Page 118 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“Really well, actually.” I take a sip of wine, savoring the warmth as it slides down my throat. “Dr. Torrino was great about me taking time off. Didn’t make it weird or ask too many questions. Just welcomed me back and put me straight to work.”
It was my first day back since the abduction, and I’d been nervous about how I’d handle it. Nervous that I’d fall apart the moment someone came in with a gunshot wound or that I’d freeze when faced with the kind of violence that defines our world.
But I didn’t. I worked through my cases with steady hands and a clear head, feeling more capable and confident than I have in months. Maybe years.
It’s strange, really. Prison destroyed me. Five years of systematic degradation and violence left me barely able to function in normal society. But being kidnapped by gangsters, watching men die in front of me, being held at gunpoint? Apparently, that’s something I can just... brush off.
Maybe it’s a matter of time. I was in prison for years, but only with the Russians for a day. The trauma didn’t have time to sink its hooks in deep, didn’t have years to reshape my brain into something that flinches at every shadow.
Or perhaps it’s love that has made me strong. Having Nicky, having purpose, having a life worth fighting for… maybe that changes the equation somehow. Maybe when you have something to lose, you develop resilience you didn’t know you possessed.
Either that or I’m already so crazy that a little bit more trauma doesn’t make any difference. Just adding water to an already overflowing cup, what’s a few more drops when you’re already drowning?
The thought makes me chuckle quietly to myself.
“What’s funny?” Nicky asks, looking up from his pasta with curiosity.
“Just thinking about how fucked up my brain is,” I say with a smile. “Prison breaks me completely, but armed kidnapping is apparently fine. I’m very well-adjusted.”
“You’re the most well-adjusted person I know, considering what you’ve been through.”
“That says more about the people you know than it does about me.”
He grins. “Fair point. We’re not exactly a mentally healthy bunch.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that only comes when you’re completely at ease with someone. The candles cast dancing shadows, and the wine has made everything pleasantly hazy around the edges.
“So I’ve been dealing with all the house paperwork,” Nicky says eventually, setting down his fork and reaching for his wineglass. “Solicitors, mortgage brokers, surveys. There’s so much bloody bureaucracy involved in buying a house. Did you know we need to provide three months of bank statements? Three months! Like they don’t believe we have money.”
“Well…” I say. “We don’t have much legal money.”
Nicky sighs. “I’m doing this properly. I mean, besides for some laundered money in the bank statements. But properly. Above board. I’m not pulling any strings or using any contacts. So it can never be taken away from us.”
I know what he is really saying. He is saying he wants this home to be mine forever. Regardless if anything happens to him.
It is the sweetest thing ever, and testament to just how determined he is to take care of me.
“The joys of home ownership,” I say dryly. Because I want to keep the mood light and lovely.
“And along with the bank statements, there’s the contracts, and the title searches. Nevermind the confusion when I say everything needs to be in both our names even though the money is technically mine.” He takes a drink, shaking his head. “You know, this would all be easier if your last name was Ricci.”
I nearly choke on my pasta. “Is that a marriage proposal?” I tease, wiping my mouth with my napkin.
Nicky gives me an odd look, something between amusement and nervousness, but I dismiss it. He’s probably just annoyed about the paperwork. Buying a house is stressful enough without me reading too much into every comment.
“If it is,” I continue, warming to the joke, “why should I change my name? Maybe you should become Walker. Nicky Walker has a nice ring to it.”
“We could compromise,” Nicky says, and there’s something careful in his voice now. “We could be Ricci-Walker.”
I nearly spit out my wine. “God no! That sounds awful! Like a law firm or an accounting office. ‘Welcome to Ricci-Walker Associates, how may we help you with your tax fraud?’”
Nicky chuckles, but it sounds slightly strained. “Okay, no hyphenation then.”
I put my wineglass down, suddenly serious despite the lightness of the conversation. “My father is an asshole. His name doesn’t deserve to live on. Whereas you and Marianna are my favorite people in the world. I’d be honored to be a Ricci.”
The words come out more emotional than I intended, raw and honest in a way that makes me feel exposed. But it’s true. The Walker name means nothing to me. It’s attached to a man who abandoned me and never looked back. But Ricci? That name means family, love, the woman who took me in when my own parents couldn’t be bothered. That name means Nicky.
Nicky blinks, and his eyes look suspiciously watery in the candlelight. “That’s settled then,” he says quietly.
