SHE LEFT.
Packed up her shit and hopped on a flight before the dust had even settled without a word of goodbye.
I didn’t even know she was gone until Cass brought it up. According to him, she went back to San Francisco with her dad. And that means she’s with Kate too, since her family’s place is nearby. That knowledge is of little comfort to me; at least I know she’s not sitting in her apartment alone letting her own brain destroy her but it would be a whole lot better if she’d answer her fucking phone and let me know she’s okay herself.
Amelia is ignoring me. For a little bit, I convinced myself that it wasn’t just my calls she was screening, that she was shutting everyone else out too. That fantasy died when I saw her name flash on Cass’ phone and I had to listen to their hushed conversation, fists clenched and chest tight as I stifled the urge to snatch his phone and beg her to speak to me.
It’s taking everything in me not to blow up her phone with a million texts and calls but I won’t. I can’t. He did that and fuck if I’m ever giving her a reason to compare me to that asshole. I’ve resorted to begging Kate for updates, each one less reassuring than the last.
She’s fine. She’s okay. All good.
I don’t know if it’s under Amelia’s orders or if it’s Kate being Kate but the most detailed information I’ve pried from her is that they flew back to Sun Valley this morning, and the ambiguity is fucking killing me.
Whatever the case, Amelia is making her point perfectly clear; she doesn’t need me.
Fuck, that hurt.
I keep trying to convince myself that she didn’t mean it. That she was angry. That I simply picked the wrong time to offer advice and she snapped. All of the above are true but the look in her eyes… something in there was serious.
I knew I shouldn’t have pushed. One look at her sitting under the tree, steam practically coming out of her ears, and I fucking knew. But I did anyway because she was sitting in my lap, looking and sounding so broken, and if there was something I could possibly say to fix it, I was going to.
Wrong call, clearly.
But still, I don’t think I deserved that. Her snapping at me like that for trying to help. It was shitty timing, I should’ve let her stew longer, but I thought that talking to Diane, asking her all the questions she was quietly asking herself, might help. Be healing or some shit.
You would’ve thought I asked her to forgive the woman and let her move back in the way she went from zero to sixty so fast, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s partly because she can’t handle the fact that I care enough to want to help.
Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, she pushes me away. Actually, she shoves me away. Kicks me. Punches me right in the gut. And then she turns on her tail and sprints in the opposite direction. The night of Christmas Eve, on the front porch, I genuinely thought I was getting somewhere. That maybe she was finally understanding she’s not just a distraction to me, that she was finally trusting me.
And then her mother shows up and back in her head she goes.
I want to pummel whoever messed her up so bad she can’t let me in, and since I assume decking her mother would be frowned upon, I’m going to have to settle with smashing Dylan’s face in again the next time the rat pops up.
“Nico, are you even listening to me?” My sister’s indignant voice snaps me from my thoughts, little feet kicking at my shins from the opposite side of the table, and I cast her an apologetic glance.
When I offered to take Ma and Sofia for lunch, it selfishly had everything to do with needing to get the hell out of the house before I cracked up. Everywhere I look, whether the home has Morgan or Silva on the lease, I see her.
“Desculpa, minha anjinha.” Pasting on a smile, I focus on my family. “What were you saying?”
Satisfied by my attention, Sofia launches into a spiel again, chattering excitedly about things I hate that I can’t concentrate on properly. I try, I really do try, but if my one-track, Amelia-oriented mind was bad before, it’s only worsened tenfold. And, apparently, as much as I act like I’m listening, nodding along and chiming in with vague additions when appropriate, it’s clear I’m not fooling anyone.
“Você falou com ela?” Sofia whines as Ma switches the conversation to our native tongue; my little sister’s Portuguese is pretty good but she’s nowhere near fluent enough to keep up with the speed at which we talk. I have a feeling that’s the exact reason for the change.
‘Quem?‘ I feign ignorance, faking a sudden interest in my greasy diner breakfast.
‘Não se faça de bobo, Nicolas,’ Ma tuts. “Querida,” she drags out the word mockingly, a faint amused smile playing across her lips as she arches a brow.
That fucking nickname. I should’ve known it would get me in trouble. With Amelia, ignorance is truly bliss; she has no clue what the term of endearment means or if she does, she doesn’t care. Ma, however, knows. She knows intimately what it means because it’s what my dad used to call her.
I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear to God. It just came out and it stuck and it’s screwed me over royally because the second my mother heard it, she heard wedding bells too. And when she heard about the book… Fuck, I’m surprised she hasn’t given me her goddamn ring.
Shrugging in a vain attempt at nonchalance, I act like the answer to Ma’s question doesn’t feel like a punch in the gut. “Não.”
“Você a chamou?”
“Obviamente.”
Golden eyes narrow at my snapped tone but there’s sympathy lurking in my mother’s gaze. “Você deveria ter ido com ela.”
I scoff at her declaration. “Ela não precisa de mim.” She told me as much herself.
“Você é um tolo.”
While Sofia covers her mouth and giggles, clearly picking up the meaning of that last declaration, I gape at Ma in disbelief. How am I the fool in this situation? I’m doing exactly what she told me to, I’m backing the fuck off, yet when I tell Ma as much, she scoffs, expression rife with indignance. “Ela estava brava.”
“Estava tentando ajudar!”
“Ela não queria ajuda!” Ma whisper-yells, clearly exasperated. Shaking her head with a huff, she softens her tone before continuing in English, “She didn’t want advice or pity. Nico. She just needed comfort.”
