the clothes, then gesturing toward the bathroom. “Go put these on. You’re soaking wet.”
I’m too tired and sad to even make a sexual joke, which is really saying something. I head into the bathroom, which is also spotless, and peel my wet dress off my body, temporarily getting stuck. I pull on—oh, God, one of Nick’s flannel shirts, plus a pair of the softest pants I’ve ever touched in my life. I put the shirt under my nose and sniff it, like a total weirdo, then catch sight of myself in the mirror. My braids have held up surprisingly well, but they’re wet and deflated, and my eye makeup has migrated down to my cheeks. I grab some toilet paper and do my best to rectify the situation, but there’s no escaping the truth: I’m in Nick’s apartment, in Nick’s clothes, and I look perhaps the worst I’ve ever looked in my life.
I exhale and make a face at myself in the mirror, then open the door and promptly trip over the trailing feet of Nick’s pants.
“What the hell?” I ask as I almost run into Nick’s coffee table (which, FYI, is not covered in half-empty Chinese food containers). “Why are you so tall? And what even are these pants? Are they made out of kitten fur?”
“I don’t own pants made out of kittens. I don’t think anyone owns pants made out of kittens. Those are my lounge pants,” Nick says from his place on the couch, and then I notice that there’s a plate of lasagna and a glass of something on the coffee table.
“Lounge pants?” I ask. “Specific pants for lounging?”
“What do you wear when you’re relaxing?” Nick asks, looking confused.
I pause and think about it. “Well, I don’t relax, but I suppose I just grab a pair of pajama pants off the floor. I don’t have a wardrobe for lounging.”
But this is making me think maybe I should. Nick has his life so together; maybe I, too, would feel like a functional adult if I had an extremely soft pair of lounge pants to watch sitcoms in.
“Sit down and eat,” he says, so I do.
“Nick,” I groan with my mouth full. I smack him on the arm. “What’s in this? Why are you so good at everything?”
Nick ignores my questions and asks, “So what’s going on?”
I wonder how long I can keep eating this lasagna before I have to answer him. As it turns out, not very long.
“Well, Milo sucks,” I say, putting my plate down. “He missed all the calls about Dad because he fell asleep.”
Nick makes a face. “Oof.”
I nod. “Oof is right. I kind of went off on him. Like, this is the one night I’ve actually gone out somewhere, the one night I’ve allowed myself to take a break and not worry about taking care of everyone else, and I can’t even do that! I can’t even have one night because I can’t trust Milo to do anything. It’s only me. It will always just be me. I’m all alone.”
At this point, I realize I’ve been emphatically stabbing the lasagna with my fork, so I take a bite. “This is really good, by the way.”
After chewing for a bit, I notice that Nick isn’t saying anything, so I swallow and turn to look at him. He’s staring at me with those big brown eyes and it makes me feel a little dizzy, even though I’m sitting down. “Uh, what?” I ask.
“You’re not alone, Chloe,” he says, and even though he isn’t touching me, I feel like he is. Or maybe like he should be. So I lean forward and put my head on his shoulder.
“Please give me the biggest hug in the world,” I say into his neck, and he wraps me up in his big, long, Nick Velez arms and everything feels better.
“God, Chloe,” he says. “You’re shivering.”
“Really? Huh. Probably from all the standing in the cold pouring rain I did earlier. Wearing that dress was probably not my greatest idea.”
“No,” Nick says, and even though I can’t see his face I can hear him smiling. “Wearing that dress was a great idea.”
I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling.
Then I remember what else Milo said and my smile disappears. “Oh, and did I mention that my absentee mother is back in town, and Milo’s been hanging out with her, even though she’s the worst?”
“I’m sorry,” Nick says. “That sucks.”
I snort. “Yes. Thank you for acknowledging that fact. It totally sucks.”