I look up at her.
She doesn't explain. She doesn't tell me what the two things were, or which one she kept, or what it cost her to let the other one go.
"I've learned not to ask what I'm not owed," she says.
She reaches over and pats my hand once, slow and steady, meant to settle something that's spooked. Then she stands, smoothing her apron down, done saying everything she came to say.
"You'll figure out what needs to be done, dear," she says at the door. "You always have."
Then she's gone, and I'm alone in a room I haven't slept in since before Italy, with my mother unconscious across the water and my husband down the hall not knowing any of it, and no answer any closer than it was an hour ago.
I lie back on the bed without changing out of my clothes and stare at the ceiling until the shapes on it stop making sense.
Somewhere in this house, Nico's probably still awake, probably wondering why I didn't come to him.
I don't have an answer for that either.
28
NICO
The bass hitsbefore the door even opens all the way, and something in my chest unclenches that I didn't know was clenched.
Terminal 7 smells like citrus polish and cold beer and the ghost of last night's smoke machine. Lydia's hand is warm in mine as we come up the side stairs past the coat check, and I nod at Ronnie behind the counter before he even sees me.
"Boss." He straightens up too fast, drops a hanger.
"Relax," I tell him. "I'm not here to fire anybody tonight."
He laughs like he's not sure if that's a joke. It is. Mostly.
We cut through the main floor, empty this early, chairs still up on half the tables, and a kid I hired two months ago is behind the bar restocking bottles with his hands shaking just slightly.
"You good?" I ask him.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, I just... I thought you weren't coming in till Thursday."
"I'm not staying to work you. Breathe." I reach over, straighten a bottle he's set crooked, more habit than correction. "You're doing fine."
He exhales like I handed him something.
Behind him, a girl in a Terminal 7 shirt is stacking glasses into a rack, humming along to whatever's coming through the speakers, off-key and not caring who hears it. She waves at me with two fingers without breaking rhythm. I wave back the same way.
Lydia watches that too.
Near the back hallway, one of the servers, Dana, catches me before we reach the office. "Nico, can I ask you something? My sister's getting married Saturday, and I know I'm on the schedule, but..."
"Go," I say, before she finishes the sentence. "Tell Marco I said to cover it."
"Really?"
"Really. Go dance at your sister's wedding."
She grins and disappears back toward the floor, and I feel Lydia watching me the whole time, something quiet and considering in her face.
"What," I say.
"Nothing." She's smiling like she's caught me at something. "They actually like you. That's not what I expected."