I slump defeatedly in my seat. I thought I was comforting her. Ma, sensing my turmoil, leans across the table to slip her hand into mine. “Just because you would jump at the chance to talk to your father again doesn’t mean she would do the same for Diane.”
And just like that, it clicks.
I compared the two. Used my own experience with my dad and assumed Amelia would feel the same. Forgot momentarily that Dad didn’t choose to leave us like that awful woman chose to leave Patrick and Amelia.
Shit.
Ma sits back slowly, turning her attention back to Sofia who’s been entertaining herself with a mess of sugar packets. But when I fish my phone out of my pocket and fire off a quick text asking Cass if he wants to leave sooner than planned, I don’t miss her triumphant smile.
It’s past midnight when I finally make it to Amelia’s place.
The apartment block is quiet, the only other person venturing out this late her neighbor, a lanky, bald guy who eyes me suspiciously as we cross paths on the stairs. It’s a weird feeling, getting wary looks from a suspected drug dealer. Bit of an ego boost, to be honest.
The first couple of knocks on Amelia’s front door go unheard, or ignored. I know she’s here; Kate deigned to tell me as much. She also said Amelia hasn’t left her room since they got home. And that it’s just my girl home tonight so if she murders me in a vicious rage, my body probably won’t be found until tomorrow afternoon.
Too many minutes pass with no response, and while I don’t want to give up, I don’t want to be the asshole banging on her door all night either. A sick twist of rejection writhing in my stomach, I start to leave but as I do, a light flickers on inside. Through the thin wood, I hear shuffling and murmured curses, the sounds getting louder the closer she gets, and I’m full on fucking holding my breath in anticipation,
The door swings open and there she is, hair ruffled, eyes heavy with sleep, slight body drowning in my clothes. The invisible anvil that’s been sitting on my chest since the moment she stormed away from me suddenly disappears; it genuinely feels easier to breathe with her in my sights.
Amelia is mid-yawn when she registers who her midnight guest is, and her mouth abruptly slams shut, settling in an unhappy straight line. “What are you doing here?”
Holding up the bag of treats clasped in my grip—I came prepared with all her favorites because to not would be very unwise—I offer a tentative smile.
She doesn’t return it. “I told you, I don’t-”
“Need me?” I cut her off. Any attempt to hide the bitterness in my voice is a weak one. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Loud and clear. And I know I’m not your boyfriend but I am your friend so take the damn food and talk to me.”
Her eyes widen but her lips remain grimly set, like she can’t decide whether to be surprised or pissed. Whatever emotion she settles on, it allows her to take a step back and open the door a little wider, and I grip that meager offering with both hands.
I slip inside before she can change her mind, feeling another wash of familiarity as I head for the kitchen. Amelia follows quietly, arms crossed protectively over her chest as she eyes the food I unload on the counter quizzically. Red Vines, ice-cream in that godawful banana flavor she inexplicably enjoys, her regular order from the takeout place around the corner. A quiet explanation, I say, “You forget to eat when you’re stressed.”
Her puzzled gaze shifts to me, and I can’t tell if she’s confused because she has yet to realize that she tends to skip meals on bad days or if she didn’t realize I notice. Judging by her paler-than-normal pallor, I think it’s safe to say her eating habits have gone to shit the last couple of days.
A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of gratefulness lightens her expression, gone before I can truly appreciate it. I soak it up all the same, taking it as permission to dish her up a hearty portion of that eggplant shit she loves. A little more tension eases from my body when she digs in eagerly.
I wait until she’s finished her first helping before speaking. “So,” she winces through a mouthful as if she knows where this is going, “how was your flight?”
The one you got on without so much as a goodbye.
Slender throat bobbing in a nervous swallow, she shrugs. “It was fine.”
I am so fucking sick of that word.
“How’s your dad?”
Amelia shrugs again, not even bothering with words this time. Not even bothering to look at me for even a second.
A frustrated huff leaves me as I rake a hand through my hair, briefly massaging my scalp like that will ease the headache brewing beneath. “Can you please look at me, Amelia?”
To her credit, she only briefly hesitates before obliging. “My dad is fine. I’m fine. You didn’t need to come here.’”
“I know I didn’t.” Resting my forearms on the counter, I lean down until we’re at eye level, a rarity for us. “I overstepped when I pushed you to talk to Diane. I shouldn’t have butted in and I’m sorry.’
I could leave it at that.
I probably should leave it at that.
Apology done and hopefully accepted, and we can go back to normal.
But I can’t.
“You hurt me, Amelia. Leaving without saying goodbye, saying what you said. That really fucking hurt.”
Guilt flickers across her face but it’s like she’s intent on not giving me an inch lest I take a mile. It’s gone as quick as it appears, her face is so maddeningly clear of any expression as she asks, “Why are you here, Nick?”
I’m smart enough to read between the lines; she’s not asking why I’m in her apartment. She’s asking why I’m here when she’s trying her best to shut me out.
“Because I want to be.” Because I care about you.
Tilting her head at me in that way that drives me out of my mind, her mask of indifference goes nowhere. “What if I don’t want you here?’
My heart drops to my stomach. My mouth goes completely dry as if I’ve been deprived of water for a month, yet I still manage to croak out, “Tell me to go and I’ll go, querida.”
Don’t tell me to go, I silently beg. Please don’t fucking tell me to go.
Amelia’s gaze drops again, her voice so quiet it’s like she doesn’t want me to hear her, not really.
But I do.
And when she says, “I think you should go,” I listen.
