Chapter 11 - The Locks Nico Never Changed
The call came on a Sunday morning.
“Are you busy?” Nico asked.
I looked around my apartment.
One sock on the sofa.
Coffee brewing.
Plans spread across the floor.
“Extremely.”
“I can call later.”
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve lost your sarcasm detector.”
“I haven’t spoken to you enough.”
The sentence landed gently.
“What did you need?”
“I’m packing your things.”
I went still.
“Oh.”
“I should have done it sooner.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I sat on the sofa.
“Why now?”
“Because keeping your closet exactly as you left it stopped being sentimental around month two and started becoming unhealthy around month four.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Nico Moretti admitting unhealthy behavior?”
“Federal oversight changes a man.”
I smiled.
Then sadness crept in.
He continued.
“I want you to decide what happens. I can send everything wherever you want. Storage. Your apartment. Donation.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do.”
I closed my eyes.
That closet had once symbolized captivity.
Now emptying it felt strangely like a funeral.
“I’ll come.”
Silence.
“What?”
“I’ll come pack it myself.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“When?”
“Today.”
He hesitated.
“Okay.”
The penthouse looked smaller when I returned.
Nothing had physically changed.
Maybe I had.
The guard downstairs greeted me carefully.
“Ms. Quinn.”
“Hi, Samuel.”
He looked surprised I remembered his name.
That bothered me.
How many people had I stopped seeing while living there?
The elevator rose.
When the doors opened, Nico was standing several feet away.
Not blocking the entrance.
Just waiting.
Black sweater.
No suit.
No watch.
He looked nervous.
I had never seen Nico nervous in his own home.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
I stepped inside.
The smell hit first.
Wood.
Coffee.
His cologne.
Memory had a cruel sense of timing.
For half a second, I could almost imagine the past six months hadn’t happened.
Then I saw the study doors.
My chest tightened.
Nico noticed.
He did not comment.
“Bedroom?”
I nodded.
The closet was untouched.
My champagne dress still hung where I left it.
I touched the fabric.
“That dress.”
“I know.”
“I hated it.”
Nico blinked.
“You said you liked it.”
“You liked it.”
He absorbed that.
“I’m beginning to suspect our relationship had communication problems.”
I laughed unexpectedly.
He smiled.
Not triumphant.
Relieved.
We packed for two hours.
Some things I kept.
Most I donated.
Nico held up a pair of heels.
“These cost four thousand dollars.”
“Donate.”
“Four thousand.”
“I heard you.”
“They’ve been worn twice.”
“Then someone is getting an excellent deal.”
He shook his head.
“You’re terrifying.”
“You once negotiated control of an entire shipping company before breakfast.”
“That was easier than this.”
Eventually, only the jewelry remained.
I opened the safe.
Everything still there.
“I don’t want it,” I said.
“It belongs to you.”
“I didn’t earn it.”
“It was given.”
“That’s different.”
Nico leaned against the doorway.
“What do you want me to do with it?”
I thought.
“Sell it.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Donate the money.”
“To what?”
I smiled slightly.
“The community center.”
For once, Nico had no response.
His eyes shone.
He looked away.
“Fine.”
We returned to the bedroom.
Boxes lined the wall.
I looked toward the bed.
My old side.
His side.
How many nights had I slept inches from him while feeling miles away?
“Nico.”
“Yes?”
“Did you really never change the locks?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“At first?”
“Yes.”
“Because I thought you’d come back.”
My throat tightened.
“And later?”
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to do the thing I said I would do.”
I looked at him.
“I hated that sentence.”
“So did I.”
“You said it.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
He sat on the edge of the bed.
I remained standing.
“My father used to say something.”
“What?”
“Anything you can’t walk away from owns you.”
I waited.
“I spent my entire life proving nothing owned me.”
His gaze lifted.
“Then you did.”
My breath caught.
“And I was ashamed of how much I needed you.”
“That’s why you treated me like I didn’t matter?”
“Yes.”
The answer was ugly.
But truthful.
Nico continued.
“I thought if other people knew what you meant to me, they’d use you.”
“Salerno did anyway.”
“Yes.”
“And pretending I didn’t matter didn’t protect me.”
“No.”
“It just hurt me.”
“Yes.”
We sat in the truth.
No excuses.
After a while, I asked, “Do you still love me?”
His entire face changed.
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Simple.
I swallowed.
“Even if I never come back?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds painful.”
“It is.”
I almost smiled.
“Do you expect me to say it?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
At least he was still Nico.
I sat beside him.
Not touching.
“I love you.”
His eyes closed briefly.
“But,” I added.
He opened them.
“I know.”
“No. Let me finish.”
He nodded.
“I love you, but I don’t trust us.”
Pain crossed his face.
Not anger.
“I understand.”
“I trust you more than I did six months ago.”
“That’s something.”
“It is.”
“But?”
“I’m afraid if I come back, we’ll become who we were.”
Nico looked around the room.
“So am I.”
That surprised me.
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“What if I stop trying because I get comfortable? What if you start disappearing again because loving me becomes easier than confronting me?”
I stared.
He had thought about it.
Really thought.
“We were terrible at this,” I whispered.
“We had moments.”
I laughed.
“Yes.”
He looked toward me.
“What would you need?”
There was that question.
I thought carefully.
“Time.”
“You have it.”
“Separate homes.”
His jaw moved slightly.
“Okay.”
“My work.”
“Obviously.”
“My friends.”
“Yes.”
“No guards unless there’s a real reason.”
He almost protested.
Then nodded.
“And therapy.”
Nico stared at me.
I waited.
“Individual or together?”
“Both, eventually.”
He rubbed his jaw.
“I have negotiated with federal prosecutors and somehow this feels more threatening.”
“Is that a no?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“It’s a terrified yes.”
We sat there with six inches between us.
Then Nico slowly placed his hand on the bed, palm up.
He didn’t reach.
Just offered.
I looked at it.
Then placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed gently.
No possession.
No pressure.
Just contact.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
When I eventually left, I took the boxes.
The champagne dress.
The ugly combat boots.
My coffee mug.
But I left one thing.
The spare penthouse key.
I placed it on the kitchen counter.
Nico looked at it.
“This isn’t home anymore,” I said.
He nodded.
“I know.”
I walked toward the elevator.
Just before the doors closed, he called my name.
“Norah?”
“Yes?”
“If there’s ever another key…”
I waited.
He swallowed.
“I want you to choose it.”
The elevator doors closed.
I cried all the way downstairs.
Not because the relationship was over.
May you like
Because for the first time, we were beginning without pretending we knew where it would end.
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