, swiping his thumb across my cheek and catching a tear I didn’t mean to let fall. “Did you have a rough session?”
I shrug, tears slipping down my cheeks. It’s certainly not the worst session I’ve had. In the beginning, before I was cleared to fly officially, I had to recount the crash over and over. I don’t know why this one is fucking with my head so much.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
His voice is so gentle, soft enough I could just sink into him. I shake my head, a sob wracking my spine,
“What’s going on, baby?” Nico sounds like he’s on the verge of panicking, and it’s my fault.
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m fine,” I hiccup, finally meeting his gaze. His gray eyes are wide with worry, and I feel myself crumbling a little beneath him. “I’m just… so fucking tired.”
Nico wraps his arms around me and presses his lips to the top of my head. “I’ve got you, angel. Let it out.”
I cling to him, letting the tears fall and the pressure build, but my mind is still racing. “My brain is tired of thinking all the time. About work, my family, the crash…” I trail off, choking on a sob, before I mention how much the thought of leaving is fucking me up. “I just want to switch it all off.”
Nico pulls back, leaving kisses on my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, my lips.
“Do you want me to help you switch off?”
This is what Rebecca warned me about. Becoming reliant on each other instead of actually dealing with shit. But I nod anyway. Sensible or not, I need this. “Please.”
