Chapter 17 - Learning How to Knock
Nico was released on a rainy Thursday morning.
Arthur picked him up.
I didn’t.
That had been my choice.
Not punishment.
I simply wanted his first hours of freedom to belong to him.
At three that afternoon, someone knocked on my blue door.
Three soft taps.
Controlled.
Patient.
I smiled before opening it.
Nico stood on the other side wearing jeans, a black sweater, and an expression I had never seen on him.
Nervous.
“You could have called.”
“I did.”
I checked my phone.
One missed call.
“You waited?”
“Yes.”
“Who are you?”
He smiled.
“Can I come in?”
I stepped aside.
He entered and immediately removed his shoes.
Progress.
For a while, we just stood in the apartment.
Nine months had changed him.
He was leaner.
Calmer.
The restless vigilance remained but no longer filled the entire room.
“You look good,” I said.
“You look incredible.”
“I got promoted.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Arthur.”
“I’m going to block Arthur.”
“He has six phones.”
“Of course he does.”
Nico reached into his coat.
My body tensed reflexively.
He stopped.
Then slowly removed a small box.
Not jewelry-sized.
Larger.
He handed it to me.
Inside was a brass door knocker.
Old.
Restored.
I stared.
“What is this?”
“Nothing expensive.”
“I can tell.”
“It came from a house in Lincoln Park being renovated.”
“Why?”
“The owner was throwing it away.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Nico looked at my blue door.
“I’m learning how to knock.”
It was ridiculously sentimental.
I loved it.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Confidence is returning.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I rented an apartment.”
“Where?”
“West Loop.”
“Nice?”
“Too nice according to Arthur.”
“Security?”
“One front desk.”
“No armed men?”
“Not visibly.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Nico.”
“I’m joking.”
It still took me a moment to believe that.
That was part of healing too.
He didn’t move in with me.
I didn’t move in with him.
We dated.
Actual dates.
Movies.
Dinner.
A terrible comedy show Elena recommended.
A Sunday market where Nico argued with a farmer about tomato prices despite once spending twenty thousand dollars on wine.
I watched him relearn ordinary life.
He watched me become more ambitious than I had been before him.
Sometimes we fought.
The first major argument happened because he called Claire directly about a contractor he believed was cheating Hartwell.
When I learned, I was furious.
“You went behind me.”
“I was trying to help.”
“That sentence should be tattooed on your forehead.”
He apologized.
Then called Claire back and admitted he overstepped.
The old Nico would rather have swallowed glass.
This one survived.
I made mistakes too.
Sometimes I assumed every question from him was control.
“Where are you going?” he asked once.
I snapped, “Why?”
He stared.
“Because you’re holding my car keys.”
I looked down.
They were indeed his.
“Oh.”
He smiled.
“Trauma makes you dramatic.”
“You caused some of that trauma.”
“Yes.”
“Then enjoy the consequences.”
We laughed.
That mattered.
Six months after his release, Nico asked me to look at a property.
“No.”
“You haven’t heard what it is.”
“That sentence has historically cost me peace.”
“It’s a house.”
I stopped.
“What house?”
“Come see.”
“No commitment.”
“No commitment.”
“No realtor pressure.”
“No realtor.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
The house sat on a quiet street north of the city.
Not enormous.
Two stories.
Wide front porch.
Old trees.
Brick fireplace.
Bookshelves built around it.
I walked through the living room and stopped.
It looked familiar.
Impossible, but familiar.
Then I understood.
“The drawing.”
Nico nodded.
The sketchbook from the penthouse.
Somewhere that feels like ours, not his.
My eyes filled.
“You found a house matching my drawing?”
“Mostly.”
“Nico.”
“I haven’t bought it.”
That stopped me.
“What?”
“It’s on the market.”
“You brought me before buying?”
“Yes.”
“That must have caused physical pain.”
“Significant.”
I laughed through tears.
He walked toward the kitchen.
“It needs work.”
“A lot.”
“I know someone.”
“Who?”
“You.”
I looked around.
The kitchen was awful.
The floors needed refinishing.
Upstairs plumbing groaned like a dying animal.
It was perfect.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
I didn’t answer immediately.
Old Norah would have said yes because he wanted yes.
New Norah walked room to room.
Opened cabinets.
Checked windows.
Inspected the basement.
Then returned to the porch forty minutes later.
“Yes.”
Nico nodded.
“Then we can make an offer.”
“We?”
“If you want.”
“Fifty-fifty.”
His expression shifted.
“You don’t need—”
“Nico.”
He stopped.
“Fifty-fifty.”
He smiled.
“Okay.”
“I choose the kitchen.”
“Okay.”
“No secret rooms.”
“That feels targeted.”
“It is.”
“No private study with mahogany doors.”
“I have been personally attacked by architecture.”
I laughed.
He reached for my hand, then paused.
I closed the distance myself.
That was how we bought the house.
Not as a palace.
Not as an apology.
As a choice.
Two names on the contract.
Two signatures.
Equal ownership.
And when the keys arrived three weeks later, Nico handed both sets to me first.
“What are you doing?”
“Practicing.”
“What?”
“Not assuming which one is mine.”
I gave one set back.
“This one.”
He closed his hand around it.
A simple key.
Nothing impressive.
May you like
But I had never seen him hold anything more carefully.
---
