Fake It 'Til You Break It(56)

I pull my thumb from the water and pat a paper towel against it. “I don’t know. In the drawer maybe? If not, I have another first aid kit in my car.”

Nico pulls the drawer open and starts digging around, but suddenly stops.

I shift on my feet when he stands there, unmoving a long moment before slowly looking over his shoulder at me, his body following after a moment.

My eyes tighten, roaming his face before a flash of orange catches my attention and my stare flies to his hand and the small pill bottle held in it.

I dart forward, attempting to snag it from him, but his hand wraps behind him and he stands to his full height, a blank expression masking his thoughts.

“These yours?” he asks, even though I know he read the name printed across the label.

“I don’t take them.”

“Don’t lie,” he throws back, the small tablets knocking against the container as he shakes the bottle behind his back. “They’re half gone.”

“I didn’t say I never took them, I said I don’t, as in not lately.”

Nico doesn’t look away, and the longer we stand here the more guilt gnaws at me, the need to explain winning over.

“My mom... she doesn’t accept mediocre.” I shrug. “That was how she made sure she never got it.”

“Do you feel like you need them, to focus or any other reason?”

“Did they help? Yes. Do I need them? No.”

“Then don’t take them. You’re not a child who doesn’t understand what helps you and what doesn’t. Don’t let anyone control what you put in your body.” He brings the pill bottle around, grabs my hand and sets it inside. He leans against the counter. “Throw them away.”

My head tugs back and then it hits me.

Pills.

The night he argued with his dad in the yard, he accused him of getting his mom addicted to pills.

Is that why she’s asleep now?

Is she always asleep?

There’s an angry sense of helplessness slipping over him, one he can’t control or can’t hide. One that has me removing the lid off the container and dumping them into the sink. I wash them down with the soda I cut myself on and grab another, pop the top and pour.

I turn to Nico, passing him a cup. “I haven’t taken them since finals last year,” I offer quietly. “It was never about addiction. It was appeasing my mother, which I guess is sort of what I was addicted to.”

For what seems like a lifetime, he stares, but finally takes a small drink. His shoulders lower with his glass.

There’s a shift in the air, and suddenly the tension in the room is an entirely different kind.

I replay him and I in the water in my mind, and I’ve got a feeling he’s doing the same as his eyes darken before me, the tip of his tongue coming out to tease his bottom lip the slightest bit.

I focus on my drink, his nearness so overwhelming that I lead us into a larger space, my living room.

Tell me why I’m nervous?

“Because your body is leading your mind.”

My head snaps to Nico and he chuckles.

“Yeah, you said that out loud.”

I laugh anxiously. “I’m sorry I’m a mess. It’s been a day. I’m so sore from double practices, then this unintentional sharing session we’ve just had, and the whole my mom’s bleeding me dry thing...” I trail off, looking at him. “Thanks for not saying anything at dinner.”

He eyes narrow in query. “Your friends don’t know?”

“That my mom spends more than most people earn in a month in a week?” A dejected laugh escapes. “No, they don’t know. They know she’s all about her outings but...” I shrug.

My friends don’t necessarily love my mom, but they don’t hate her either, and I’d like to keep it that way. Knowing she takes from me would piss them off and once you lose respect for someone it’s really hard to get it back.

I shouldn’t care to preserve their feelings toward her, but I do it anyway.

Nico looks around, taking in the picturesque living area that clearly goes unlived-in. “How often is she gone?”

“There’s, what, typically thirty days in the month? So, twenty-two, twenty-five.”

He frowns. “You’re alone more than not.”

I turn, focusing on the bland images along the wall. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah you do.”

That has me glancing over my shoulder. “What makes you say that?”

“You spend most of your time outside,” he says, flicking the ugly tassels dangling from the edge of a couch pillow. “Bet it’s because you hate being in here by yourself.”

Like you, you mean?

Is he by himself as much as me?

I shrug, trailing the length of the fireplace before I spin and give a roundabout answer. “I’m used to it.”

“That’s shitty.”

“Maybe.” I nod, moving us back into safer ground. “But I told you I didn’t want to talk about it, remember?”

His chuckle is full of innuendo as he cocks his head, leaning on the edge of an armchair. “Yeah, Little D. I remember.”

Okay, not safer ground!

I quickly turn, flipping on the TV as an excuse to look away.

Why do I like him here?